“You should eat. I’ll be back in a moment.”
He took me to my chair, gathered his sjambok from the desk, then disappeared beyond the doors.
The sight of his weapon forced my rapid pulse to jitter.
Shouting erupted outside the door.
That voice.
I knew it, the tone of evil. Fear latched me to my chair. It was a heavy, invisible hand that clapped my mouth and punched at my bosom until all the air came out. You can’t scream when that happens. I needed to scream, to shout, and save my Wycliff.
One of the men who’d killed my Adam, who’d killed me, was in the house.
…
Sjambok in hand, Wycliff headed to the hall. Lawden’s signal meant trouble and he would return with bullets.
There was no time for guns with danger in his hall.
His heart pounded like a gong.
These two showed up at Blaren House uninvited?
A groom would be dismissed.
No one was supposed to visit while Ruth was here.
He entered the hall and saw them, Loftus Johnson and Nicholas. “Gentlemen, I am quite busy.”
Johnson wrinkled his nose. “You’re decorating while you destroy us.”
“Yes. Now leave.”
The portly gray-haired man headed toward a bucket of paint as if to kick it.
Wycliff couldn’t allow it. With his sjambok, he hit the man’s leg, toppling him over like Christopher’s frog toy. “It took forever to clean up after my cousin here. I don’t need you making a disaster, too.”
Johnson rolled around, grasping at his ankle.
“Are you much hurt?” Wycliff curled his whip for another strike.
“Yes, my ankle. My back.”
“Good. Cousin, drag Johnson from here.”
Nickie looked nervous and sweaty. His dark-blue eyes were beady, his sunny locks ruffled. The mole as hideous as ever. “Wycliff, things are out of hand. You’ve proved your point. You’ve outsmarted us all. Relent. Leave us something.”
“Like you all did me?”
“I let you live, Adam. I could’ve let the mob kill you.”
“Like you did to Steward?”
“That wasn’t my doing. You saved me from drowning when we were children. Can’t you have that kind of compassion upon me now? Please, Cousin. Tell me what to do.”
Wycliff shouldn’t be moved by this. He didn’t give a whit about his uncle or Johnson, but Nicholas, at times, had been like a brother. He snapped the sjambok to turn back the empathy he’d begun to feel. Weakness meant death.
“Please. You know I have a son. If you had one, you’d know how I can’t face not putting bread on his table. Johnson’s wife is about to have a baby. We repent of what we’ve done. Have mercy.”
