One slovenly soul, one whom Wycliff was sure he’d frightened into thinking his life was going to end, stopped and gawked.
What type of message would these henchmen take?
Wycliff snapped his sjambok twice. The leather whip crackled, stealing the casual smiles of those still looking toward Blaren House.
Ruth’s sister made it up the steps. “Ruth, hit him. I won’t let him hurt you.”
Keeping Ruth on his shoulder, he backed up to the threshold. The sister followed as he suspected. “Two bed wenches for the price of one. Madame Talease is most generous and knows my healthy appetite.”
His laugh sounded lusty to his own ears. Repugnant, but it worked.
The goons started leaving again.
The short woman leaped at him and beat at his chest. “Put my sister down.”
He laughed, even snapped his whip to make things look as bad as possible—not like a man who’d just found the wife he’d thought dead. “Inside, you. I’ll have to complain to Madame. She knows I want my wenches compliant.”
The sister hit him again. Lucky for Wycliff, Ruth was tall and draped over all things vital.
The insistent thing punched him again, hitting his arm. “We are not—”
He spun the sister, clasped a hand over her mouth. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re sisters of the flesh. Well, I am of the brethren that needs great entertainment. We can negotiate a bigger payment inside. That is, if you please me.”
She struck him hard, bit his finger.
He whisperedforgive meand shoved the fiery sprite inside.
Wycliff marched into Blaren House and barred the door. “What’s your name?”
“It’s not bed wench. Put my sister down. Let us go.”
He moved toward her and the little lady scrambled deeper into the wide hall. She picked up one of his uncle’s gaudy porcelain statues. The cheap imitation of Giambologna’sAbduction of the Sabine Womenwas hideous. A brutish sculpture of Roman soldiers stealing brides, hauling them away, sort of like Wycliff was doing. He’d have to get rid of the trash later.
The sister held it up as if she’d toss it. “Ruth, I’m here. I won’t leave you. Ruth, wake up.”
“You’re a feisty one, ma’am. But you’re more likely to hit your sister than me if you hurl that odious thing.”
“Listen you, you let us go.”
He chuckled at the passion in the sister’s voice, as if he’d ever let Ruth, his Ruthy go. “I need to make sure she’s unharmed. She took a hard fall. Come with me Miss…”
“Mrs. Bexeley.”
“Come, Mrs. Bexeley. Bring your ugly statue. Consider it a gift for my rude reception. Your sister may have a concuss of the skull.”
The little woman lowered her weapon. For the moment, she might trust Wycliff. Well, she had no choice, since her sister was upon his shoulder.
He curled Ruth into the fullness of his arms, carrying her as he had when he’d been a scrawny young bridegroom taking her across their wedded threshold.
A week of living and loving. The best time in his miserable thirty-year life. Ruth had been his everything, his best dream. Her death had been the nightmare he could never outrun. How could she be alive?
Her head bobbled, and he tucked it under his chin. Still beautiful, from a crown of curly tresses to the scar above her right eye.
Beautiful and alive.
How was this true?
Had he finally given in to madness?
