Page 89 of The Duchess Games

“God’s teeth, what is that?”

“Cover it back up!”

One of the agents stumbled out, retching.

“Oh dear,” she murmured.

“Miss Sparrow, why do you keep a bucket of fish heads?”

“It’s fish slurry.”

“It’s utterly vile.”

“That it is, which is why it’s so far from the house. And the cave keeps it cool.”

“What’s it for?” Mr. Armstrong was well and truly horrified. He pressed a handkerchief to his nose. His eyes were watering.

“They use it to fertilize the fields,” she explained. “It’s hard to find honest work, so we do what we can.”

Honestly, she had no idea if that was true. She’d heard it was a possible use, but she kept a bucket of rotting fish heads purely to discourage the revenue men. Callum’s reaction to the stench of the pilchard palace had given her the idea.

One of the agents was still retching, a green cast to his face. The others were looking a little green too.

“I did warn you.”

“I think we’ve seen enough,” Mr. Armstrong said.

He and his men practically ran up the slipway.

Juro, regrettably, did not follow.

“Where’s the goods?” he asked, anger marking his neck with red splotches.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m done playing games, you bitch.”

She lifted her chin. “Go home, Juro.”

She gave him a wide berth as she passed him to reach the path.

Not wide enough.

He grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise. She tried to jerk free. “Let go.”

Instead, he threw her down onto the pebbles. Her elbow sparked with pain, her tailbone throbbed a warning. She tried to kick at his kneecap, but her feet tangled in her dress. And then he was upon her, spitting with rage.

His hands closed around her throat and squeezed.

She struggled for breath, clawing at his arms. His eyes bulged as he pressed harder over her windpipe. Searing pain worked up into her jaw, down into her chest.

He wasn’t going to stop.

He meant to kill her.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The first time Juro screamed, it was because his ankle was in the vise of a snapping turtle’s mouth.