Chapter 1 #3
He seized her by the front of her gown. “Time for your secrets, Hippolyta. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“I’m the earl’s guest.” Her voice came out as a squeak, finally strangled by pure terror.
He pressed her back, back until she was flat against the wall. “No servants. No lights. A pistol, and an unholy interest in these papers. Try again.”
“There’s a candle in my bedroom.”
“And the pistol?” he queried in caustic disbelief.
“I heard someone break in!”
“And immediately came down to confront the burglar? What well-bred lady would behave that way?” But the terrifying surge of rage was leashed. “Your name, Hippolyta.”
She would give anything to be free of him. “Portia St. Claire.”
It didn’t help. He stared at her, new passion blossoming behind his eyes. “St. Claire?” he repeated quietly like a curse. “No wonder you’re so anxious to get hold of this letter.” His sudden smile was as pleasant as a rank sewer. “What, I wonder, are you willing to trade for it?”
She tried to press back into the solid plaster of the wall, away from his malice. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“No? But it is very damaging. Do you want proof?” Restraining her with one hand, he flicked open the letter.
“It is addressed to Hercules from Desire. See what she writes. ‘I think of your mighty rod in my satin pocket and Weak Tea thinks I moan for him. When we met last week at the theatre, I was wearing your handkerchief between my legs—’”
She tore at his restraining hand. “Stop it!”
He stopped. “I think Desiree would expect you to try harder to get this back from me, Portia St. Claire.”
“I know no Desiree.”
“Come, come. We know it’s not her real name.”
“Real or not, I do not know her.” She struggled against his grip.
“Let me go. Please!” Portia hated the plea in her voice, but she would grovel to get away.
She was choking from fear, and her heart was racing fit to burst. She had never before encountered someone so filled with violent anger.
“Just take your letter and go,” she whispered.
With his back to the long windows, his face was shadowed. “You are willing to let me leave with it without a fight?”
“Yes. Yes!”
“Then why did you try to steal it?”
When she did not answer, he shook her. “Why? ”
“Just to thwart you,” she gasped.
He abruptly released her. “I’m amazed you’ve survived to your current advanced age, Miss St. Claire.”
Portia sidled away from the madman. “I am only twenty-five.”
“I took you for younger, both by your looks and your behavior.” The razor’s edge of danger had gone, though, and he seemed largely bemused. “Tell Desiree when you report to her that Bryght Malloren has her letter, and will contact her about payment.”
She straightened her spine and glared at him. “I tell you, I know no Desiree. You are mad, my lord!”
He just raised a brow and turned to leave, swooping to gather up his cloak as he passed. Portia offered no further protests, but just prayed earnestly that nothing would interfere with his departure.
Something did.
Her young brother Oliver walked in, candle in hand. The wavering golden light was shocking after the time of silver and shadow. “Portia? What are you doing in here in the dark?” He stopped. “Who are you, sir?”
“A housebreaker,” said Bryght Malloren curtly. He glanced back at Portia. “Your other hefty brothers and the three servants?”
“Just leave, my lord,” Portia replied. Oliver was only half a foot taller than she and no match for this Malloren man.
Oliver, however, did not seem aware of his danger. “Housebreaker?” he queried. “My lord? Servants? What the devil’s going on? I’ll have an explanation of you, sir.” His free hand reached for his sword.
“Oh, ’struth.” Bryght Malloren plucked the candle from Oliver’s hand and knocked him unconscious.
Portia cried out and ran forward. She stopped when the intruder turned on her, his features now demonic in the flaring candlelight.
“When the bantam cock comes round, tell him who I am. As a Malloren I could crush him like a cockroach. As a swordsman, I suspect I could kill him with one hand tied behind my back. And my conscience wouldn’t trouble me much over killing a St. Claire.”
Her hands became fists. “Get out of here, you arrogant bully!”
He made no move to go, but looked her over coldly. “You improve with lighting, Hippolyta, but you need to learn discretion. Do you really want another battle with me?”
“I wish I still had a pistol. This time I would not hesitate. Get out!”
He moved toward her, then halted. “ tears,” he said softly. “Now there’s a weapon to defeat any man.” With an ironic inclination of his head he turned and swept out of the room.
Portia had not been aware until then that she was crying.
Tears of rage, she assured herself, scrubbing the evidence from her cheeks. By heaven, but she meant what she said. If she still had a loaded pistol she would shoot the bully now.
She glanced at her brother, who was stirring, then ran out to the landing to make sure the intruder really did leave. She reached there as the door slammed behind him.
“And good riddance,” she muttered. Pray heaven she never set eyes on the man again.