Across Filey’s heavily muscled shoulder, she saw Matthew dashing up with a heavy branch in one hand. His face was incandescent with fury. He looked like an avenging angel chasing Lucifer from heaven. He looked like he could commit murder and not even bother to shrug his indifference.
“Wolfram, heel,” Matthew said in a voice so quiet and intense that it seared. Instantly the dog obeyed, slinking back to crouch in bristling alertness at Matthew’s side.
She read Filey’s brief shock at hearing Matthew. Then the gloating smile returned and he turned his head toward the marquess. Clearly Filey thought he still held the advantage. “Come to watch, your lordship? Happen you’ll learn summat about pleasing a lass.”
“You’re a dead man!” Matthew’s eyes glittered like yellow fire and a muscle jerked in his cheek. Grace’s breath snared with fear as he kicked Filey off her, then hefted the makeshift club high. He swung it down hard across Filey’s back. A sickening thud as wood cracked on bone.
“Bugger me!” Filey gasped.
Grunting, Matthew lifted the log and hit Filey again before he could cower away. The brute lurched to the side, raising his arms to protect his head. “Leave off, will you, for Christ’s sake?”
Grace scrambled free, clutching the remnants of her dress to her breasts. Her face stung as if a thousand bees had attacked it. She drew her knees up to her chin and huddled in a protective crouch beside the path. Convulsive shivers shook her as she tightened her arms around her raised legs.
New tears flowed over the sticky residue of the old. As they fell, they made the abrasions on her face smart. She’d been so certain there was no hope. Now she couldn’t accept she was safe.
“You’ll never touch her again.” Matthew stood over Filey like a divine avenger. Her lover was almost unrecognizable. No trace remained of the kind, gently amused man. He hoisted the log above his head, ready to crash it down on Filey’s head.
“Don’t kill him, Matthew.” Grace’s plea emerged as a muffled croak. She struggled to her feet and stumbled to his side.
Wolfram growled as if expressing his opinion of her request. Matthew’s lips tightened over his teeth in a similar snarl. He didn’t look at her but kept his eyes fixed on the cringing Filey. “Why not?”
“Just a bit of fun, your lordship. No harm. You know what lasses are like.” Then fatally, “Well, maybe your lordship don’t know. But the tart was hungry enow for a poke from a real man.”
“Roast in hell, you bastard!” Matthew’s eyes shone blank with rage and his muscles bunched as he prepared to swing the log down for the killing blow.
With horror, Grace realized he’d moved beyond the constraints of reason. She caught at his arm. “Don’t do this. If you kill him, your uncle will chain you up again. He’ll use it as conclusive proof of madness.”
Matthew still brandished the log. “He hurt you.”
“Yes, he deserves to die. But not at the cost of all you’ve achieved.”
“Please, your lordship! Please, lass, take pity on a poor wight.” Filey’s pathetic groveling was almost more disgusting than his bragging. Fumbling to fasten his breeches, he staggered upright. He winced theatrically with each movement.
Grace ignored Filey and spoke to Matthew in a low voice that trembled with conviction. She couldn’t let him do this, even if everything within her screamed for revenge. “Don’t give your uncle this ammunition against you.”
Lucidity seeped into Matthew’s eyes, tempering the blazing gold. He touched her bruised cheek while his mouth thinned.
She must look a mess. The pain was certainly bad enough.
“I’d like to smash him to pieces,” he said fiercely.
As always, she drew strength from his touch. “So would I, but your uncle must never think the madness has returned.”
Wolfram gave another growl. She turned to see Filey trying to limp away. He hadn’t straightened from his awkward crouch. His face was a mask of agony.
He’d suffer from Matthew’s beating. He deserved to. The bruises he’d given her still ached. Her head still pounded. Her stomach still cramped with horror.
“You broke my bloody back,” Filey whined, darting a worried eye at the dog.
“Unfortunately, I doubt it,” Matthew snapped in his best Lord Sheene manner. “Get out of my sight before I reconsider letting you live.”
“Aye, my lord.” Filey edged away from Wolfram. “Very good, my lord.”
“Wolfram, chase,” Matthew said softly.
The dog bounded after Filey, forcing him into a shambling run. “Bloody hell! Call off your mongrel! Shit! Get away from me, you mangy bugger! Leave off!”
Matthew placed one arm around Grace as the ungainly pursuit continued through the trees. She leaned gratefully into his strength. Her legs felt like they were made of watery custard.