The Hellion Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 2)

He rose and stretched. He really had to decide what he was going to do now. It was a pity he hadn't discovered the purpose of the game with him, but he would, he didn't doubt it for a single moment.

Uncle Theo was waiting for her in his study. His face was pale and his hands were shaking slightly. He wore no kindly gentle mask for her. She knew fear, and kept as much distance as she could between them. She shut the door behind her and watched him slowly rise.

"Where the devil have you been?"

She expected this, and recited in a low voice, "I awoke in the cottage, naked in the bed, quite alone. I had to know what happened so I rode to Kimberly Hall. Ryder said he'd taken me since he was my lover, and what was all the fuss about.

"I accused him of drugging me. I started to tell him I was a virgin but I didn't because I knew he wouldn't believe me."

"He drugged both of us, the damnable bastard!"

At that, Sophie felt a fierce joy, despite what Ryder had done to her. It was over now, finally over.

"Damnation! How did he know? None of the others ever wondered about a thing."

"I don't know." But he saw she was lying, and knowing there was no hope for it, she said quietly, "Very well. He said he knew that the breasts of the woman of that night weren't mine. He had fondled me before, twice, seen me, felt me. That was how he knew. He said all women were different from each other."

"That's absurd! He knew Dahlia's breasts weren't yours!" he cried, his words slightly slurred because his tongue was thick with rage. "Ridiculous. You're lying, damn you, Sophia!"

Theo Burgess stopped cold, whirled about and stared at his niece. "By God," he said very quietly, "you told him, didn't you? You went to him and you told him. You fell for his charm and his man's body and you told him!"

"No! I despise all men! He is no different."

"You hate me so you used him to get back at me. Well, it won't work. I'll figure something out and you'll do as you're told. Oh no, it's not over, Sophia.

It won't be over until I say it will."

"It is over. He knows. Not all of it, but he knows enough. He will do something and you can't stop him."

"He knows because you told him. Don't lie to me further, you damned little bitch!"

She saw the darkening of his eyes and knew what was coming. He was on her in an instant. He struck her hard and she slammed against the doorframe. She grabbed the knob to keep herself upright, then wished she hadn't, for he struck her again. Rage flowed through her, rage and strength she didn't know she possessed. The pain disappeared, leaving only the rage. She whirled away from him, regaining her balance. She picked up a lamp from a table and hurled it at him. It struck his arm.

He was screaming at her, cursing her, and she knew that if he got to her again, he wouldn't stop until she was dead.

A slave's face appeared at the veranda window, then quickly disappeared. She ran behind his large desk, grabbing books and throwing them at him, but he kept coming, closer and closer, and his fists were large, his knuckles white with the strain, his face brutal.

She saw the letter opener. She didn't think, she was beyond thought. She grabbed it and ran straight at him.

"I won't let you hit me again! Never again! I hate you!" She struck as hard as she could. She felt the end of the blade slide into his shoulder with sicken­ing ease.

She was crying, her vision blurred. She looked at the letter opener, the mother-of-pearl handle stick­ing obscenely out of his flesh. She watched him look from her to the letter opener. His expression was bewildered.

"You stabbed me," he said slowly. He looked up at her again and he screamed, "I'll take care of you now, you damned lit

tle bitch! I've given you everything, you and that miserable little cripple. Stab me, will you."

He caught her arm, bent it until she knew it would snap, then released her, shoving her hard against the wall. She was trapped now in the corner of the room, and he was on her, hitting her again and again . . . her ribs, her face, again and again.

Until she slumped unconscious onto her side.

When she came to, she was still lying on the floor where she'd fallen, sprawled on her side. The pain drove all efforts at coherent thought from her head. Her body clenched and twisted in on itself; she moaned softly, unable to keep the sounds to herself. At least he hadn't killed her. Nor was her arm broken. That was something.

She lay there for several more minutes, not mov­ing, scarcely breathing. She had learned to deal with pain but it was more difficult this time. He'd showed no restraint at all. He'd beaten her here in his study, a room that the slaves could enter at any time. Usu­ally he was so careful, waiting until she was in her bed and coming into her room and beating her there with little to no chance of discovery.

Had he beaten her so badly because he had no intention of continuing his gentle, kindly fiction to anyone, the slaves included? Did he finally accept that it was over and he simply no longer cared? Even had she not stabbed him, she knew he still would have beaten her badly.

Perhaps he was dead. If so, she was a murder­ess.