The Hellion Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 2)

"Go away, Ryder," she said. "Just go away."

He did, whistling.

Sophie didn't know what had awakened her. At one moment she was dreaming deeply, and her mother was there with her, laughing and brushing her hair and talking about the future and all the fine young men who would want to marry her when they went to London upon her eighteenth birthday. The next moment, she was wide awake, jerking upright in bed, frozen still and listening.

The sound came again. Movement coming from outside.

Her heart began to pound, fast, shallow strokes. Slowly, she pulled off the single sheet covering her and eased out from beneath the mosquito netting. It was very late and very silent except for that other sound. It was a person and he was moving along the balcony outside, quietly but not quietly enough for her sharp ears.

She stepped onto the floor. Her feet were still bandaged but it had been two days since the fire at Camille Hall and the pain was nearly gone now. She walked slowly, tiptoeing to the open door and peering out. She heard nothing but the soft grating sound of a lone coqui. Then in the next instant, she saw a shadow, a long shadow, the shadow of a man, and he was moving stealthily around the side of the house.

She picked up the water pitcher beside her bed, the one she'd hurled two days before at Ryder, unceremoniously dumped the remaining water into the chamber pot, and walked out onto the balcony. There were no barriers. The balcony curved around the entire second floor of the house, a good eight feet deep with a twelve-foot overhang to protect from the sun. She crept after the man. Suddenly she was right behind him and she froze. He was silent, staring into a bedchamber.

It was Ryder's room.

She saw him raise a knife in his hand. God, it was Thomas and he was going to kill Ryder.

She waited until he stepped into the bedchamber then ran quickly after him, the thick bandages on her feet silencing them. She peered around the open doorway to see Thomas now standing by Ryder's bed. He had the knife raised. She saw a bulky ban­dage around his chest. She'd shot him, not her uncle. Ryder had been right.

But her aim hadn't been good enough, worse luck.

Slowly, he pulled back the mosquito netting.

Sophie screamed and screamed again, yelling like a banshee, shrieking like a mad voodoo priestess. She ran toward Thomas, the pitcher raised high.

Ryder awoke to see the silver flash of a blade over his body, a harsh scream echoing in his head. Jesus! He jerked away, rolling off the other side of the bed, but he tangled himself in the mosquito netting.

Sophie saw him roll quickly to the opposite side of the bed, but he didn't jerk the mosquito netting out of the way. He fell hard to the floor, tangled in the yards and yards of netting.

Thomas was running around the side of the bed, breathing hard, not even looking at her, intent upon getting to Ryder.

"Thomas!"

He jerked toward her then and she saw the hatred twisting his face.

"Thomas, I shot you, not Ryder! What's the mat­ter, are you afraid of me? You miserable bastard, you are afraid of me, a girl, half your size. Coward, murdering, sniveling coward! Why did you kill my uncle? Did he deceive you, cheat you?"

Thomas went berserk. He was trembling, making slashing downward and upward motions with the knife. "I know you shot me, you damned bitch! After I kill him I will deal with you. First I'm going to have me some fun with you and then I'll let you beg me not to kill you. On your knees, you little slut, on your knees in f

ront of me begging and begging." He was stalking her, Ryder now forgotten.

Sophie didn't have time to question the wisdom of her attack. If Ryder didn't free himself quickly, she would very shortly be in grave difficulties. She moved behind a wicker chair, shoving it forward toward him.

Every nerve was tingling in her body. She felt dread, fear, and, oddly enough, excitement at the danger. Her eyes glittered as she looked at his hated face.

"You gutless coward!" she screamed at him, taunt­ing him. Then just as quickly, she stepped to one side of the chair, looked beyond him, and yelled, "Yes, Ryder, kill him now!"

Thomas whirled about to face his new attacker, a man, and thus more of a threat.

It was a mistake.

Sophie rushed up behind him and struck the heavy pottery pitcher over his head. It cracked hard against his skull. Thomas groaned softly and slumped to the floor. The knife fell from his fingers and lay beside him, the long silver blade obscene in the pale light of the bedchamber.

Ryder pulled the mosquito netting off himself and slowly got to his feet. He walked over to Thomas, kneeled down, and felt the man's pulse. He was alive, just barely.

"You gave him a fine cosh," he said, still studying Thomas. "You did shoot him. Here, in the ribs. He must have still been in some pain." Ryder looked up at her then. She was standing there, silent as a stone, swathed in one of her voluminous white nightgowns, her hair loose down her back, her face as white as the Valenciennes lace at the collar of her gown. She was still holding the broken-off pitcher handle, clutching it like an amulet.

"Thank you, Sophie," he said, and slowly rose.