Talk of the Ton (Free Fellows League 5)

“Be quiet!” India ordered.

Mustafa giggled. “And when I’ve taken his manhood from him, I shall cut his heart from his chest and let you watch as it beats in the palm of my hand . . .”

“Shut up!” India ordered again, louder this time, her voice vibrating with rage.

“You shall watch as I crush the infidel’s heart in my fist and squeeze the life from it.” He paused. “And after I kill the infidel, I shall take my red, silk cord, and wind it about your slim, white neck, and pull and pull until your face turns purple and your eyes and tongue protrude. I shall tighten my cord, until the bones in your neck snap and I force the life’s breath from your body. And then I shall laugh . . .”

“Don’t!” she warned. “Don’t say another word!”

But Mustafa ignored her. “The way I laughed when I squeezed the life from your friend. And I shall take my blade and cut off your head, and keep it on a table beside my bed next to hers . . .”

India let go of her knees, reached beneath her pillow, and grabbed the knife Mustafa had held pressed to Lord Barclay’s neck and had dropped when Lord Barclay had outsmarted and overpowered him. Launching herself from the bed, she hurried out of her bedchamber to the kitchen and beyond.

Mustafa’s eyes grew as big and round as saucers when he looked up and saw India coming toward him, his curved blade in her hand.

“I warned you, you pile of dung! I warned you to hold your tongue! I warned you to be quiet! I warned you not to speak of what you did! But you wouldn’t listen. So, I’m going to make certain you never speak of it again.”

Mustafa opened his mouth and screamed loud enough to wake the dead.

Chapter Seven

The red silk pallet retained the scent of the oil Mustafa wore, but Jonathan ignored it. He’d slept with far worse smells assaulting his nostrils, and although the fragrance was heavier than he would have chosen for himself, it wasn’t altogether unpleasant, and the silk pallet was a vast improvement on the mound of straw he’d fashioned in the stall adjoining Fellow’s.

Jonathan maneuvered the silk mattress through the door of the stall and arranged it atop the pile of clean straw. He tossed the pillow onto the mattress, spread the sheet and blanket over it, then stripped off his waistcoat, shirt, and boots, unbuttoned the top three buttons on his buff trousers, and sank down onto the pallet and rolled beneath the sheet.

Jonathan exhaled a deep, satisfied breath. The mattress was big and thick and long enough to cradle his body in comfort, and Jonathan graciously succumbed to the luxury of a silk mattress and silk sheets. Closing his eyes, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He awoke several hours later to the sound of a shrill, high-pitched scream of terror.

“Bloody hell!” Jonathan bolted upright, tugged on his boots, and sprinted through the misting rain toward the cottage. He opened the back door and discovered Lady India Burton perched on the center of the eunuch’s massive chest and holding the eunuch’s curved blade against his throat with enough force to draw blood.

Mustafa’s black eyes were wide with terror as he stared up at Lady India, and he whimpered as he tried to wiggle away from the knife and failed.

Tears streamed down Lady India’s face, but she was unaware of them as she threatened the man beneath her in her mix of French and Turkish. Jonathan understood enough of her words to know that she wanted the eunuch dead and was frustrated by the fact that while she’d drawn his blood, Lady India could not bring herself to finish him off. Jonathan watched as she tried, once again, to slit Mustafa’s throat and inflicted another in a series of thin, bleeding wounds.

Jonathan crossed the floor, hooked an arm around Lady India’s waist, and lifted her off the eunuch’s chest. “Torturing is allowed,” he told her, “for I’ve no doubt that he deserves it, but I can’t allow you to kill him.” Jonathan set her on her feet and held her close to his chest as he pried the knife from her hand and tossed it aside.

“Please . . .” She clung to him and wept huge, hot, heavy tears into the mat of hair on Jonathan’s chest. “Help me . . .”

“I am helping you, sweeting,” Jonathan said.

She looked up at him. “Please, help me kill him.”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“But I want him to die.”

“I know you do,” he soothed. “I know he can’t die soon enough to make up for the five years of fear and suffering you’ve endured at his hands, but I cannot let you kill him. Not like this. Not when he’s tied and as helpless as a stranded whale.”

“Why not?” she demanded, years of anger and frustration evident in her voice.

“Because it would be murder,” Jonathan said simply. “And you, Lady India, are not a murderer.”

She fixed her gaze on Jonathan’s face, silently pleading with him to understand.

But Jonathan stood firm. “And neither am I.”

“But he . . .” India bowed her head as the tears continued to flow. She knew Lord Barclay was right. But she also knew that Mustafa deserved to suffer the way all those women in the harem had suffered.