Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

Just as the man halted beside her. She sensed him looking down at her; instinct kept her perfectly still.

“Damn you—wake up!”

He’d spoken through clenched teeth, yet she placed him. Phillip. What the devil was he up to?

With a muttered curse, he swung away. Her hearing focused, her mind followed; still too weak to move, she listened as he paced, talking to himself.

“It’s all right. I have time. Plenty of time to set the stage—to rape her, and beat her, then kill her—perhaps slit her throat, let her blood flow artistically over the stone—yes!”

His shoes scraped on the floor as if he’d swung around. She sensed him looking at her; she didn’t move a muscle.

“Damn!” he muttered. “I forgot to bring my knife.” He paused, then said, “No matter. I’ve ball and powder—I can shoot her as many times, in as many places, as I like.”

Again she felt him studying her, then he started pacing again.

“Yes, that will do nicely. I’ll rip her gown to shreds, shoot her in the head, then again in the belly, and place that damned crown in the blood.” He laughed. “Oh, yes, that will work. He has to be shattered by the sight. Completely and utterly broken. He has to finally see that I’m more powerful. That because he took my treasure, I’ve taken something he valued from him—that in our game, I’ll always win. That I’m the truly clever one. When he comes in here, and sees what I’ve done to her—his new duchess, the woman he today vowed to honor and protect—he’ll know I’ve won. He’ll know that everyone will know what a failure he is—that he wasn’t even clever enough, strong enough, powerful enough, to protect her.”

His long strides brought him to the millstone again; again she felt his gaze. Unlike Royce’s, his made her skin crawl. She fought to remain lifeless, utterly lax—battled the compulsion to tense, to hold her breath, to raise her lids enough to see.

She nearly sighed with relief when he said, “Time’s on my side.” He moved away again. “I’ve got more than an hour before that valet gives Royce the note. Plenty of time to enjoy debauching and killing her, and then get ready to welcome him.”

Facts fell into place with a suddenness that left her mentally reeling. Treasure. Phillip had said treasure. He was Royce’s last traitor.

That’s what this was all about. He thought to use her to break Royce.

The fight she had to wage to suppress her reaction—not to let her jaw, her features, set, not to let her hands curl into fists, not to reach for the knife she had, for an entirely different reason, strapped to her thigh—was immense.

She could kill him with that knife, but Phillip was strong—he was like Royce in that. Yet while he believed her unconscious, it seemed she was safe. Just as long as he kept believing he had time, her best strategy was to simply lie there and let him rant.

And give Royce time to reach her.

She knew he would.

How long had she been unconscious? How long was it since she’d left the ballroom? Phillip’s plan had a large hole in it, one he’d never see. He might not be a Varisey, yet he was just like Royce in not understanding what love actually was.

He didn’t comprehend that Royce would simply know, that he was always aware of her—even in a crowded ballroom. He’d never wait an hour before checking where she’d gone. She seriously doubted he’d have waited ten minutes. Which meant rescue was afoot.

Phillip was now ranting about his father, and his grandfather, how they’d always lauded Royce and never him. How they would now see that Royce was nothing, powerless…

Royce’s maternal grandfather was long dead.

Not that she needed any further proof of the state of Phillip’s mind.

Nevertheless, she forced herself to listen so she could track his movements; when she was sure he was pacing away from her, she quickly cracked open her lids—immediately closed them again and heaved a mental sigh of relief. He’d closed the mill doors.

Resisting the urge to smile intently, she worked on keeping every muscle flaccid.

Not so easy when Phillip stopped talking, then halted beside the millstone. She was fully awake now, could sense his physical closeness. Like Royce, he was large, well-muscled, and radiated heat—and quelling her revulsion and lying quiescent with him near was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do.

Then she heard a rustle; his arms moved.

Then he leaned near. “Come on, damn you! Wake up.”

And then she discovered there were harder things to quell than mere revulsion.

Instinct had her peeking through her lashes. She only had an instant’s warning, only an instant to scream at herself to relax, relax, for God’s sake don’t react!—then he jabbed her in the arm with his cravat pin.

Royce waited in the hallway until all the men had gathered. The ladies remained, too—they were all too sober to go back into the ballroom; if they did, they’d cause comment.