Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

He roughly seized her breast, hard fingers searching for, then framing her nipple. Her breasts were tender; she cracked open her lids, looked up—

Saw him above her, one knee on the millstone beside her, his features distorted into a mask of pure evil, looking down to where his hand imprisoned her flesh. His eyes glittered; his other hand rose, holding his cravat pin.

Her hands came up; with all her strength, she pushed him off.

Releasing her breast, he rocked back—laughed in triumph. Before she could move, he swooped and seized her arm.

He dragged her half upright, shook her like a doll. “You bitch! Time for your punishment to begin.”

She fought him; he shook her viciously, then slapped her hard.

The crack of his palm on her cheek echoed sharply through the mill.

Something fell to the ground.

Phillip froze. Standing with his knees against the side of the millstone, with her on the stone before him, her legs trapped in the lace froth of her wedding gown, one of her arms locked in a painful, unbreakable grip, he stopped breathing and stared across the race.

The sound had come from the east side—the lower side of the mill. There were no doors on that side of the building; if anyone was going to come in unremarked, they would have to come that way.

“Royce?” Phillip waited, but no answer came. No hint of movement. No further sound.

He glanced down at her, but immediately snapped his gaze up again, locked it on the gangplank, presently set over the race connecting the two levels; his eyes searched the clear space on the lower side beyond it.

Minerva felt him shift his weight from one foot to the other; he was uncertain—this wasn’t what he’d planned. Her gaze fixed on him, her senses locked on him, she waited for her chance.

Royce was somewhere on the lower level; her senses told her he was there. But Phillip couldn’t see him because of the cupboards lining the race, not unless—until—Royce wanted to be seen.

Apparently realizing, Phillip snarled, and grabbed her with both hands; hauling her off the millstone, he dragged her up against him, her back to his chest. With one arm, he locked her there; he held her so tightly she could barely breathe. With his other hand he fished in his pocket; turning her head to the side, she saw him pull out a pistol.

He held it down, at his side. His body at her back was unbelievably tense.

He was using her as a shield, and she couldn’t do anything; her arms were trapped against her body. If she struggled he’d just lift her off her feet. All she could do was grasp her skirts in her hands, hold them as high as she could—at least enough for her feet to be free—and wait for an opening. Wait for the right moment.

Phillip was muttering beneath his breath; she forced herself to focus, to listen. He was talking to himself, reworking his plan; he was ignoring her as if she were some inanimate pawn—no threat whatsoever.

“He’s down there somewhere, but that’s all right. As long as he knows I’ve killed her, I still win. And then I’ll kill him.” He hauled her with him as he edged around the huge circular stone. “I’ll get into position, shoot her, then I’ll have to grab the gangplank and swing it to this side—he’ll be shocked, he won’t be expecting that, I can have it done by the time she hits the ground.”

His whispered words tripped over themselves as he frantically rehearsed. “Then I’ll reload—and shoot him when he comes for me…”

She felt him look up; she looked where he did—at the big beams forming the heavy structure supporting the waterwheel.

“With the gangplank gone, he’ll have to come that way. He might not love her, but he won’t let me get away with killing his duchess. So he’ll come for me—and I’ll have more than enough time to reload and shoot him before he can reach me.”

She sensed welling triumph in his tone.

“Yes! That’s what I’ll do. So first, I get in place.” Renewed confidence infused him. He tightened his arm, lifted her from her feet, and walked forward—toward the upper end of the gangplank.

She’d run out of time, but with her arms locked to her body there was nothing she could do.

Above her head, Phillip muttered, so low she could barely hear him. “Close enough to the plank ropes, close enough to my powder and shot.”

He moved her forward. And she saw the powder horn and shot canister he’d left on the flat top railing, a few feet left of the gangplank.

She couldn’t use her arms, but could she possibly raise her feet high enough to kick powder or shot away? Either would do—then he’d have only one shot. Only one person he could kill.

If he shot her, he couldn’t kill Royce. Phillip slowed as he maneuvered into position; she was gauging the distance, tensing to try to kick up—

Something flashed across in front of them, right to left—and hit the powder horn and canister, sending both spinning.