One moment, she had been alone in her library, and the next, there was a knife at her throat and a strange woman making demands of her. The scent of spirits and the unpleasant aroma of sweat and garments desperately in need of laundering reached Octavia.
“I’m their true mother,” said the woman at her back. “Their only mother.”
Oh dear heaven.
Anne and Elizabeth’s mother. The woman who had abandoned them.
“I love your daughters as if they are my own,” she said calmly, hoping to ease the other woman out of her rage. “I would never do them harm.”
“He’s keeping them from me. Told me I could never see them again,” the voice at her back said, the knife biting into her skin. “How dare he? I’ve done everything for them for all these years.”
You also left them, she wanted to say. But Octavia held her tongue. The woman at her back seemed volatile as fireworks which had been lit, destined to explode at any moment. She knew she needed to take care. The weapon pressing into her flesh was very sharp.
“My husband has a generous heart,” Octavia said, her stare darting around the library in search of a weapon. Nothing but walls of books, wall sconces, and a brace of candles. A divan. Not a single object sufficient enough to defend herself with. “I’m sure he will allow you to see the girls again.”
“He told me they’ve a new mother now. The only way to have my daughters back is to get rid of you.”
Get rid of her?
The panic in Octavia grew. Her furiously churning mind had supposed the woman had come for Anne and Elizabeth. She’d thought she had time to escape, catch the attention of a servant, or otherwise distract and overpower her adversary. But the twins’ mother intended to murder her instead.
“You don’t have to get rid of me,” she said, her voice coaxing. “Please, put down the knife and let us speak to each other. We both love your daughters very much, that is plain.”
“Shut up,” the woman ordered her, increasing her pressure on the knife until it sliced into Octavia’s flesh. “I love them. They’re mine, and no one will take them from me.”
Pain seared her, blood trickling down her throat from the wound. “You do not need to hurt me. If you won’t speak to me, then wait for Jasper to return. Speak to him. Please, I beg you.”
“I don’t want to speak to him. I tried, and the bastard refused to listen,” the woman hissed into Octavia’s ear. “There’s only one way to get my daughters back, and that’s if you’re dead.”
Her chilling words gave Octavia the motivation she needed to act, using her elbow to deal a blow to the woman’s midsection and simultaneously stomping on her foot. Another bolt of pain shot through her as the knife cut into her skin, but Octavia was able to wrestle herself free. Heart galloping in her chest, she ran, bolting around the divan and placing it between herself and her attacker.
The woman was unkempt, her gown stained and ragged, her hair a wild bird’s nest. The blade she held in her hand was long and dripping with blood. She snarled as she advanced on Octavia.
“You’ll pay for that.” She pointed the knife toward Octavia and lunged.
Octavia screamed and leapt away from the divan, hoping some of the servants would hear her. Praying for a miracle. The knife slashed into the upholstered back of the divan. And then, Octavia was running. Feet flying. Desperation granting her a speed she had never known she possessed. She fled the library and raced down the hall, calling for help.
The other woman followed, screaming at her. “Come back here! Give me my daughters!”
Servants came scurrying, and everything seemed to blur together in the terror of the moment. Octavia was dimly aware of a man ordering everyone to stand back. Then the report of a pistol. Masculine arms around her. Not familiar, but somehow reassuring. A face, hovering over hers. He looked like Jasper and yet…not.
“Send for a doctor,” he yelled.
How strange. There was something warm on her neck. And pain. The man’s face swirled, and Octavia’s vision went dark.
Chapter 14
Jasper paced the hall outside Octavia’s chamber, feeling like a damned creature in a menagerie cage. Barnaby, Motley, and Drunkard followed him each step, aware that something was ami
ss and on guard, their protective instincts aroused.
He was nearly out of his mind with worry. He’d returned to his greatest fear. Octavia wounded, a house in an uproar. He had carried her in his arms himself to the room and had held a cloth to her wound as they waited for the surgeon to arrive.
“Going to wear a hole in the floor,” Rafe told him as he approached from the opposite end of the hall, having reached the top of the staircase.
“I don’t give a damn if I do,” he shot back. “My wife is being sewn back together as we speak.”
“The surgeon said the wound ain’t deep,” Rafe reminded him.