Mrs. Palmer held out a slender hand. “Come, Mary,” she coaxed. “Give me the cudgel. I see it upon your face. You know you cannot succeed in this.”
Mary’s fingers tightened around the wooden instrument. “Do not tempt me to dash out your brains, madam. Recall—according to you—I am quite mad.”
Still, Mrs. Palmer didn’t flinch as she said firmly, “Then let us go downstairs.”
Downstairs was where the flaws in her escape would erupt. It was a horrible feeling, her sudden indecision. Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . if she took Mrs. Palmer down the back stairs . . .
But before she could give it a thought, footsteps thundered down the hall.
Triumph flooded Mrs. Palmer’s face with a healthy flush. “You see, Mary? You cannot escape.”
Edward charged down the dank hall, pistols in hand. Blood dripped from his knuckles, splattering into the damp patches upon the stones beneath his boots. A primordial rage pumped through him as he closed in on the door at the end of the long hall.
He did not hesitate as he lifted his booted foot and slammed it against the wood. The surface splintered and crunched. The squeal of the lock giving way screeched through the air and the door flew off its hinges, landing hard upon the stone floor.
The windowless room was a soul-sucking death trap. Pain emanated from the chamber as it did throughout the entire asylum. As his eyes adjusted to the obscure light, he met a sight he could not fathom.
Mary stood firm, half wild. Her hair was spiked about her face and a thin, ratty shift barely covered her lithe body. In her hand she gripped a hefty cudgel.
Her amethyst eyes were fixed on the open doorway. Dread tensed her beautiful features. And the hope that had sprung to life within her these last weeks had disappeared into nihilistic acceptance.
For that, someone was going to pay with blood.
Recognition dawned upon her face. “Edward!” she exclaimed as the dread faded away. “Oh, Edward!”
Though he longed to cheat the distance between them and draw her into his arms, her safety was far more important than his own dangerous desires. His gaze swung to the woman standing opposite Mary and then to the body on the floor.
He lifted his pistol, extended his arm, and pointed the muzzle neatly between the woman’s eyes. “Mrs. Palmer, I presume.”
The auburn-haired woman drew up her face, a face that might have been rendered by Raphael, not a gleeful satanic deity. “Sir, you are acting without legal means.”
He cocked his head as if unsure what she had just spoken, but it was all he could do not to slide his finger a little and pull the trigger. “Legal? You dare speak of legal?”
The woman had the audacity to lift her chin and fold her hands calmly. A damned persecuted Madonna. “All those here are in my special care, approved by their guardians and the Crown.”
Edward’s blood raced icily through his veins. The hate he had felt but a moment ago distilled into something much more deadly than rage. Slowly he crossed to her, each step a warning.
At last, he paused before her, allowing the mouth of the pistol to press against her forehead. “Let me make plain. While your other prisoners do not have friends, Mary does.”
The woman’s breath seemed to stop entirely before she replied, “Her father is a very important man and will not be gainsaid by someone such as you.”
“Then perhaps I should introduce myself. Edward Barrons, Duke of Fairleigh.”
The muscles in her throat convulsed as she audibly swallowed. “Still it does not matter. Her father wishes her here and he is her guardian—”
“I have never hit a woman, but feel I am about to make an exception.”
“Edward,” Mary said tightly.
He did not move the pistol or look away from Mrs. Palmer’s unrepentant face. “Yes?”
“I—wish—to leave—now,” she choked out.
Edward nodded. “First . . . I think we shall have to tie this one up.” Then Edward gestured with his chin to the body prone on the floor. “And that? What is that?”
“A keeper,” Mary whispered. There was such hate in her voice that Edward’s stomach curdled.
In a moment, he was transported back to his London house, Mary naked upon the floor begging not to be ravished. Quietly, he backed away from Mrs. Palmer and held the pistol out to Mary. “Take it,” he growled.
Her cool fingers slid around the butt without question.
The moment she had the weapon trained upon Mrs. Palmer, any reason within him vanished, replaced by a ravenous need to vanquish. He threw himself atop the keeper’s body and pummeled his fists into the man’s fleshy face. He hit again and again, red blossoming in veiny lines over his vision. He barely saw the piggish face he beat, only felt the ever increasing urge to pound harder until there was no face left to pound.
The man’s arms came up feebly, shoving at Edward’s body ineffectually, but his weakness didn’t stop Edward. Mary’s weakness had not stopped this piece of filth from brutalizing her.
His bloody knuckles impacted again and again. As his breath rammed through him, he did not give pause, hitting left, then right and again and again. Hands pulled at his back, but he ignored them. Lost in the moment of hammering the man who had tortured his Calypso for so long, he ignored everything but the waning life beneath him.
Screams ripped from the man’s throat, but it wasn’t enough. Not when this man had so nearly destroyed Mary. Edward wrapped his fingers about the man’s thick throat and pressed down on the esophagus.
Just as the keeper’s face was fading into a satisfactory shade of blue, someone threw a punch at Edward’s jaw. A punch hard enough to jangle his brain. Shocked, he momentarily loosened his hold. In that instant, whoever had attacked him hauled him off the beaten mound of flesh.
Panting, Edward blinked furiously, ready to wheel around and kill whoever had interfered with his vengeance.
“Enough, Edward,” Powers’s calm voice drummed through his brain. “Enough.”
But it would never be enough. Nothing would ever be enough to save his Mary.
M
ary couldn’t tear her disbelieving gaze from the bloody scene. Edward hung limp in Powers’s arms, his face sprayed with blood and flesh. His coat and cravat were splattered with the stuff. And Matthew . . . He was barely recognizable as a human—fitting, since he almost certainly never was to begin with. His chest lifted up and down, proving he was almost as impossible to kill as a cockroach.
One thought blazed through her soul.
He’d come.
Edward had come. Mary drew in such a free breath it was as if she’d been in water since the moment she’d left him behind. In this moment, she could not fathom how she had ever left him.
Her hand trembled and she forced herself to steady and not accidentally pull the trigger. She darted her glance from Matthew’s unrecognizable body to Edward and then to Powers. Powers staggered under the weight of his friend, dressed in his muddy riding clothes. His face shone a strange gray under the consumptive light, and beads of sweat slid down the sides of his usually pristine face. All she could muster was a stuttering “H-how?”
Powers hauled Edward to his feet and shoved the duke aside. And Powers, who always seemed so god-like, swayed on his boots. “Hardgrave is a . . . piss-poor . . . shot.”
“You look half dead,” she said, lacking any better reply. Relief swelled inside her at his resurrection.
“
Only
half.”
A grudging grin parted her lips. “Fully dead would have been exceedingly bad.”
“Indeed.”
Edward glared from Powers to Mary, his eyes glazed. Then he lifted a hand and smeared the blood away from his face. “Still engaged in witty banter, I see.”
Mary swallowed back a hasty reply. She was far too happy to see Edward’s face to let words fly. He had every right to be angry, since she had gone off with Powers. But could he not see the light in her eyes at his arrival?
Edward didn’t look at her as he strode toward Mrs. Palmer. Heedless of the woman’s shrinking fear, he took her arm in his grip and twisted her roughly toward Matthew’s gruesome body. With his free hand, he shoved her facedown so that she was but inches from the battered flesh. “Now, unless you fancy having your face rearranged in similar fashion, you will comply.”
Mrs. Palmer nodded frantically. “A-anything you wish.”
A slow, terrifying smile curled Edward’s lips. “Good. You see, madam, I have just the place to keep you until the authorities can be made aware of your activities.”
“What are you going to do?” Mary asked, wondering if Edward had crossed into madness himself.
Edward’s brow rose as if his plan should be altogether obvious. “Put her with her prisoners.”
Mrs. Palmer’s eyes widened with glassy terror and she flailed against his hold. “You can’t!” she shrieked.
Edward shook her until she was limp as a cloth doll. “I can.”
With that, he marched her forward as she fought to keep her feet planted. In stuttering strides, he shoved her toward the door.
When Edward had maneuvered her halfway down the hall, Mary turned to Powers. “I—”
Powers shook his head. “He loves you.”
Mary bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
Powers snorted, then winced. “That man would have raced across hell to save you. I couldn’t save you on my own, not wounded. My god—you should have seen his face when I told him you’d been taken.”
She hardly dared believe Powers. A wavering smile lifted her lips. “You’re a good man.”
He snorted. “Liar.”
“Drunkard,” she teased.
“True.” His eyes batted open and closed. “Sorry it took us so long.”
“You both came. That’s all that matters.”
“Had to send a note to Edward, then track you—”
“Shh. Shh. I am safe now.” Her hands fluttered over his chest, not knowing what to do. “You’re not dying, are you?”
“Good god, woman, have some faith.” Powers rolled his eyes in exaggerated disdain. “A piddling little bullet would not kill me.”
She smoothed back his damp hair from his ashen forehead “Forgive me,” she teased, aware that his bravado only hid his hurt. “How could I have been so foolish?”
“Hmph. Well, perhaps if you kissed me—”
“Don’t tell me you believe kisses fix everything,” Edward said, his form suddenly blocking the dim light in the door.
“One might as well try,” Powers replied.
Edward looked to Mary, the anger and danger gone. His gaze searched over her with a sort of desperation. “Are you all right?”
She nodded.
“Then perhaps you could kiss me,” Edward said. “I do believe I need a bit of healing as well.”
A trembling grin pulled at her lips. She rose quickly and crossed to him so fast they collided. Their bodies came together perfectly as his strong hands clasped her back.
She leaned her head back. “Get your healing, then.”
Edward hesitated for one moment, a shadow somewhere still between them.
But none of that mattered now. Not when she’d almost lost him forever. He lowered his head toward her.
“Excuse me, but I’m still on the floor.”
Mary blushed. She hated to interrupt their kiss, this moment, but she pushed gently at Edward’s shoulders.
“He needs a doctor,” she said simply. She’d come to care for the blond bastard who made no demands upon her already strained soul. If she’d had a brother, she couldn’t have wished for any other.
“Who needs a doctor . . . when I have an angel?” Powers asked mockingly.
Mary snorted. “You’ll be seeing angels if we don’t get you help.”
“Devils,” Powers put in pithily. “Devils, my dear.”
Edward arched a dark brow. “I’ll make you see devils if you don’t shut it.”
Powers tried to shuffle away, but he was sweating considerably now and shivering slightly.
Edward bent down, his brow creasing with worry. “Fool has a fever.”
Mary took in Powers’s pallor in a new and more frightening light. “We must take him away. Now.”
Edward pulled his hand back and swiped it over his worn face. “I never should have let him come. But he would not be gainsaid.”
“He knew you needed him,” Mary offered.
“
He
is still listening,” Powers mumbled.
“
He
is fortunate I haven’t killed
him
myself. Asking Mary for a kiss and all.” Edward shoved his hands under Powers’s armpits and hauled him up.
Mary backed away, watching in awe as Edward dug his shoulder into Powers’s middle and hoisted the thickly muscled man as though he weighed no more than a slip of a girl.
Edward adjusted Powers carefully so as not to jostle his head or his wound, then started for the door. “Come on, then.”
Mary nodded, but hesitated. Matthew was still alive, if not present in the world. She hated him with her entire being . . . but if she left him here he would die. “C-can we send for a physician to be sent here?”
“Mary—”
“Please,” she heard herself beg. It was the most confusing thing, pleading for the life of Matthew, but . . . She’d killed him once, and his death twice upon her conscience didn’t sit well. “I shan’t be able to forgive myself if we do not.”
Edward’s face softened and a look of pure pain sliced across his features. “You’ve a beautiful soul, Mary.”
Before she could even reply, Edward was striding down the hall. She understood him well enough to know that a doctor would be sent for. And that he would set this hideous asylum to rights.
A beautiful soul.
She stared after Edward’s retreating form, strong and unbowed by Powers’s impressive frame. She only wished that Edward could see that his soul was as beautiful, if not more so. Until he did, he would never be able to love. Not her. Not anyone.
An unbidden tear slid down her cheek and splashed against her fraying chemise. He had rescued her so many times, but it was he who would never be free.
“I am going to Duncliffe’s tonight,” Powers boomed most pathetically from the massive bed at the center of the room.
Edward fought back the urge to coldcock the man. Instead, he set his jaw and stared Powers down. “The hell you are.”
“Y-you need me,” Powers insisted as he attempted to shove himself up onto his forearms and into a sitting position. It took him several seconds, but at last he managed it.