The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(108)

“Gilliam, help me, damn it!” Wells cried, struggling to keep Mike from throttling him.

But Murray had already disappeared up the steps, making the whole house shudder with his hulking gait. He reached the room, breathless, his eyes burning with rage and impotence. But the scene he came across was not the one he had anticipated. The lame man was kneeling on the ground groaning, his hands at his groin and his face twisted with pain. On the far side of the room stood Emma, the neck of her dress torn, fiercely clutching the knife she must have forced from him. When she saw Murray come in, she seemed to breathe more easily.

“Hello, Mr. Murray,” she said in a voice that was almost cheerful, trying her best not to show how afraid she must have been before managing to overpower the porter. “As you can see, the situation is under control. He scarcely had time to rip my dress. There’s nothing like trembling a little to make a man lower his guard.”

Murray gazed at her in disbelief, relieved to find that she was surprisingly untouched. Here she was before him, a woman with a slight tear in the collar of her dress, which could have come from snagging it on a branch. A woman with no more than a spot of blood on her lip.

“And that blood?” he asked her gently.

“Oh, that,” Emma said dismissively. “Well, he was able to slap me before I could—”

Murray wheeled round to face the lame man, who had stopped sobbing and was crouched in a corner, watching them through terrified eyes.

“Did you hit her, Roy?” Murray demanded.

“No sir, I never hit her, of course I didn’t,” the lame man gabbled.

Murray stared at him in disgust.

“You aren’t calling the young lady a liar, are you, Roy?”

The lame man said nothing, wondering whether it was better to carry on lying or to tell the truth. In the end he shrugged, suggesting he had neither the desire nor the energy to undergo an interrogation.

“So, you hit the young lady,” the millionaire said, pointing the pistol at him.

The lame man raised his head, alarmed. “What are you doing!” he exclaimed, the blood draining from his face. “You aren’t going to shoot an unarmed man, are you?”

“I can assure you, Roy, that in other circumstances I would never do such a thing,” the millionaire replied in a calm voice that even contained a hint of theatrical remorse. “But I gave you my word, do you remember? I told you I’d kill you if you touched a hair on the young lady’s head. And the word of a gentleman is his bond.”

Emma turned away as the shot rang out. When she looked again, the lame man was sprawled on the floor, with what seemed to her an excessively small hole in his forehead, from which blood was beginning to seep. This was the first dead person she had ever seen, and she found it hugely disappointing.

“Forgive me, Miss Harlow,” said Murray ashamedly, “but I couldn’t live in the same world as a man who hit you.”

Emma gazed at him in silence. Murray looked back at her with a hangdog expression that almost caused her to laugh; he seemed like a child waiting to see whether he would be punished or pardoned for his latest act of mischief. Emma bit her bottom lip, and as she glanced once more at the body sprawled on the floor, she was aware of the metallic, salty taste of her own blood. That thug had slapped her, she remembered, her gorge rising. And although she had managed to fight him off and gain the upper hand, who knew what might have happened if Murray had not appeared. She gazed back at the millionaire, who was standing in the middle of the room, waiting for a word, a look, a smile, anything that would give him an inkling of what was going through her mind. Yet she herself did not know what to think. And this confused her. Normally she was able to assess any situation, for she had very clear opinions of what was right and what was wrong, and when classifying actions and people her standards brooked no modification. But now that had changed. The world seemed stripped of all sense, and she had no idea what to think about revenge killings, or about love at first sight, much less about that giant of a man, for whom only days before she had felt a contempt she was now unable to reproduce. However, to her astonishment she found that this confusion, which had turned her beliefs and principles on their head, was far from disagreeable; indeed, she found it liberating. Murray had lowered his head, pretending to examine the pistol carefully, but the sidelong glances he kept giving her to gauge her response were so obvious that Emma could feel the rage and anguish that had choked her moments before begin to dissolve, and a smile played over her lips.

“I must confess you have a very original way of wooing a lady, Mr. Murray. But I did warn you that I don’t become enamored easily,” she said, watching with amusement as the millionaire swallowed hard, waiting for her verdict. “You’ll have to make more of an effort.”

Murray grinned, waves of joy coursing through him like sweet liquor.

“I’m honored that you allow me to keep trying, Miss Harlow,” he replied gratefully.

“I think it’s time you called me Emma, without worrying you might provoke one of my annoying temper tantrums, don’t you think?”

The millionaire nodded and heaved a sigh of relief, then immediately protested: “Oh, but Miss Harlow, I mean Emma, your temper tantrums don’t bother me in the slightest. I assure you—”

“Are the others all right?” Emma interrupted, alarmed by the sounds of a struggle coming from downstairs.