Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(17)

“I understand an Englishwoman arrived in the village this morning.”

Silence filled the room, interrupted only by her quick intake of breath. She buried her face in her hands, dread heavy in her chest that the stranger had heard her.

“Indeed,” Bertram finally responded, his voice small, a quivering thread on the air. “I hadn’t known.”

“I thought you might have had occasion to speak with her.”

“And why would you think that?”

Her scalp tingled with warning.

“Aside of being a fellow countrywoman…she is your wife, your grace.” The stranger’s rough Scottish burr stressed the formal address, rolling the syllables for emphasis.

Astrid felt her eyes grow large. Her fingers tightened against her face, digging into the soft flesh of her cheeks as if she could stifle any sound from escaping.

“Wife?” Bertram laughed, the sound brittle. “I’m not married.” His laughter stretched thin. “Not yet any rate.”

“Cease your lies. My man’s been watching your room all night. I told him to come for me should she call on you. And she did. That’s all the proof I need. That and the fear I see in your eyes now.”

Astrid bit her knuckle, bewildered at the identity of this man, at how he had come to find out Bertram’s true identity…and hers. Could he be the one who lured her to Scotland with the letter?

“No, you don’t understand,” Bertram argued. “Let me explain!”

Astrid watched the stranger’s boots slide to a stop directly in front of Bertram’s satin slippers.

“Did you think to keep such a thing from me?”

Bertram protested, his words garbled and choked.

“I warned you when we first met that I’m not a man to trifle with.”

“Of course,” Bertram babbled, “I would never—no!”

Astrid jerked at Bertram’s panicked cry. A fist tightened around her heart at the sound of bone crunching bone, no doubt a fist meeting with Bertram’s face.

“Taste justice,” the stranger growled.

A heavy whack filled her ears. Bertram’s feet staggered several steps.

She flattened her palms over the grimy floor, the tips of her fingers numb as they tunneled into the floor.

She watched in silence as two sets of feet danced and strained toward each other in struggle.

Another whack shook the air, followed by Bertram’s pained grunt. Suddenly he fell back, his dressing gown flying at his bare ankles.

And then there was another sound.

Goose bumps feathered her flesh as a deep crack rent the air, like a melon splitting in half.

A thick, choking silence followed.

Bertram dropped with a loud thud to the floor, the sound like that of a sack of grain falling to the ground. Not a body. Not a man. Not a life.

Her husband lay inches away at the foot of the hearth, lips parted as though on the verge of speech, so close she could see the faint spittle on his lip.

Breathing hard, she squeezed her eyes shut as if she could escape the horrid reality of it all. She pressed her hands deeper against the floor to still their trembling but it was useless. Reopening her eyes, she stared, mouth widening on a silent scream.

Horrified, she stared into his eyes, watching the blue darken to night, watching the life ebb away and vanish to nothing.

Blood trickled from a deep gash along his temple, the wound telling its tale. Either deliberately or accidentally, he was dead, his head crushed.

Chapter 7
A hand filled Astrid’s line of vision, broad and masculine, sprinkled with black hairs. She jerked, almost as if she feared it would swoop beneath the bed and snatch her from her hiding place.

Instead of reaching for her, the hand brushed the side of Bertram’s neck. After several moments, a soft grunt drifted down to where she huddled beneath the bed.

The room’s other occupant moved away. Her eyes remained fixed on the blood marring the pale skin of Bertram’s face, so dark, nearly black. Its copper scent reached out to her, filling her nostrils.

Her gaze followed the boots as they moved about the room, stopping briefly before the dresser.

Her heart hammered in her chest, and she issued a silent prayer that the thunderous sound reached only her ears.

He turned from the dresser, the toes of his boots facing forward, in the direction of the bed. For a panicked moment, she feared she had somehow given herself away. Made a noise.

Then those dark boots turned and exited the room, his footfalls hard and sure on the wood floor. No remorse. No regret for the life taken.

She remained where she was for a long moment, her breath coming fast and ragged as she stared at Bertram, blood seeping profusely from his head, running to the floor in a dark river, silent as the flow of wind outside the window. The blood seemed a living thing, sweeping toward her.

With a strangled cry, she slid out from beneath the opposite side of the bed and rose to her feet, wiping her grimy hands on her skirt. She came around and crouched over the body of the man she had sought, the man that she had, in the darkest shame of her soul, wished dead on more than one occasion.

She reached out a trembling hand and touched his neck as his killer had done.

Nothing. No steady thrum of life, not even the barest thread. Dropping her hand as though burned, she rose, freezing when she caught sight of the blood staining the hem of her gown. She grabbed fistfuls of her skirt and shook fiercely as if she could shake off the stain like so many crawling spiders.