Page 35 of The Taking of House Westwood

“Would you like to see our Sophie?” She poured a deep red wine into two gold-leafed cups, handing one to Clayton before returning to her chaise.

“I would be happy to show her to you. To show you she’s safe.” The confident lilt was back in her voice, and the tension steeled back into him once more.

“No.”

“No? What kind of father are you?” Her smile mocked him. “To journey all this way, and turn her aside? She’ll hate you for it when I tell her.”

“You’ll tell her nothing.”

“Oh? Is that so?” She stirred a long finger in the dark wine. “What makes you think I can’t do just exactly that?”

“Because, you’ll have me. You’ll accept the exchange.”

She was quiet for a short while, Clayton’s heartbeat loud in his ears. He hadn’t expected her to even consider it, really. Yet, what if she did? Could he go through with it? Subject himself to her? He grimaced, staring into the wine in his cup.

“How shall I have you, Clayton? Naked, in chains at the foot of my bed? In the stocks outside for the villagers to toy with you? Watch them pelt your spanked ass with their refuse?”

Chills ran down his spine; this wasn’t going as he’d planned. Still, even if this did come to pass, Sophie would be safe. He’d do anything to save her. He had no choice. Isaac and Owen would just have to improvise. He hoped they’d see the situation and know what to do. The only thing that mattered was getting his daughter free. He’d spend an eternity moldering in Miriam’s dungeon if that’s what it took.

“Do you remember what you used to do to me when I was late from my afternoon rides?”

He gulped, looking up. What was she doing? “We’re wasting time, Miriam.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What is your hurry? You’ll stay here as long as I will it. We have as much time as I want.”

His fingers tightened around his cup, and he took a drag from the wine, seeking to remedy his suddenly dry mouth.

“Well, Clayton?”

“I do. What of it? It was eons ago as far as I’m concerned.”

She propped her elbow on the end of the rich chaise. “I think you lie. You remember everything. You think of it often, don’t you?”

He laughed, sneering. “You’re flattering yourself.”

“Am I now? Do you ever wake at night, covered in sweat, that big cock of yours in your fist? Do you think of how my lips felt on it? How my eyes watered as you forced my throat?”

He lowered his head, a breath blowing past his lips. “Another time, Miriam. That wasn’t you. That woman is dead.”

“No, Clayton. Your wife is dead. This woman is very much alive.”

His gaze snapped up, his eyes blazing. “Don’t you speak of her, Miriam. Her torment at your hands is over.”

She grinned. “Pity that. I so enjoyed her jealous protectiveness. Foolish, though it was, I found it charming actually.”

He had to change the subject. This was too close. He felt the burning pain of his lost love fire in his chest. Hearing Miriam speak of her was like having the scab of the old wound clawed open again.

There was a knock at the door, and Miriam’s expression darkened. “Come.”

Her overseer Arnaud stepped inside, stealing a cool glance at him. He was a snake, a perverted coward. Perfectly suited for serving the now twisted soul that had at one time been Lady Miriam Westwood, a woman Clayton had once cared very much about.”

“Our scouts report mendicants have been spotted on the road south of Westwood.”

“And?” She swirled the wine in her cup, her lips a thin line of irritation.

“It is likely they will request accommodation, Mistress.”

“They always seem to, don’t they?” Miriam murmured, flicking a cool glance at Clayton.

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