Page 36 of The Taking of House Westwood

He looked away, feigning as much indifference as he could manage. He pushed down the fear at the mention of his friends. Keeping a cool head was proving more difficult than he’d anticipated.

“Friends of yours, Clayton?”

He snorted, taking a sip of the wine, thankful for the slight ease the alcohol seemed to be providing for his nerves. “Perverted crusaders. They find no friends at the McClearn farmstead.”

Her eyes narrowed, watching Clayton, then she looked up at Arnaud. “Provide them whatever they require. They may stay the night if they wish.” She looked at Clayton, her eyes meeting his. “Tell the servants to make themselves available. I’m sure our traveling friars would wish to tend to their … souls.”

“Mistress.” Arnaud bowed, smirking, and quit the chamber.

They sat in silence for a moment, Clayton pondering what he might have to do if she agreed to his terms.

“I’ve thought about you. I’m not ashamed to admit it.” She reclined back, her head tipping up, eyes looking beyond him. For a moment, just for a moment, he saw her again. The woman he once knew. It was a fleeting vulnerability, a flash of something other than callous cruelty.

“Miriam.” He set down the wine. “I must leave soon. Do you agree to the exchange?”

“My husband is missing something, Clayton. He misses what you had. What you still have.”

She wasn’t going to agree. She would toy with him, make him hopeful.

Clayton moved to stand, but felt a wave of dizziness wash through him. He dropped back down into the chair, shaking his head.

“I hoped you’d visit me. Andrus is away too often. A wife has needs.” She stroked her hand over one of her thighs. The sheer fabric of the dress had fallen between her legs, outlining the shape of her sex. Clayton tore his gaze away.

“You still could, you know. He won’t be back for at least a month.”

“Miriam — Sophie.” His mouth felt like it was stuffed with wool. His tongue seemed to have swollen, his words slurred.

“Forget Sophie, Clayton. This is about us.” Her gaze flashed, and she stood, moving to stand before him.

He craned his head up to her. The light in the room seemed softer, almost fuzzy at the edges of his vision. Something was very wrong.

She knelt, laying her hands on his knees. He moved to brush them away, but his coordination was now so bad, he could barely control his hands.

“Shh,” she said, taking his hands in hers. “Just be still a moment, Clayton.”

He looked at her, his vision blurring now. “The… wine.”

She smiled at him, the glee dancing in her eyes.

Dear Gods, I’m in it now.

He tried to stand up, but his legs refused to work. He was trapped. How could he have been so stupid!

“I miss those afternoons, Clayton. Crying over your lap, your hard hands teaching me what a woman is for. I want that again.”

“Never!”

“You liked hurting me, didn’t you? Remember?” She dipped her chin, long eyelashes against her cheeks. A display of deceptive vulnerability. “And I liked being hurt. I craved it — and I still do.”

“What about your — servants?” The effort it took to form the words became more difficult by the second. His mind whirled, searching desperately for a way out of this.

“They’re fine for a diversion, now and then. Fun. But it’s not the same.” She tilted her head. “You’re stalling, aren’t you?”

He shook his head, dizziness making the room spin about him.

“Elizabeth wouldn’t do the things I did, would she? She wouldn’t let you be who you really are. I know it. I can see it in your eyes.”

“You evil w—”

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