Page 106 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“You didn’t disembark at Rosehaven House,” he said, his voice curdling with rage. “You went tohishouse. Steele’s.” He spat out his name as though it were something vile. “You let him have his way with you.”
I didn’t honor that remark with an answer.
“You think I’d marry a woman who’s already soiled?” he hissed. “Spoiled goods. Just like the gutter rats at St. Agnes.”
I raised my chin. “You’re wrong about me. And Marie. And Elsie.”
He laughed, sharp and cruel. “You’re all the same in the end. Eager to spread your legs for a man.”
I glanced toward the door, gauging distance, speed, options. I could distract him. Or stall him. Until help arrived. Who was I fooling? No one knew where I was. We were on our own.
The silence stretched between us, while my heart pounded hard enough to rattle my ribs, while I considered what I needed to do.
He watched me, eyes gleaming, drunk on control. He thought he’d won. He thought I was helpless.
He was wrong.
He hadn’t searched me. My reticule still hung from my wrist. A distraction would work. And I knew just how to do it.
“You’re wrong about Steele,” I said defiantly. “He would never dishonor me.”
“You don’t know men.”
“Maybe so. But I know him. He’s honorable and true and honest. Everything you are not.”
“How dare you call me dishonorable?” He was practically foaming from the mouth, so angry was he.
“How could I not? You killed a woman. You’re holding another two hostage—one of whom is heavy with child.” I pointed to Marie, and his gaze bounced to her.
I plunged my hand inside my reticule, pulled out the pistol, and pointed it right at him. “What a sad, little man you are.”
His smile vanished. “Don’t.”
“Let us go. Now.”
He lunged.
As his arm knocked mine sideways, the pistol fired—the sound shattering the air like lightning splitting stone.
My ears rang. My hands trembled. For one terrible moment, I didn’t know who’d been hit.
But then his eyes rolled back, and he dropped face up like a stone. Blood bloomed across his thigh in a slow, horrible spread. He groaned—deep and guttural—clutching at the wound with both hands.
“You stupid little—” he rasped, eyes glassy with shock. “You’ve no idea what you’ve done.” Pain etched itself into every line of his face. He writhed once, stilled.
The door exploded open.
Steele and another man barreled into the room, weapons drawn.
“Rosalynd!” Steele’s voice rang out, his gaze locking onto me before flicking to the crumpled figure of Nathaniel Vale. In a breath, he assessed the scene—Vale bleeding but down, the pistol still clutched in my trembling hand.
In three long strides, he reached me and caught me by the shoulders. “Are you hurt?”
I shook my head, unable to speak, the shock catching hard in my throat.
His gaze dropped to the pistol. “May I?” he asked gently.
I nodded, and he eased it from my grasp, his touch warm and steady. As soon as it left my hand, my arm fell to my side like a marionette with its strings cut.
