Page 12 of Wickedly Yours
Wincing at the vulgar language, she shot back. “If your skill is so great, I wonder Jemma fled you at the first opportunity. How odd.”
Hissing with anger, Corbett’s hands pulled at the pins holding her hair, savagely undoing the tight bun at the base of her neck. The heavy mass twisted and writhed to fall over her shoulders.
“You’ve lovely hair, Arabella.” Twisting the strands around his fingers he pulled her head back and Arabella barely had time to struggle before a wet, drunken kiss was pressed to her mouth.
Her teeth tore into his lip until she tasted blood.
“Bitch!” Corbett released her hair to grab a napkin from the table to blot his lip. “I was going to be gentle.” The hand circling her neck tightened. “But now I see there’s no need. You are the type of woman who requires a firm hand. I will enjoy bringing you to heel.”
Arabella wheezed, struggling to breathe as she lost her grip on the fork. Her arms swung in an arc across the table, searching for her weapon. Finally, she felt the stab of the tines against her fingers. Grasping the fork in one hand, she clawed against Corbett with the other. She swung the fork up and brought it down with as much force as possible against his neck, praying she’d hit an artery. Or possibly an eye. The fork jarred in her hand, sinking into his skin, just as he ripped the back of her gown away.
He shrieked in pain. “God damn you, Arabella!”
8
Rowan ran down the corridor. The man’s voice could only be Corbett’s which meant Arabella was here, somewhere. He stood still, his senses alert as he waited for Corbett to give away their location.
A thud, then a woman’s muffled cry came from behind a door to his left.
Without another thought, Rowan slammed his shoulder against the warped wood. The door creaked but didn’t open. Raising his foot, he kicked hard, the rusty lock falling free and the door opened.
As he stormed the room, Rowan silently thanked Lord Kilmaire for impressing on him the importance of being armed to the teeth, gentleman or not. Rowan was already a crack shot and didn’t embarrass himself with a sword. But under Kilmaire’s direction, Rowan had learned how to properly throw a knife. A large blade was even now tucked securely in his right boot just in case. He pulled his pistol from his coat. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than shooting Corbett between the eyes.
“Jesus,” the word left his lips as he viewed the scene in the room.
Arabella flailed like a wild animal against Corbett, her dark hair spinning in a tangled mass over her shoulders. Her dress was ripped down the back, the material opening to reveal the startling bright red of her chemise.
Corbett was holding her by the arm, viciously shaking her. She spun, twisting and contorting in an effort to free herself. Her face turned towards the open door. Arabella ceased her struggle, shock stamped on her features. Blood dribbled from her split lip and the red marks of Corbett’s fingers stood out against the pale skin of her neck.
“Lord Malden?” Her sable brows knit together in confusion.
“Get your hands off of her.” The sight of Corbett’s hands on Arabella incensed Rowan. He’d never wanted to kill a man so badly.
Corbett caught sight of Rowan before tossing Arabella to the floor. A fork protruded from his neck, a trickle of blood spilling from the wound.
Good girl.
“Arabella,” Rowan didn’t take his eyes off of Corbett. The man was practically frothing at the mouth like a lunatic. “Get behind me.”
Arabella stared at him, blinking like a confused owl.
“Move, Arabella.” His hands clutched the pistol as she finally heeded him, scuttling like a crab across the floor.
The fork in Corbett’s neck bobbed as he twisted to look at Rowan.
“Who the bloody hell are you?”
* * *
A coppery tastefilled her mouth as she swiped at the blood from her split lip. The entire side of her face throbbed from Corbett’s harsh treatment. But had she hit her head? She must be hallucinating because Lord Malden, her sister-in-law Jemma’s cousin and member of the same traitorous family stood before her, in the middle of the room, a pistol pointed at Corbett. Lord Malden and she were not friends. He rarely spoke to her unless it was to say something annoying. A well-known rake, he was handsome and amusing, the perfect heir to the Earl of Marsh, Jemma’s uncle. And he didn’t like Arabella. Not one bit.
What was he doing here?
He stood like a shield between she and Corbett, his large body tensed in a protective stance. Malden was travel stained, his once fine clothes rumpled and his expensive boots covered with muck. Dark brown hair curled around his ears and collar from the rain. And he smelled distinctly of horse.
It was at thismostinappropriate of moments, as she took in Malden, that something very dark and wicked stirred in Arabella. The feeling, given the current situation, was completely unwarranted.
“Get out.” Corbett’s words slurred. “She’smyheiress. You’ll have to find your own. This is none of your bloody affair, whoever you are. My wife is prone to fits. I’ll likely have her committed.” He shot Arabella an evil leer.
