Page 52 of Sinfully Mine
“You use your right hand to compose letters, do you not?”
Hester nodded mutely.
“Good. I don’t want to be surprised. Sinclair is left-handed. I won’t make that mistake again. Now,” Martin’s eyes filled with concern. “I won’t break your right wrist,but—” he took her other hand. “I might snap your left if you don’t do as you’re told. I understand a broken wrist is painful.” Another crazed bit of laughter bubbled out of him. “Now, come here.” Pulling Hester to the corner of the room, he pushed her towards the small desk in the corner.
Hester’s pulse thumped painfully. She was more afraid than she’d ever been in her life.
“You do have some writing paper in there, don’t you?” He nodded at the desk. “Sinclair has taken over your study, so I assume you tend to your correspondence here instead. Did you actually give him permission to go through your account books?”
“It wasyououtside the study that night.” Martin had been sneaking about Blackwood Heath. Spying on them.
“You act as if I don’t get my hands dirty.” Another roll of his eyes. “Honestly, Hester. Of course, it was me. But I wasn’t trying to kill him, necessarily, only hoping to knock him unconscious. I would have poured brandy all over him and made it look as if he’d run into the wall. A well placed blow to the head and a person can bleed to death. That’s what happened to my father.”
Hester gripped the edge of the desk to keep from toppling over. Martin’s father had died from a fall down the stairs. He’d hit his head and—
Oh, Dear god.
“I did adore the sight of you running out to him like an angel of mercy.” His breath fanned her cheek. “I could see right through your nightgown.”
Hand shaking, Hester opened the desk and took out a piece of paper, discreetly sliding a letter opener into her sleeve. Her mouth went dry as she picked up a pen. Martin had likely murdered his father. He’d killed his wife. There was no telling what he would do to Mrs. Ebersole or poor Mary.
“Put the letter opener back, darling Hester. Do you think I’m an idiot?” He grabbed her wrist and shook the letter opener free. “I might use this to stab the first person I come across. Or one of your beloved cows.”
“No, Martin.” A vision of Tabby, bloodied and dead in the barn, flashed before her. “I’m—sorry. It is just that you’re frightening me.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and Hester struggled not to push him away in disgust. “I know I can be excitable at times. I apologize. Now, you will write exactly what I tell you, Hester darling.”
Her skin chilled at the endearment.
“The first time I saw the sunlight strike your hair,” he murmured, “Was akin to watching a flame come to life. I knew then you were meant to be mine, Hester darling.” His voice hardened. “I didn’t want to marry Ellie, you know. My father forced me into it.”
Martin Godwick, wealthy, handsome, and brilliant was once the most sought-after bachelors in Horncastle. He was a highly respected solicitor, as his father had been. Considered to be one of the most morally upstanding gentlemen in all of Lincolnshire.
And he was amurderer.
How had no one seen the madness lurking behind the cool blue of his eyes?
Martin cleared his throat and began to dictate:
“Mrs. Ebersole,
I’ve found that I need a respite from my duties to Blackbird Heath. The last few years, beginning with the death of my beloved husband, have left me with a desire to collect my thoughts in private. I’ve gone to Lincoln to enjoy myself for a few days. Do not be alarmed at my absence. You may reach me at the Obergon Hotel. I’ll return at the end of the week.”
The note was vague even with the mention of a hotel which Hester was certain didn’t exist. Mrs. Ebersole wouldneverassume Hester would go off on her own to visit Lincoln on some sort of holiday. Not with half the sugar beets still in the field. Or all of Hester’s things upstairs. But Hester mentioned none of that to Martin. He’d already hurt Mary’s sister for no other reason than to clear the house so he could—
Hester looked at the note she’d just written, dread sinking into her bones.
Martin was taking her somewhere.
“Off we go.” He pulled her up by the elbow and took her arm as if they were about to promenade. “My horse is outside.”
She went with him, numb but with the hope that Mrs. Ebersole would realize that the letter was a pretext. Or perhaps Dobbins would. If Drew were here, he would see the lies written in her hand.
Yes, but he isn’t here.
“My pistol is loaded and in my pocket. I don’t expect we’ll see anyone, but if we do, I’ll shoot them if you do more than smile. Understand, darling Hester?” He lifted her into the saddle and then climbed up behind her.
“Where are we going?”
