Page 87 of Their Master

“The pig is caught in his own snare, eh?” He spat in Smith’s face and then flung his head back. “Cut this piece of excrement loose and then tie him up good and tight. You can roll him up in one of these rugs to carry him out. You must hurry! The two guards on the front of the house are still unaware that the servant entrance is unguarded, but they won’t be for long.”

Moira grabbed Etienne’s shoulder and he whipped around fiercely enough to send her staggering back a step.

He sneered at her, his eyes pulsing with dislike as they slid up and down her person. “Go put on decent clothing.” His lips twisted. “Or are you so happy being hisputainthat you don’t want to leave?”

“Why are you treating him this way?” she demanded, ignoring his slur—which was ironic ashewas every bit as much aputainas Moira. “We are just supposed to take him back to Paris, not—”

Etienne gave an ugly laugh, which seemed obscene coming from such an angelic looking man. “You really are stupid, Honorine. We aren’t taking himback, you fool.”

“What do you mean?”

“You will see.” He smirked and turned away.

“Wait.” Moira reached out to grab his shoulder.

Etienne spun around and his arm moved like a blur, the force of his blow knocking her to the floor.

Moira’s vision swum as she slowly pushed herself up, wiping the blood from her lip and staring at this man who was supposed to be family—who was supposed to love and care for her.

Etienne glared down at her as if she were filth.

“What did I ever do to make you hate me so much?” she asked.

“You were born,” he shot back without hesitation. He pointed to Luke’s unmoving body. “Who is this?”

Moira crawled toward the fallen man, propelled by fear. “He is just a servant here,” she answered, even though he’d been asking Victor and Morris, who were unbuckling Smith’s ankles.

“He is no danger to you,” she added when Etienne ignored her.

“He saw our faces,” Victor said. “We need to kill him.”

“No!” she shrieked. “You can’t—”

“Shut up before you alert those louts at the front door!” Etienne snarled, and then turned to Turnbull. “Whatever you are going to do; do it quickly. I am going to make sure that nobodyelsesneaks up on us.” He gestured to Moira. “If you are coming with us, you’d better cover yourself.”

“You can’t let them kill him. I won’t let you.”

Etienne reached into his overcoat and his hand came out with a revolver. “You really are stupid—it’s a good thing Marie and theComteknew better than to feed you anything but lies. Now get away from him unless you want brains all over you.” He snorted. “Which would be the only brains you’d ever have.” He pointed the gun at Luke’s head.

Moira threw herself between the pistol and Luke.

Etienne smiled and pulled back the hammer. “Two birds, one bullet, as it were.”

“You’re mad,” she gasped. “What do you think theComteand Marie will say when they find out what you’ve done.”

There was a noise behind her and Etienne’s head whipped up.

“What is going on here, we should be gone by now,” a familiar voice demanded in French.

Moira turned clumsily on her hands and knees. “Father!” she cried, remembering only when she saw his wince of disgust thatfatherwas not a name she was allowed to call him. “Etienne is threatening to kill this man—he’s just a servant.”

“He saw the two imbeciles,” Etienne explained, with a jerk of his chin toward Turnbull and his nephew.

Thibaut, the ninthComtede Blois,ignored his only surviving son as if he were an insect. His cold, slate-blue gaze slid away and settled on Smith, whom they were rolling into a carpet.

And then he did something Moira had never seen before: he smiled.

“Bring him,” he ordered in heavily accented English, snapping his fingers at the two men.

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