How the hell had he found her? It was probably that stupid coachman who’d sold her out. If only the Duke had come here six hours later, she would have been gone. She’d known there was a risk that her location had been compromised, but she’d been so sick and tired, she couldn’t leave. She pretended to sleep, but thought she could feel him looking at her. He was stealthily quiet as he came into the room. A suitcase was fairly close to the door, and as he sank down on his heels next to it, ready to rifle through her things, he cast her one last glance, ensuring she was asleep.
He undid the clasp and began to pull out her belongings, tossing them onto the floor beside him. Really? How amateurish did he think she was? As if she’d leave the diary in plain sight. Assuming she’d had it. Her lies were becoming complicated.
“I do believe that I’m quite offended,” Helen said and sat bolt upright in the bed. The corset pulled her off balance, and she had to use her arms to push herself up into a sitting position. The room spun a little, indicating she was not as fully recuperated as she’d hoped.
He appeared momentarily startled, arm paused in the action of throwing a white petticoat on the ground, and then he dropped the garment, resuming his search as if she weren’t there and hadn’t spoken.
“You’re supposed to ask ‘why,’” she prompted.
He paused and sighed heavily, throwing her a dark glance from under his lashes. “Why are you offended?”
“I’m offended that you would think I’d keep something so valuable in such an obvious spot.”
His gaze narrowed. “Because you take such great pride in being a thief?” His tone was full of scorn.
She opened her mouth then closed it. “Maybe I do.” Good one, classic response. I’m a moron.
The suitcase was empty now, his hand searching the sides of the bag as though she might have hidden it in the lining. Maybe he wasn’t totally hopeless. Actually, he couldn’t be; he was here, wasn’t he? “How did you find me? What time is it?”
She threw back the covers and stood, staying close to the bed just in case she went all Victorian Lady and fainted again.
He stood, crossing his arms over his chest and watching her warily. “Couldn’t get out of your dress?”
She scowled at him. “Of course I can get out of my dress!”
He raised a brow, eyes scanning the room for the diary or places it might be hidden. “Women don’t sleep in corsets.”
She walked over to the clock on the mantel, putting distance between them. God, she was hungry. “You’re an expert on women in corsets, are you?”
He changed the subject. “Try if you would, to imagine my intense irritation when I discovered you’d left the carriage.”
Helen snorted indelicately. “I imagine your irritation was just as great as mine when you walked in the door a minute ago.” She propped one arm on the mantel, leaning against it heavily. The world slowed down, spinning a little less quickly.
“I’ve tried to reason with you, bribe you, and even be kind to you, and nothing has worked. I will not leave here without that diary.”
She tried to suppress a smirk before turning her back on him and going to the jug of water on the dresser. Helen felt as if she’d been wandering the desert for weeks she was so thirsty.
She didn’t hear him move, but suddenly his hand grabbed hers from behind, wrenching her arm up behind her back; one hard push away from dislocating her shoulder. Helen cursed herself for not knowing that he was coming up behind her. It was the exhaustion. It had to be. Should she fight him? Crack her head against his aquiline nose? She relaxed into his grip instead, letting her body press against his and deciding not to fight. Plus, she still felt like crap. She might puke. And if she did, he’d let her go then.
“Where is it?” he growled in her ear.
Helen didn’t speak, and he shook her like a rag doll. “Answer me, damn you.”
“With my accomplice, no doubt. I certainly wouldn’t keep it here,” Her heart was beating faster, adrenaline pumping through her, the sleepy fog dissipating. Thank God.
He chuckled darkly, the masculine strength of it making her breath catch. But despite his villainous words and cheap threats, she knew he wasn’t going to torture the information out of her. He was all threat and no carnage.
“You didn’t expect me to find you,” he said, his voice a low scrape of sound against her ear. She fought not to shiver. He was so angry that heat radiated off him, and his grip got tighter. When this was over, and she was a spinster living in some small village with a hundred cats and bored out of her damned mind, she would think of the Duke and all the naughty things he’d never do to her, and she just knew that him holding her like this would feature in many a fantasy: his front pressed against her back, gripping her securely, his lips next to her ear and his low, almost panting growl vibrating through her.
“Do you want to start with an easier question? Tell me what you did to Roland Black. Why did you faint after you hurt him?” He jerked her arm up an inch, and the pain made her yelp. She gasped. His grip faltered, as though he wanted to let her go, as though it hurt him to hurt her. His adjusted his grip, recommitting to forcing the information from her.
“I didn’t do anything!”
“Don’t be coy.”
The joint where her shoulder met her upper arm was screaming at her. Where she was from, this was like foreplay, but she just knew this was killing him. It wasn’t in him to hurt her. It was time to use that to her advantage. “I actually am breakable; perhaps you could be a little more gentle?” she said angrily. Crap, she should’ve sounded weak like all the other women from this time. Helen let out a whimper.
He shoved her away from him with a snarl and she stumbled forward, catching herself on a small ottoman a few feet away. Her arm was numb from where he’d held it and she tried to shake the feeling out. He was pacing furiously, an odd expression on his face. He stopped abruptly as if a great truth had come to him, then he took two large steps towards her, his expression murderous.
“Damn you for this. I threaten you and get nothing. I hurt you and get nothing. I want that diary, and I want to know what you did to Black, and you’re going to tell me,” he said, the words hoarse. He had closed the distance between them, and there was something oddly heartbreaking about seeing him up close. He looked tired, his face pale. Had he been up all night looking for her, and thinking about what he would be willing to do when he found her?
It seemed so odd to her that his identity was so tied up in rules. If he hurt her, he would not know himself. That was the struggle that she saw on his face.
And it made him weak.
The Nazis got shit done because they didn’t care about right or wrong, they cared about the end result. She was here to get things done. And if she had to examine the cost of her actions, she would do it after the event rather than before. Act first, repent later.
Helen did what she was told. Maybe that kept things simple for her. But it was clear that he didn’t move without thinking through the consequences. He didn’t act without knowing the outcome. And then he had to take those outcomes and reconcile them with his worldview of himself. It sounded exhausting. And it meant that he’d already lost.
She had to end this. Knock him unconscious and get out of here. He still didn’t know how strong she was, that he was about to find out.
“I saved you last night. Got you out of that ball, was taking you to safety, and you left!” The words were near a shout. “You lied to me once again. You promised to give me the diary, and you were never going to.”
She shook her head in denial, but feared it wasn’t terribly convincing. There was something so appealing about his steadfastness, his unwavering desire to be...honorable. No it’s not, it’s pathetic. Get a hold of yourself.
He took a deep breath, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes as though his head hurt. Edward chuckled darkly. “This may seem incomprehensible to you, but I have a reputation as being a cold and frightening
man. Debutantes have been known to break out in hives when I speak to them. In the House of Lords, I am a force to be reckoned with.” He looked at her face, examining every feature as if the pieces of her soul were words written there, and he could learn her if only he kept reading. He swallowed. “I kept waiting, thinking that would have an impact upon you. That you would realize…” he actually smiled as if he knew how ridiculous what he was saying was, “who I am. But you don’t care who I am. You don’t feel the need to impress me; you will not bow or scrape. And I’m not a man who can or would beat submission into you.”
That’s why you lose.
He put his hands on his hips, looking down at the ground, visibly pulling himself together. “But I am a man who is smart.” His expression changed, becoming oddly confident.
A prickling fear raised the hair on her arms.
“What did you do?” she whispered.
“I’m meeting Colchester this evening, and I’m going to buy the damned design from him. Whatever he wants, I’ll pay it. And then you’re going to give me the diary because I will have the one thing you want.”
“You can’t,” she gasped. That wasn’t right, he couldn’t buy the plans and then blackmail her!
He crossed his arms. “I can. And I can outbid you.” He was relentless, banked fury in every line of his body. “Now I’m calling your bluff, do you see? Bring me the diary tonight and you can have your blasted plans.” He turned his back on her, walking towards the door. “Come find me tomorrow…any time you like since I know you abhor regular calling hours, and we’ll resolve this for good, shall we?”
She licked her lips, felt her heart thundering in her veins. How was this getting fucked up so fast? He couldn’t go to Colchester. She couldn’t let him.
With a snarl, Helen lunged forward, his eyes widening in surprise as she threw herself at him, taking them both to the ground. He fell back with an oomph, back slamming hard into the wall. “Bloody hell!” he said, almost a shout. He pushed her away but she clung on, wrapping her foot around his ankle and pulling him off balance. He wasn’t fighting her, wasn’t doing a damned thing to defend himself. They fell forward, the ground rushing up to meet them and Edward shifted, tried to land first and cushion the blow, his body absorbing the impact as they landed on the carpet. He tried to roll her over, wanting to pin her down. Helen locked every muscle she had, setting her balance so that he had no traction. He frowned at her strength. Thank you, Uncle Sam..
He made a sound of anger, half between a yell and a growl, then pushed against her with all his strength, overpowering her so that she fell off him, and he rolled on top of her, grabbing her wrists in his hands and pinning her to the ground. He leaned over her, panting, his large hands bruising her wrists as he restrained her.
Helen kicked at him hard, aiming for the family jewels. Her leg was trapped under layers of fabric, her kick gaining no momentum. God damn these clothes! Her breathing was labored, and it was hard to move with the corset biting into her flesh. She couldn’t even head-butt him, unable to crunch up and meet his face. She closed her eyes, accessing that part of her that was unnatural, that had been tinkered with by scientists, and that would render him unconscious. It was second nature to her, as easy as breathing, a weapon she relied upon.
She wanted to blast him with her strength, make him feel like he’d hit an electric fence and knock him out, but she was weak. So pathetically weak after using her power last night, and not having any food in her system to help rebuild her strength. She hadn’t been the same since she had come back in time, the trip having taken its toll on her strength and abilities.
His gaze widened, and he looked at her wrists in shock, undoubtedly feeling the heat of her power as it slowly began to build. It shouldn’t be slow, but a blast, that struck like lightning. This was like someone had turned on the stove and was getting ready to boil a kettle of water for tea. The last thing she heard was him saying, “Oh, for the love of—” then the side of her face exploded with pain as he hit her, the world going dark. Again.
Chapter 17
Edward sat back, releasing Helen, his hands burning. Had he really hit her and knocked her unconscious? He stood up slowly, breathing heavily, looking down at the woman on the floor in disbelief. She’d been so strong. And she’d burned him. No matter how impossible it seemed, she’d done it. He went to the wash basin, poured cold water from a jug into the porcelain bowl and soaked his hands. A few moments ticked by, his blackmailer still unconscious on the floor. He dried his hands on a clean towel, then went back to her belongings, taking out a scarf and a petticoat and setting them next to her still form. The scarf was a dark-blue silk, heavy and luxurious as it slid through his hands. He shifted her gently—undoubtedly more gently than she deserved—and then tied her hands behind her back.
Could she burn through these too? Was she impervious to fire? It’s impossible. No one could do what she did. And yet she’d done it, so what did that mean? Who was she? He ripped the petticoat into strips, looking at her every time the fabric made a tearing sound, knowing she’d wake up soon. At least, he hoped she would. Edward hadn’t known how hard to hit her. But he’d seen her face, saw the change that came over her when she realized that he intended to go to Colchester. She’d looked…resolved.
Would she have killed him?
Could she have done it? Here he was having a devil of a time bringing himself to hit her, and yet she might have killed him without a second thought. Looking at her now, so peaceful in sleep, her feminine features relaxed, her dark hair spread out behind her like a cloud, he couldn’t imagine that someone so dainty could be so…evil.
Although that word seemed a little excessive.
Perhaps criminal was more accurate.
He tied her feet together and hauled her up off the floor, depositing her into a chair. Her head lolled to the side, her cheek already turning red and beginning to swell.
Edward sat down on the bed, putting his head in his hands as thoughts ricocheted through him. He’d hit her. Shame and anger coursed through him, disgust at himself and her for bringing him to this level. She had left him with no alternative, and even knowing that, he still felt responsible. As if he could have done something else—anything else—besides punch her in the face.
It’s what my father would have done. Long before now. His father would have throttled her the moment she walked into his library demanding money. Everyone had experienced his father’s fury. Casting back to his earliest memories—always a very bad idea—what he remembered was his father shouting—loud enough and angry enough to make the whole world tremble—and his mother weeping.
And after his father died, he’d wanted to tell his mother that she was safe, that he was nothing like his monstrous sire. That fear and pain were things they’d buried with him when they put him in the coldest, darkest ground.
No one would live in fear of Edward’s drunken violence as they had his father’s.
But he’d never said it aloud. How did one say something so ridiculous?
He had tried to set an example instead, telling his mother through his actions that he wasn’t like his father. Now he’d hit a woman.
And what did that make him? He stood, suddenly feeling exhausted, pain like acid filling his chest, and he went back to her things, looking in every drawer, under her pillow, under the bed, anywhere he could think of where she might stash that diary. He didn’t find it.
Her head rolled to the side, and her brow creased as she awoke. He stood up, moving to the ottoman before the chair, so close to her that his knees pressed against her skirt.
She didn’t open her eyes. He watched her, searching for the smallest sign that she was conscious, then stared at her simply because he could. A guilty pleasure.
Her chest rose and fell as if she were simply sleeping, her breasts pushing against the corset. Edward scrubbed his jaw with his hand, the prickling of his beard irksome. He needed to shave. He needed a bath. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes
, and he felt tired to the bone.
The sooner she was out of his life the better.
She made a noise and licked the corner of her mouth, dabbing at a spot of blood where his signet ring had broken her soft skin. Edward realized his hands were shaking. When had that started? He’d made her bleed. He wanted to kiss that spot better, wipe away the hurt with his lips and tongue, get down on his knees and apologize with his hands and body.
I hurt her. A rational part of his brain knew he was being ridiculous. Maybe even knew that he had no other choice, perhaps even that there was never going to be any other choice. She was the antithesis of him and how he lived his life. She was temptation, vice and violence; it was as if she were every sin, and he was weak. She lured, and he followed. Wasn’t that how he’d gotten into this mess?
The stress and anxiety of being around her, of vacillating between wanting to choke her and wanting to…no, he didn’t want anything else from her. He wanted her out of his life. To forget he’d ever seen her. Continue with his deadly boring life and his fiancée who never smiled; his mother who was so cold she made the Arctic look tropical. That was what he wanted. Well, it was what he should want.
Sometimes she stared at him so intensely, her gaze so warm that he had to look away, break that connection between them. She looked at him as if she wanted to devour him; as if she wondered what it would be like if he devoured her in return.
And wasn’t it fitting that she was named Helen. In Odysseus, Homer said that Helen circled the Trojan Horse three times, tormenting the men inside by sounding like their lost loves: all that they had left behind. The most beautiful woman; a woman worthy of starting a war. He felt his lips quirk down at the idea. She was beautiful; she was a torture, for him, the way she looked at him, how she made him feel—hot blooded, almost primal. Oh yes, he didn’t know whether he wanted to choke her or…or grab her, throw her skirts up and bury himself inside of her; claim her in some barbaric display of savagery.
A Lady Out of Time (Helen Foster) Page 11