Page 37 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
In a fury, she glared.
He let her go.
Clothed in dignity and exuding offense, she left the room. Behind her, she heard the murmur of voices, the general rise of surprised, shocked and scintillated conversation, then Phoebe saying, “Can’t she speak? She didn’t tell me she couldn’t speak. Why didn’t she tell me?”
Merida hoped to escape into her room before Benedict caught up with her. She inserted her key into the lock and turned it. No problem. She tried to input her code into the keypad. She got it wrong. She tried again.
Benedict tapped her shoulder.
She thumped her head on the door, then faced him.
He held up his hands, palms out. “I’m sorry I held you. I’ve been practicing sign language, reading it and speaking it, but I’m slow and I couldn’t keep up and you were… I’m not used to anyone swearing at me.”
She thought about it, then nodded a grudging acceptance. Again she signed, “Why are you here?”
“Is sheer lust not a good enough reason?”
“For years?” Every gesture was emphatic. “With this woman who is so much older than your usual paramours?”
He sighed as if he didn’t quite know what to say. “The thing is—I feel like I’ve known you forever.”
No. “No! You don’t know me. Go away and leave me alone.”
“I can’t. I tried to forget you, but there’s something between us.”
Yes. There was so much between them. Love. Lust. Joy. Betrayal.Betrayal on a cosmic level.
She wanted to grab him, shake him, demand he explain himself… pick up a knife and stick it in his chest, hurt him as he had hurt her.
“What?” he asked. “Tell me what it is.”
God. She would so love to tell him what it was. She would love to hear him deny, grovel, be shocked and appalled.
He would be lying, but she would love it anyway.
Nine years of servitude, and they were all Benedict’s fault. The explosion, the horror of waking and discovering she was broken in face and body… and discovering, also, she could be repaired… for a price, and that price was her freedom. Nine years spent knowing shehadsigned Nauplius Brassard’s draconian contract, that itwasher name on the dotted line, and learning all too painfully that Nauplius had no pity, no compassion, and escape, physically or mentally, was impossible.
The front door slammed open.
Merida’s and Benedict’s heads swiveled to look.
Dawkins and Elsa Cipre stood in the entry.
Dear God, they were still at the B and B. Was Merida cursed?
Dawkins looked indignant. Elsa looked disheveled, or maybe it was simply another one of her odd outfits.
Dawkins proclaimed, “That wave came right at me. Right at me, Elsa!”
Elsa brushed at his jacket. “Dear, surely you can’t believe the ocean conspired to rob you of your dignity. That simply doesn’t make sense.”
“Are you saying I’m not sensible?”
Elsa struggled for words, then caught sight of Benedict and Merida frozen and staring. She seized on them like the diversion they were. “Darling, look! It’s Merida and… and the young man from the ship!”
Dawkins turned to his wife and in an accusing voice said, “So much for your theory that Merida is pining for Nauplius. They must have made an assignation.”
Merida shook her head and spelled,No. No. No.
