Page 65 of Disciplined by the Duke
Marcus.He was so steady. So constant. Everything about him spoke of strength and discipline. His unyielding body. The small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and lips that told of his dedication to duty, his struggle to live a life of honor.
And she knew what she had to do.
Or what she couldn’t do. The string holding the letter to her thigh dug into her flesh, a harsh reminder of the choice she was making. It was the right one.
The decision made, a measure of peace descended on her like a warm mantle. She wouldn’t risk the lives of many men, couldn’t betray her country. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use the letter in another way.
She wet her lips. “I took the letter from the duke,” she told the earl. “And I put it someplace safe.”
He bolted to his feet, palms planted to the top of his desk. “Safe?” The word cut through the air like a knife.
“Yes.” Plucking a glass ball off the shelf, she stared at the swirls of blue and green that cut through the clear orb. She tossed it lightly between her two hands, avoiding his glare. “Safe. Once my sister is out of prison, I’ll tell you where it is.” Lying to men like the earl no longer bothered her. She would have no twinges of conscience when she sent the letter back to Marcus, along with a letter detailing Westmore’s involvement. A letter she would send once she and her sister were safely on the Continent.
The earl circled the desk and leaned back against it, crossed his arms. “I see. So you hope to control our arrangement. Make things run according to your plan?”
The glass ball was heavy in her hand, solid, comforting. Something for her hands to distract themselves with. “I have the letter. It would seem that I now hold the position of power.” She tipped her chin up, willing him to think her tougher than she was.
“So it would seem.” A pulse throbbed at his temple. “But how do I know you actually found the letter? You could be coming to me now as a bluff. I would need some proof it’s actually in your possession.”
She strolled to a wingback chair, resting one hand on its back. The blasted letter scraped across her skin. She gave him her most charming smile. “That is proof I cannot give without revealing its location.” She could tell him some of its contents, but if Westmore learned she had read it he wouldn’t let her leave his house alive. “You will have to trust me.”
She shifted on her feet, and prayed her plan would work. If he believed her, her sister might be released as soon as tomorrow. He watched her, unblinking. Time seemed to pause, and she held her breath, waiting.
“I believe you,” he finally said. She released a shaky breath, the muscles in her neck loosening. “Unfortunately for you.” The relief flooding her body abruptly dissipated. He was a step ahead of her, dangerously close to a checkmate she couldn’t see.
“Why is that unfortunate for me?”
He eased off the desk and stalked towards her. She circled around, keeping the chair between them. Baring his teeth, he said, “Since I believe you do possess the letter, I will stop at nothing to make you tell me. It’s much easier than you might think.” He smirked. “Especially with women.”
“I won’t tell you until my sister is free.” Her feet stumbled over the edge of the carpet. “I don’t care what you do to me.”
He laughed, genuine amusement threading through his chuckles. “The hubris!” Smiling down at her, he stepped right. “Or the naïveté. My dear, after what I do to you, you’ll be begging to take me to the letter.” He darted left and grabbed her arm, his fingers bruising her flesh. “You’ll be screaming for mercy in under five minutes.”
He dragged her to the desk and opened the top drawer. A three-inch blade attached to a gold handle shimmered into view. Acting on instinct, Liz slammed her hip into the drawer as he reached in, smashing his hand between it and the desk. He swore loudly, and pushed her away. She fell, hard, her jaw hitting the carpeted floor.
Westmore cradled his injured hand to his chest, towering over her. “You stupid bitch.” He drew back his leg, and Liz curled into a ball. The blow struck her in the hip, painful but not debilitating. It got her scrambling to her feet. He wrapped his good hand around her throat, slammed her into the wall. “I will cut you to ribbons,” he hissed. His hand tightened. “Three slices across this pretty face and you’ll tell me exactly where my letter is. By the tenth, you’ll beg me to kill you.”
She clawed at his fingers with her free hand, dark spots dancing before her eyes. The hand that held the glass orb tapped uselessly against the wall. The ball. Damn, she was stupid. Shoring up her waning strength, she swung her hand and caught him in the temple, the ball of glass leaving a small indentation in his skin.
Westmore stumbled to one knee, his nails scraping from her neck down her chest on his way down. The events of the past year flashed before her eyes. The tasks he’d sent her on. The deceptions and humiliations.
Her betrayal of Marcus.
Rage coursed through her veins along with a spurt of energy. When he lifted his head, eyes cloudy with confusion, she didn’t hesitate to bring the orb down again. He fell face-first on his Aubusson rug, a trickle of blood trailing down his forehead.
Liz’s chest heaved, each breath clawing past the abused tissues of her throat. After ten seconds of staring disbelieving at what she’d done, the shaking began. Her body trembled so violently she lost her grasp on the ball, dropping it on the rug next to Westmore. Had she killed him? He had turned her into so many dishonorable things that year, spy and thief; was she also now a murderer?
She pressed her palm to her mouth, her moan breaking the stillness of the room. Backing away, Liz fell to her knees. Leveling her gaze on his back, she held her breath until she saw the slight rise and fall of his coat. He lived.
A tear rolled down her cheek and dropped to the floor. She raised her hand. Both sides of her face were wet. She didn’t know when the tears had begun, and she couldn’t get them to stop. She had to leave, get far away before the earl roused, but her body wouldn’t respond. All she could do was shake and cry.
A distant shout from the London streets dragged her from her daze. Pushing herself up on quivering knees, she looked at the door, estimated her chances of escaping from the house without being seen by the footman. The odds were not in her favor.
She stumbled to one of the windows overlooking a small garden. It took three pushes before the window popped open. Leaning against the sill, she stuck her head out. It was dark, but by the light of the waxing moon she could see the outlines of bushes some five feet below. She hoped they weren’t roses.
She stuck her legs out first and turned onto her stomach, wiggling until she clung to the outside of the frame, the toes of her boots digging into the side of the house. A haggard groan came from the study, and her hesitation evaporated.
She jumped, landing with a roll. Vines caught around her ankles, and dirt wedged into her left ear. Pushing to her feet, Liz took off at a trot. At the street, she slowed to a brisk walk, brushing dirt off her skirts as she went.