Page 3 of My Sweet Poison
“Please…you don’t need to do this. I’ll call off the entire plan.”
His scathing gaze raked over my body from head to toe. “It’s too late for that. Everyone knows. They are expecting a wedding. I’m going to give them a funeral instead.”
With a cry, I turned and ran further down the hallway. It came to a dead-end at a second perpendicular hallway.
Despite the heavy carpet beneath our feet, his hurried footfalls were unmistakable.
Which way? Which way? I was not familiar enough with the estate to know which direction would lead to salvation and which to certain death.
I swung my head to the left, then to the right and nearly sobbed in relief. With only seconds to spare, I fled down the dark corridor toward an open doorway.
The walls of the small study on the other side of that doorway were covered in dimly lit glass cases filled with antique weapons. The proud collection of some forgotten Worthington patriarch.
Several handguns and two hunting shotguns lay on the stately carved oak desk in the center of the room. I remembered the gamekeeper saying he needed to finish oiling and cleaning the firearms before storing them.
If I could only reach—it was too late.
I barely crossed the threshold when his fingers caught the trailing hem of my wedding gown. Fisting the material, he yanked hard, throwing me off balance.
We both crashed to the floor.
I rose on my hands and knees and crawled toward the desk. My arm stretched out.
His fingers clawed at my hips, tearing at my dress.
I rolled onto my back and kicked out, catching his jaw with my bare heel.
His head snapped to the side from the impact. When he turned to fix his silver glare on me, he coughed, splattering small flecks of blood over me.
Using the back of his hand, he rubbed at the blood on his mouth, smearing it across his face to blend with his already bleeding cheek. “You’re going to pay for that, bitch.”
With a cry, I shimmied back and used the desk to pull myself up. There was just enough thin light to see each of the guns. I snatched up a revolver.
He staggered to his feet. “What are you going to do? Shoot me?”
After wiping my sweaty palm down the side of my dress, I readjusted my grip on the heavy handle. “If I have to.”
He slowly prowled around the desk, surveying the remaining guns.
I kept pace with his stride, always keeping out of arm’s reach, as we circled each other like wild beasts preparing to fight.
My heart raced and my gaze shifted from his eyes to his hands, ready for the slightest movement.
Only my harsh breathing broke the heavy silence.
Then his bark of laughter shattered the stillness.
Turning his back on me, he opened a nearby cabinet and pulled out a glass and a crystal decanter. “There would first have to be bullets in the gun, my dear.”
Twisting the firearm in my hand, I saw the empty holes in the cylinder. I threw the useless gun aside and snatched up another.
Without looking over his shoulder, he poured himself a drink and jeered, “That’s not loaded either. Really, Madison. I’d like to say your stupidity surprises me, but we both know I’d be lying.”
He turned. Staring at me over the rim of his glass, he took a long, slow sip, exuding the relaxed attitude of a man who had all the time in the world. His controlled calm in the face of such violent brutality lacked all humanity.
The gun slipped from my fingers. My vision blurred with hot, unshed tears as the thin thread of hope slipped from my grasp. “Why are you doing this?”
“He took what was supposed to be mine.”
