Page 142 of When We Touch

He wore a long open coat, and dark, mud-spattered trousers. His appearance in itself was enough to bring terror to her heart. But there was more. His hands were at his sides. In one, he carried a very long blade. A hunting blade. He moved it back and forth, almost convulsively. It had cut through the fabric of his pants. It was cutting flesh, as well. A smattering of blood could be seen against his leg, where he continued to scrape the honed blade.

“You were easy to find,” he told her. “Your house was easy to find . . . and his house was easy to find. Your friends were even easier to find. Following them here was very easy.”

“What do you want?” she demanded. She tried to keep her voice bold. If he was, indeed, the Ripper, he was accustomed to women easily giving in to his demands, practicing their trade, being pliable. Perhaps if she tried to show that she was ready to fight, and able to do so . . .

“What do I want?” he said, and appeared to be very amused by the question. “What do I want?” And he laughed aloud. “You. Dead. But I want to hear you scream first.”

She held her stance, feeling the poker in her hand. At least he didn’t seem to be interested in the aunts—or the baby.

He only wanted her dead.

She raised the poker, ready to swing. “I don’t want to die. Or scream,” she told him.

He seemed to be amused still further.

“But you will. Die and scream,” he assured her.

“Not easily,” she promised.

He took a step toward her. She tried quickly and rationally to weigh her fight. Swing the poker . . . if he caught it, and held it, and his strength was anything up to what it had been, he might well wrench it from her.

Stay where she was, and the knife would soon come against her throat.

She felt the steam rising from the kettle behind her.

She swung around, snatching up the kettle, splashing the scalding water at him. She drew a scream from the man, and dared to step closer, swinging the kettle. He let out a howl again, crashing against the cellar door.

As he righted himself, she gained a better grip on the poker, thinking that she would attack, and stand a better chance than if she just waited for him to recover.

But then she started, hearing a sleepy voice. “Lady Maggie?”

Merry. Come to the hall from the bedrooms, her nightcap and robe in place.

She came to a dead standstill, and Alexander, hands clenched into fists, suddenly made a lunge toward her.

“Lord! Lord have mercy!” Merry shrieked.

He might be in agony, but he would wrest hold of her, seize her . . .

And the knife would come against her throat. And she would be dead, because of Maggie’s determination to stop the ills of the world.

“Here! You want me? Come and get me!” Maggie called. She threw the poker down and stared at him defiantly.

He turned away from Merry.

And Maggie purposely flew at him, veering just at the last minute, sliding around him with a slap to his injured face, and bolted to the front door of the cottage. She wrenched it open, and fled out into the night.

To her relief, she heard his bellow of pain and fury.

And the thunder of his stride as he came after her.

* * *

Jamie hadn’t bothered with the niceties—or the slowness—of a carriage ride. Nothing could bring him more quickly across country than Newton.

Still, it had been a long, hard ride. And much of it had been in near-dark. At last, he had neared the cottage, and to his dread, he had found light blazing from the cottage and Merry standing at the open doorway, rocking, tears burning brightly in her eyes.

Jamie reined in on Newton, but didn’t dismount. “Merry! He came here, right?” he demanded, leaning down. “Alexander?”