His focus dropped to her mouth as she said the words. She did not know if it was disgust or desire that stoked in her belly.
But then Armand smiled, his mouth pulling to one side. His eyes darkened into something taunting. If desire had been kindling inside Mallory, it now hardened into icy fear.
He dipped his head closer to her. She tried to draw back, but his hand caught her elbow, pulling her close as his brow pressed against hers.
“You should be,” he whispered.
A shudder engulfed her. Armand spun her around. She yelped in surprise—then went still as one hand wrapped around her neck, his other arm shackling her against his body.
“Miss Fontaine.” His voice had become a low growl, hot breath brushing against her ear. “You cannot leave yet. Not when there is still work to be done.”
She cast around for a weapon. Her knife was in her boot, but she couldn’t reach it. The lantern was hanging from a hook, also out of reach. A row of shovels lined the wall by the door.
Armand squeezed her throat—just a little at first, just enough to make her wince, to send terror clawing its way into her thoughts.
“I am so very glad that you came,” he murmured. “I had thought I would need another wife, but no… not if I can have you, or your sister. With that precious Savoy blood.”
With fear and adrenaline scorching through her veins, Mallory almost didn’t register his words.Savoy blood.
Her insides knotted. He knew. How did he know?
“Though, between you and me, I would not have minded one last proposal.”
He pressed a kiss to her earlobe. She shuddered so hard her teeth rattled.
Both hands met around her neck, fingers digging into her flesh. She tried to remember how to fight back, all the soft, vulnerable places on the human body, but she had no air, and she was afraid and confused, and her knife…
“Thank you for your sacrifice,” he breathed, his voice tender, almost loving.
Grinding her teeth, Mallory lifted her knee and stomped down, hard, on the bridge of his foot.
He howled in pain. His grip loosened enough for her to throw her elbow into his gut. Armand stumbled back.
Mallory swung around to face him—and saw the wide, flat head of a shovel floating above Armand’s head, seconds before it fell onto his skull with a clang. Bits of manure scattered across the floor. Armand’s body crumpled.
Anaïs gripped the shovel’s handle, breathing hard, a pack slung across her shoulders.
Their eyes met and they shared a single breath of stillness and horror. Mallory could still feel the raw burning in her throat where he’d started to choke her. It hurt almost as bad as the achein her chest where, for the briefest of moments, she’d felt what it might be like to be treated as if you were as precious as sapphires.
“Sorry it took me so long,” said Anaïs, dropping the shovel beside Armand’s prone body. “I stopped to grab a few more spoons.” She jangled the bag on her hip, suggesting it was full of much more than spoons. “Figured we could sell the stuff along the way.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The horses were anxious after the fight in the stables, and Mallory could sense their tension as they made their way down the drive—the clomping of their hooves almost painfully loud in the otherwise still night.
The iron hinges of the gate were squealing like a banshee when Mallory heard a voice calling her name.
A pale figure was racing down the road, bare feet and bloodied nightgown, her blue shawl trailing behind her in the howling wind.
“Mallory Fontaine!” Triphine cried. “Don’t you dare leave me here!”
Mallory drew back on the reins. It took Anaïs a moment to realize she had stopped.
“It’s Triphine,” she explained. “She wants to come with us.”
She surveyed the house, trying to discern if an alarm had been raised. If anyone other than the duchess was coming after them.The mansion was a looming ghoul in the distance, as imposing as a fortress, lit by a few sparse lanterns that flickered behind leaded windows. When the clouds parted and the moon struck the limestone façade, it transformed the mansion into a specter of itself.
Mallory did not expect the cascade of remorse that befell her. She had known, logically, that she would not solve the problems of the House Saphir. She would not send Monsieur Le Bleu back to wherever he had come from. She would not banish the spirits of the wandering wives. She had hoped, briefly, that she might give justice to Julie… and perhaps she still could. When they were far away, she would pen a letter to the local constable, tell him about the strange happenings at the House Saphir. Tell him that Count Armand Saphir was a murderer, as his great-great-grandfather had been.
