She’d believed him, in the way desperate children believe the lies that make their captivity bearable.
And then she’d turned sixteen.
Megan closed her eyes against the memory of that night. The night the pretense of paternal affection had shattered, and she’d learned what he’d prepared her for all along. The night she’d fought, and screamed, and discovered that no one would come to help her. That the servants had been told she was his ward, a distant relation, troubled and prone to hysterics. That the nearest magistrate was in Penharrow’s pocket. That she was utterly, completely alone.
That had been five years ago.
Five years of being his possession, his plaything, his prisoner in all but name. Five years of smiling when commanded, wearing what he chose, accepting his touch because refusal meant punishment, not only for her, but for any servant who showed her kindness.
She’d learned that lesson too.
Her fingers stilled on the crocuses as the memory surfaced, sharp and bitter as bile.
His name had been Daniel. A young groom, barely twenty, with kind eyes and a gentle way with the horses. He’d been new to Penharrow’s service, didn’t yet understand the rules. When Megan had asked him, in a moment of desperate hope, if hemight help her get a message to the authorities—to anyone who might help—he’d agreed.
Penharrow had discovered the plan within a day.
Megan would never forget the way Daniel had looked at her from the gallows Penharrow had erected in the stable yard. The Earl didn’t believe in turning criminals over to the magistrates when he could dispense his own justice. Theft, he’d called it. The groom had stolen from his employer.
Everyone knew it was a lie.
Everyone had watched anyway as Daniel hanged, his neck broken, his body left swinging as a warning.
And Penharrow had made Megan watch, his hand gentle on her shoulder, his voice soft in her ear: “You see what happens when you make me angry, my dear? I would hate for anyone else to suffer because of your foolishness.”
That was three years ago. Since then, Megan had stopped asking for help. They’d had a visitor recently, James. She’d refused to let him help her. He’d left and she stopped trying to involve others in her escape attempts. Because she’d learned the cruelest truth of all, that Penharrow would kill anyone who tried to free her, and he’d make her watch.
She couldn’t bear any more blood on her hands.
A breeze rustled through the garden, carrying the scent of damp earth and coming rain. Megan looked up at the gray sky, then at the stone walls of the hunting lodge that had been her prison for most of her life. Somewhere beyond those mountains was the world she barely remembered. Somewhere out there, people lived freely, made their own choices, loved whom they pleased.
She would never be one of them. Not as long as Penharrow lived.
The thought crystallized with sudden, cold clarity.
Not as long as Penharrow lived.
She’d tried escaping four times in the early years. Each time,he’d found her. The last time had cost Daniel his life. She’d tried to run, to hide, to seek help from others.
Perhaps it was time to consider a different approach.
Penharrow kept a pistol in his study. She’d seen it, a dueling piece, ornate and deadly. He also kept a collection of knives, souvenirs from his travels. And then there were the household poisons—arsenic for the rats, belladonna in the garden, a dozen substances that could kill a man if administered correctly.
Megan had worked with the gardener. She knew which plants were poisonous, which ones caused a slow death, which were quick.
The thought should have horrified her. Good women didn’t contemplate murder, but Megan was long past pretending to be good. Goodness was a luxury afforded to women who had choices. She had only survival.
What would happen when Penharrow tired of her? What if she grew too old?
She was in no doubt that he’d simply kill her.
And if she couldn’t escape Penharrow, perhaps she could kill him first.
The idea was both terrifying and exhilarating. She’d never killed anyone. Could she do it? Could she look into his eyes as the poison took hold, or pull a trigger, or drive a blade between his ribs?
The memory of Daniel’s body swinging from the gallows answered that question.
Yes. She could.
