Not her Jonathan.
Please no.
His skin held warmth, and she stroked his cheek, but no smile appeared, no teasing glance – a beloved without life.
“No,” she cried, heart stuttering.
A shadow fell, obliterating her Jonathan’s features.
“Morceau de merde. The girl, she is alive.”
Tamsyn wrenched her gaze to the slight figure stood over her, hands to his hips.
Wrapped in black, the hooded face remained hidden in the gloom, but she caught the glint of white teeth and pale hair.
“To the boat. I will deal withma petite.” The fiend crouched low and Tamsyn scuttled back over the coarse rock, but he lunged to grab her wrists, pressed her to the unforgiving cold, and straddled her. “Ma belle,” he purred, “what a terrible shame for all men.Tres délicieuseyou would be when older.” His other hand stroked down her mass of hair. “But sadly, no English, be they man…or girl, can ever set eyes on me and live.”
Tamsyn shook, tears streaking her cheeks.
Have mercy. She was to die. Barely sixteen and she would die in this dismal cave with her dearest Jonathan, never to see Papa, her brother, her family again.
Frankincense cologne teased her nostrils as he leaned close, such an exotic scent in this rock-cut grave that stank of seaweed and carcass, but as she watched him reach into his jacket, a curious calm descended upon her.
He didn’t belong here, this enemy, this killer.
This land was her home and he was violating it with blood and death.
A wicked silver dagger emerged and in a gust of wind, the lantern cast its dim light before all was submerged into shadow once more. But she’d seen young slender features and sculptured cheekbones. Direct eyes and a cleft chin.
Amusement played upon his lips as he stroked the flat of the blade across her cheek.
She forced her face to one side as that sharp edge caressed her neck, and Tamsyn’s gaze fell upon her precious Jonathan. Tears welled anew for the boy she was to marry, the life ahead of them.
That calm of a moment ago did not linger.
Instead, anger, raw and unbound, erupted within. This Frenchman had taken her beloved’s life, caused this deep pain that ravaged her.
The fiend shifted, trailing the blade in teasing flicks but as he did so, she twisted to spit in his face.
“You Engli–”
“Do it then,” she screamed, beating her freed hand upon his chest. “You lily-livered beast. Killing innocents. You…wh-whoreson!”
Capturing her wrist, he hauled it above her head, pinning with one fist as she bucked and fought. “Ma fille, such spirit, such wildness,” he rasped, laughing while her fury pulsed.
“Do it, you damn coward. But look me in the eye, if you dare.”
He did as she bade.
Tamsyn felt the full weight of his gaze as the steel bit at her throat.
Yet she stared back.
Unwavering.
This gutless demon would never see her fear. She was a Penrose of steadfast stock. A Cornish lady.
“Sacré bleu, you are not afraid,” he mused, the knife lifting a fraction. “By now, any man would be pleading for his life. Do you not wish to trade your sweet body? Appeal to my greed?” His head cocked in the gloom. “You stare at death with such scorn. Such strength for one so young.”
