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He gave an adamant shake of his head. “No one.”
At that instant, the door was flung open, and Stacie bypassed Damen and Wells, stepping into the hallway and giving Breanna a fierce hug. “I heard your voice. Thank God, you're all right.”
Breanna nearly wept with relief. “My sentiments exactly. I had the most awful feeling. I thought that...” She broke off, drew a steadying breath. “It doesn't matter. What matters is that you're safe.”
“I'm safe?” Stacie asked in amazement. “You're the one who went out in the open, left Medford Manor to ride to Maidstone. Why? Who was in Maidstone?”
Before Breanna could reply, Royce came up behind her. “I'll answer your questions, Anastasia,” he said quietly. “I think Breanna needs to lie down.”
Even as he spoke, Breanna realized her knees were shaking. She felt weak and wobbly, the aftermath of discovering a murdered man's body, then fearing for her cousin's life, more severe than she'd realized.
“I... Yes, I think I should he down—for a few minutes,” she added, seeing the concern on Stacie's face. “I'm froe. Just spent.”
Royce gestured to one of the guards. “Walk Lady Breanna down to her room. Stay outside the door until I get there.”
“Of course, m'lord.”
Breanna shot Royce a grateful look, then turned, headed toward her new chambers, the guard by her side. All she needed was a few minutes to herself— time to lie down, put a cool compress on her pounding head. Then she'd be froe, ready to go back and discuss where things stood now that the gunsmith was unable to tell them anything.
She nodded politely at the guard, opened the door to her room, and shut it behind her. She was relieved to know he was out there. Still, she loathed this need for confinement. She couldn't wait for the day she could come and go again as she pleased.
If that day ever came.
Unbidden, the image of Wilkens's lifeless body flashed in her mind, and she fought back the sickness that rose in her throat.
How many more people would die before this nightmare ended? How much longer would this assassin's rampage continue?
Distraught, she crossed over, turned up the lamp on her nightstand to offset the effects of the intensifying dusk.
A horrified scream hedged in her throat, and for a moment, she actually stopped breathing.
In the center of the bed lay a white glove. The glove had been impaled by a sword, which was now imbedded deeply in the mattress. It had been driven all the way through the glove's index finger. Three-quarters of that finger had been sliced off. Red paint was splattered everywhere, staining the bedcovers and trickling onto the carpet. On either side of the glove sat a statue—both from the same set as the previous statues. Once again, the women had been disfigured, their right index fingers lopped off, their right hands and the front of their gowns covered with bright crimson stains.
On the pillow, lay a note. It read:
Your strategy was a mistake. You changed quarters to outsmart me. Instead, you enraged me. I'm an expert tracker. And you're a fool. Your evasive tactics have now guaranteed Lady Anastasia a more agonizing death. Listen to her screams, as her life drains away. Your cousin's time is up. Her blood is on your hands. My satisfaction will come when I see yours flow. The invasion is about to commence.
Die, Lady Breanna.
For a long moment, Breanna just stood there, paralyzed, besieged by a sort of white shock. She stared at the note, the glove, the crimson splotches that looked so much like blood.
Hysteria bubbled up inside her.
Then, the dam burst, and she shattered letting out a low cry of pain, she covered her face with her hands, tears coursing down her cheeks. Her entire body shook with the impact of her sobs, everything converging in an unendurable knot of anguish that tore her entire soul apart.
She couldn't take anymore.
She sank down on her knees on the rug, fear and agony converging, slashing through her in clawing talons. Her sobs tore at her, emerging in low, wrenching gasps as she rocked back and forth, emotionally surrendering to that which she could no longer fight
As if from far away she heard the door open.
“Breanna, my God, what is it?” Royce crossed over, then stopped. A muffled oath escaped him as he saw what had occurred.
He lowered himself to his knees, enfolded Breanna in his arms. “Shh,” he murmured, cradling her to him, feeling her tears drench his shirt. “I'm here, sweetheart. I'm here.”
“I'm s-sorry,” she sobbed. “I j-just can't be strong anymore.”
“You don't have to be.” Royce's grip tightened, and he squeezed his eyes shut, aching for what this was doing to her. This incredibly strong, resilient woman, this woman he loved to the core of his being, had been pushed beyond human limits.
