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With a yelp, he jerked it back. “You dare!” he snarled, rubbing the welt.
She ignored him. “This man must never be entrusted with a wife. He threw me to the ground and kicked me, and he—”
Her next words were lost in Guy’s roar, as he charged at Sculthorpe.
“Guy, you don’t have to…”
Sculthorpe ducked and spun, but Guy, faster, seized him.
“But if you were to…”
He hauled a struggling Sculthorpe in front of her; the baron grunted as Guy twisted one of his arms behind his back.
“Be careful not to…”
A well-aimed kick made Sculthorpe’s legs collapse; he cried out and his kneecaps cracked as they hit the floor. Guy held him in place.
Sculthorpe was on his knees before her, put there by Guy.
“Oh yes,” she said faintly. “I see.”
Sculthorpe had likely been in worse situations while at war. He merely sneered up at her. “You must be better than I dared dream, if Hardbury comes over all manly like this. Now Iwilltake his sister, and—”
“Now you will be silent.”
“Because obviously he was the one who…”
Sculthorpe’s words trailed off, and his eyes were watching her arm. Watching as she raised it, ever so slowly, with the crop gripped in her hand.
Then he looked in her eyes, and she looked in his, and those minutes whirled between them, when he had bruised her and cursed her, when he had thrown her down and kicked her. When he had cried like a little boy because he saw her as his and someone had taken her away, just as his brother had taken another woman he saw as his, and he did not see her as someone like himself, but something for him to use, to possess, to parade.
That face. How she loathed that face, those repellent eyes, quivering now, following the arc of the crop in her raised hand. Let him bear her marks! Let him know how it felt! Look at him, on his knees, held there by someone stronger, because he was nothing. He was weak.
Guy called her name; she ignored him. How she must repel him right now. She didn’t care. He had wanted to know her? Let him see!
Releasing Sculthorpe, Guy stepped away, but Sculthorpe didn’t move. He sneered up at her defiantly.
“Do you mean to horse-whip me, Miss Larke?” he taunted her.
“If I did, sir, it would be the only joy I ever got from you.”
The silence was stark. Even the air dared not stir. In the stillness, rage surged through her, engulfed her, conquered her, and she whipped her arm downward, watched Sculthorpe’s expression change as he realized her intent. She felt a momentary triumph, a surge of satisfaction, as he cowered, flinched away, cried out in fear…at the blow that never came.
Because her crop was no longer in her hand.
Sculthorpe opened his eyes. Arabella stared at her empty hand. She turned.
Mama stood right behind her, still in her bonnet and cloak. The crop was in her gloved hands and she was rapidly blinking away tears.
“Take care, my dear,” Mama said mildly.
“Listen to your mama,” Sculthorpe jeered. “You should have listened to your mama before you—”
Arabella never heard his wise advice, because Guy shoved him forward and forced his face to the floor. Sculthorpe yelled and struggled, but once more Guy had the baron’s arm twisted and his foot on his shoulder.
She looked up to meet Guy’s steady gaze. He was on her side. Her violence had not revolted him. Her weakness had not filled him with disgust.
Her rage dissipated, replaced by a peculiar peace.
