She did—the barest amount.
‘You understand there are rules one must observe to work here. You will learn them in time.’ The knife moved, tracing the circle of her neck. ‘Nod, Sweet.’ He moved her head up and down with his hand. ‘Get used to that.’
She remembered how easy it had been to convince the couple of a lie. She nodded, moving her hand from his wrist. He trailed the blade in the same way of an artist’s pen making swirls on a page. He slipped the tip to her shoulder. ‘You don’t have to worry about me hurting your face, permanently. But a man might be aroused by a gentle scar trailing away under clothing.’ The blade caught her sleeve, but rested at skin, pressing. Testing. Drooling, he stared at the blade. ‘He might wonder where a scar led. Where it ended.’
The blade pressed harder, and the sleeve pulled, fabric falling away—no barrier to the steel. Pressure flared at her arm.
Spit pooled at the edge of his lips. ‘Scars, in their way, can be beauty marks.’
* * *
William glanced across at his cousin. Sylvester scratched his earlobe, stared at the cards, and grumbled.
Something had thumped in the back, but none of the others’ attentions wavered from the cards.
Miss Plume was beyond the curtain with Wren. William tapped the side of his mug and pushed his chair back, standing. With the woman on the way to finding whatever she looked for, he had no wish to continue enjoying the smell of worn boots.
He stared at the curtain, unable to move, imagining the look on the woman’s face as she’d left the room. Wren had swooped up the bag and darted to the back. Miss Plume had hesitated before moving.
He shrugged, noting the worn threads where so many had touched the curtain before him, but striding towards it.
He walked through and saw several doors. This would not be the time to open the wrong one.
Ignoring his misgivings, he pressed a hand to the first door and pushed it.
Wren stood over a woman, a blade at the woman’s arm. Instantly, it moved to her throat. In seconds Wren could slice and nothing would be able to erase the moment, ever.
William’s breath left his body. His mind took a moment to adjust to the sight his eyes tried to make sense of. The woman was one movement from death. Wren’s face had the look of a rabid animal, all thoughts absorbed by the sickness. No way to understand reason.
William could not move forward to rescue the woman because Wren could act on impulse. The knife pressed against the slender neck. Wren could kill in the moments it would take William to close the distance. A jolt against Wren’s arm would press the blade into skin. She would be dead and nothing could ever change those seconds.
Wren increased the pressure of the blade. Isabel’s pulse thumped against the tip.
‘My pardon,’ the man at the door spoke. ‘I didn’t realise this was a private conversation.’ Nothing flickered on his face. He didn’t even seem to see her.
‘Get the hell out,’ Wren rasped.
Isabel swallowed. Could the man not understand there was a blade at her neck?
‘I certainly will,’ the man at the door spoke. He leaned back a bit, turning his head.
His hand tightened on the door and he was going to leave, letting Wren do as he wished. She could tell. The stranger had not once looked at her eyes.
‘But, I was thinking of making an investment.’ Soft words from the man at the door. His body stilled before turning in her direction.
Finally, he noticed Isabel. His brows lifted and he wet his lips. He appraised her in the same way a butcher might decide which chicken was to be the first to the block. A nausea filled her.
‘I would like to invest, Wren.’ He chuckled. ‘And all it would take would be a bit of pleasure to convince me.’
‘I need no investors.’ The knife didn’t lessen. ‘I own everything under this roof. Everything.’
‘True enough,’ the man spoke. His eyes were again on Wren. ‘I hear nothing but good about this establishment. Nothing. And an investor like myself feels a bit left out.’ His gaze locked on Wren’s face. ‘I have a good bit of coin. A good bit, and I certainly can find better ways to spend it than on gaming.’
The pressure at Isabel’s throat lessened.
‘A man cannot have too much coin,’ Wren said. ‘But he can have too many women about.’ At those words, the knife jabbed forward, tapping Isabel’s neck like a pointed fingernail with a razor at the end.
The stranger’s eyes widened and he caught his breath, speaking as he exhaled. ‘Don’t damage the goods, Wren.’ His voice strengthened. ‘Wouldn’t want to hurt an investment.’
Wren took the knife from Isabel’s neck, looking at it as if he’d forgotten he had it in his hand.
In that moment, the man threw his body in front of Isabel, knocking her backwards with a crash.
For less than a second she could only see the ceiling. She pushed herself up, scrambling to her feet. Wren’s back was on the desk and the stranger’s right fist plunged into Wren’s face.
Wren rolled, falling from the desk, kicking the man’s ribs when he moved forward. But the stranger only turned with the blow. He continued forward, driving on to Wren, using his body as a battering ram. His left hand gripped Wren’s neck and he rose, just enough for leverage, keeping Wren pinned to the floor.
The stranger’s fist rose and hammered Wren’s face, pummelling a groan from him.
She could not bear it. ‘No,’ she shouted, the words more a scream than a command. ‘Stop. No. I beg you, please stop.’ The words could have carried to the top of the Tower.
She shuddered, her voice now pleaded. ‘Please stop.’
The stranger looked at her. His eyes held no recognition of the moment, but his fist stilled on the upswing. Nothing from inside him acknowledged her words, but he stopped pummelling. Again his arm moved up, ready for a downswing.
‘No...’ The word pulled her last thread of strength.
* * *
William stopped, pulling the world around him back into focus. The woman’s body trembled in a circular motion. Another second and she would topple. Dazed eyes locked on him, but he didn’t think she truly saw anything.
William lunged upwards and scooped the knife from the floor so Wren couldn’t grab it. He had to get the woman away from the place. Neither she nor his family would be helped by tales of these events.
In one stride, William had a hand at her shoulder. ‘Miss?’ He tightened his clasp.
She blinked, but didn’t speak and her glance fell to his hand.
‘Miss?’ he repeated. ‘Where do you live?’
He released her shoulder and took her chin in his gasp, pulling her gaze to his. His heart slammed against his ribs with a stronger punch than any Wren had managed.
Seizing her around the waist, he lifted her to the door. Stopping outside, he let her feet flutter to the floor. She kept moving downwards and he pulled her up, tight against him. Her colourless face wasn’t far from his own, yet she offered no resistance.
He had a knife in one hand and a woman in the other. The door still open, he led her to the taproom, trying to keep her on the side opposite the patrons.
Everyone in Wren’s looked towards