His Wicked Sins (16 page)

imagined it? Had she conjured an evil watcher where none existed in truth?

'Twould not be the first time her fretful nature had led her to fruitless worry.

Narrowing her eyes, she considered the possibility.

No. She
had
sensed a malicious gaze, but she could not risk the likelihood that no one

would believe her. She had too much to lose.

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What would she do if Miss Percy determined her cotton-headed and excitable, a poor

example for the pupils? What would she do if she was dismissed from her post? How

would her family survive?

Her mother had warned her to have a care what she revealed, to trust no one, to present

only a calm and capable facade.

No one here must know…

Beth closed her eyes and filled her lungs with a breath so deep she felt the stretch right

in the center of her chest. Turning, she strode forward, tempering her pace as she left the

garden, a deliberately sedate promenade. The squeal of the gate set a knotted tension to

her shoulders and neck. Her teeth clamped tight together. Some intangible certainty made

her pause, her hand resting on the iron scrollwork. She heard it then … the unmistakable

sounds of a bridle, and horses' hooves clopping against the road, and wheels creaking and

turning as they rolled away.

With a shudder, she yanked the gate closed behind her, lifted her skirt, and bolted

around to the front of the school. Heart pounding, she skidded to a stop and saw the back

end of a vehicle disappear around the bend.

* * *

No, not seen him, not precisely. Perhaps
sensed
him.

Closing his eyes, he felt a quiver of excitement deep in his gut. There was a connection

there, a link that made her search for him though she could not possibly know he was

there.

Soon, she would be his.

The sweet, perfect bow of her lips. The silky strands of her hair. The pounding of her

heart, her terror and pain.

All his.

He had watched her several times before. Once, before he even knew who she was, he

had spied her as the stagecoach rolled through Northallerton. She had leaned out the

window to study her surroundings offering him a fine view. Once from the woods as she

walked on the road. He had watched her tip her face to the sunset, seen the flash of

appreciation in her gaze. And he had watched as she walked along the road, her black skirt

swaying with each step. No sedate walk. Not Elizabeth Canham. Hers was a purposeful

stride, full of life and vigor.

He wanted to taste that life, to feel it drain away in a pool of hot, wet blood. Ah, but he

loved the blood. The smell of it. The rushing in his own veins as he watched it pump from

severed vessels.

The first time, so many years ago, had been too quick, a brutal taking that lacked all

finesse, all beauty. He had been confronted by the landlord and then the landlord's wife.

Unexpected and disturbing. But he had dealt with them, and then he had slit the girl's

throat, so deep she had been dead before her body slumped to the ground.

A pity and a waste.

But he had learned from that. Perfected his approach. Now he savored every moment.

The terror of his prey. The muffled screams, muted behind a gag that stifled all but the

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most desperate moans.

Perhaps someday, he would find a place so private that he could enjoy the music of the

kill, a place where he could listen to the screams rise and crest, toppling one over the next

in a storm of terror.

He drew a slow breath, shifting on the hard seat as the reins looped through his fingers,

the horses drawing the high-sprung, two-wheeled carriage at the pace they chose.

Would pretty Miss Canham cry out with the same strength and passion she showed as

she walked? Would she struggle and rage?

He smiled at the thought of Elizabeth screaming and screaming while he cut away her

lovely curls, bright as the sun. Cut away her scalp. And then her fingers.

Treasures. His treasures.

Letting the horses have their head, he slid his right hand to the pocket of his coat to

draw forth a cloth-wrapped little bundle. He brought it to his nose, inhaled deep and long.

The metallic scent of old, dry blood filled him, and through the cloth he felt the fingers,

delicate little fingers. Sarah's fingers.

He would take them home. Put them in ajar with maggots. In the end there would be

only the bones.

Treasures. Perfect little white bones for his treasure box.

Oh, how Sarah had cried and struggled and screamed against the gag. She had died too

quickly for his taste.

But Elizabeth—

"Beth." He whispered her name aloud, feeling the thrill of it shoot straight to his groin.

—Elizabeth would die slowly.

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Chapter 9

Stepney, London, January 15, 1813

H
enry dared not breathe too deeply. The scent of blood, sharp in the cold, thin air,

mingled with the stink of tallow that wafted from Sam Loder's candle. The rank

combination made his gut clench and bile crawl up his gullet.

Raising his hand high so the light of the flame dipped and plunged, Sam peered along

the dim and gloomy hall, then brought the flame low and stared at the bloody footprints.

They led from the black recess at the end of the hall to Mrs. Trotter's still form, painting a

macabre trail.

Henry followed Sam's gaze, then drew up short, shook his head. The footprints were

wrong. Going the wrong way. They ought to be heading from the dead landlord to his

murdered wife, not from the parlor to the taproom as they did. That would mean…

A chill of premonition twisted up his spine. With a shudder, he battled the terrible

suspicion that wormed through him.

No. He must be wrong.

"Look here," said Sam as he moved the candle to better view the crimson marks, his

head bowed and eyes cast down. "These footprints … I think he went first there"—he

jutted his chin toward the darkness that swallowed the far end of the hall—"and then here

to the hall where he met Mrs. Trotter." Sam tapped his index finger against the floor.

Once. Twice. Henry wanted to scream. "He killed her here, and continued on, met the

landlord, murdered him last."

"Yes," Henry said, the word like dust in his mouth.

Ginnie was safe. She was not here in this place of horror and foul murder. She had gone

to see her sick mother and take her a mince pie.

Even as he silently recited the litany, he wondered why he did not rush down the hall,

did not look in the parlor, did not see for certain that she was not there.

But he knew.

Oh, vile coward that he was, he knew. If he did not go to the parlor, he could not see

that which was too terrible to consider.

He stood, a shadow of a man, turned inside out and barren. He thought that to feel

anything right then was to feel a dread so profound that he would die from it. And so, he

hovered, frozen, looking down at Sam Loder where he hunkered beside the landlady's

dead body, seeing the whole of it as if in a muddied dream.

Sam rose and started cautiously along the hall.

Henry closed his eyes, then opened them, willing himself to follow, one foot before the

other, his gut twisted so tight he felt like he was sawed in two. In his mind he ran, reached

the parlor door, found the room empty.

In reality, his feet were made of lead, dragging and heavy, each step more effort than he

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could bear, his legs flaccid and weak.

As they came to the parlor door, sick certainty bubbled in his gut, an acid brew.

Sam made a sound, turned toward him, his hand held up with the palm forward, a paltry

barrier to Henry's forward movement.

Too late. Too late.

With a cry, Henry stumbled back a step as the room swam and his heart twisted into a

cold, black knot. He slammed his eyes shut. If he did not see her like this—with her throat

slit so wide her head was almost all the way off, and the blood a dark, shiny puddle all

around her—then she would not be here, lying like a broken doll on the parlor floor.

Not Ginnie. Not his sweet Ginnie with her bouncing golden curls.

Not Ginnie.

He opened his eyes. There was only blood, glistening blood.

Where was her hair?