The Dark One (35 page)

“Don't leave me here,” he said, his voice merely a gurgling noise.

Once Penmore had drawn the wolf's attention again, the animal pounced upon the man. Franklin used Penmore's demise to his own advantage and quickly pulled Rosalind through the doorway, shoving her away and pulling the door closed before the wolf could react. She heard the loud thud of the animal hurling itself against the door.

Franklin turned, grabbed her arm, and pulled her with him through the house. The front door stood open and they were suddenly outside, headed toward the phaeton he'd left at the side of the house. Another buggy sat there as well. Penmore's, she was guessing, and one of Armond's horses, his reins dragging on the ground.

Franklin steered her to the buggy and pulled her up and inside. He took the reins and slapped them against the horses' rumps and the animals took off. They were careening down a deserted street when it occurred to Rosalind that she had gone with a man who planned to murder her tonight. She was in shock, she realized. The buggy was moving too fast for her to jump. Although she supposed if she was going to end up dead, better at her
own hands than Franklin's. She had mentally prepared herself to make the jump, but she physically hesitated, which cost her.

As if her stepbrother knew her intentions, he struck out and knocked her silly. She swayed, thought she might plummet over the side of the phaeton to her death after all, before she lost consciousness.

When she awoke, Rosalind was lying in a bed, in a room she recognized. The one in Franklin's home. She struggled up, wincing with both the pain in her wrist and the pain in her face where Franklin had struck her, not once but several times, since he'd tricked her into visiting the duchess. The reason for Rosalind's pain sat in a chair before the cold hearth, staring at her.

“What in the hell did you marry?” he asked. “A monster?”

Her mind would just as soon dismiss all that she had seen earlier. Whatever Armond was, and she wasn't certain even herself, he was not as much of a monster as the man who sat across from her. Armond had known her, had not attacked her, had tried to protect her, even when the beast took him.

“It's his curse,” she suddenly understood. The one he had tried to keep secret from her. The one his forefather had written about in a poem. She wished she had taken the time to read the entire poem. She had no idea what she was dealing with, what Armond was dealing with.

“I thought he was cursed with insanity. What I saw was impossible,” Franklin said, and she noticed that the strain of what he had witnessed had managed to penetrate even his evil soul. His hands visibly shook when he ran them through his hair. “If anyone knew the truth, they would hunt him down like the animal he is and kill him,” he further deliberated. “This will all work to my advantage.”

It hadn't taken her stepbrother long to return his attention to his greatest concern . . . himself. “How do you plan to turn this to your advantage, Franklin?” she snapped. “You are a murderer. I can attest to that. Your mother can, as well.”

He waved a hand. “Neither of you is of consequence. I've already forced her to drink more tea. She's asleep now. When Mary arrived earlier, I sent her away. There is only the problem of you left for me to deal with, Rosalind.”

Rosalind wondered if Franklin had realized the tea in the tin was no longer his special blend. She glanced toward her balcony windows, surprised to see that dawn streaked the sky. She must have been unconscious for hours.

“I'm quite certain Penmore is no longer among the living,” Franklin said. “His body will be found in a house owned by none other than your husband. Lord Wulf is now an animal. He will stay that way, won't he?”

Oh God, she hadn't thought of that. Would he? But no, his ancestor who had written the poem had been cursed. An animal couldn't write a poem. Armond's father had also been cursed. He'd killed himself. An animal couldn't put a pistol to its head and pull the trigger. She had no idea what Armond might be at this very moment. A man or still a wolf.

She did know with certainty that, if he possibly could, he would come for her in either form. But how to stay alive until he did?

“No one knew you had any affiliation with Penmore other than a shared love of gaming,” she said. “But if you kill me and your mother, suspicion will naturally turn to you.”

“My mother will continue to linger at death's door for a while longer,” he said. He turned his cold eyes upon her.
“But if you are found dead, and Penmore's body is discovered in a house recently purchased by your husband, all will assume you have simply become two more of Wulf's victims.”

And Franklin would get away with murder. She needed to buy herself time. “What makes you think I want to stay with a man . . . with a man who is no longer a man?” she asked, so many emotions churning inside of her. Fear, shock, and, worse, worry over Armond and what had become of him, what would become of him in the future. “Perhaps we can make an arrangement.”

Franklin lifted a brow. “Good try, Rosalind,” he said. “You wouldn't shoot it, even though your own life might have been in danger. You're in love with a monster.”

She thought about what Franklin said. Her emotions were raw, scraped and bruised like her face. She had to look deep into her heart; she had to judge Armond on what she knew of him before last night. He hadn't told her the truth, but would she have believed him unless she'd seen what he'd become with her own eyes? He had protected her, taken care of her, made love to her. He had vowed to never love her, but in her heart, she'd known he had, and last night he had told her. He'd done what needed to be done when Franklin and Penmore had threatened her life, first in the form of a man and then in the form of a wolf.

“He may be a monster,” she admitted. “But not nearly as much of one as you are.”

“It didn't have to end this way.” Franklin stood and approached the bed upon which she sat. “You should have never left me, Rosalind. At least beneath my roof, you could have lived.”

She met his gaze straight on. “I don't consider being under your thumb, being abused and used for whatever benefit you might think to be gained on my behalf, living.”

He smiled a bit sadly at her. “Then you won't mind dying so much.”

He came awake naked and shivering, lying next to a dead man. Armond rolled away from Penmore, sickened by the man's sightless eyes and the gaping wound at his throat. He glanced around the empty room where the candles had burned down to melted wax and a dirty mattress and a blanket lay on the floor. Then he remembered. Rosalind. Chapman. And the curse that had come upon him while he was trying to rescue his wife from being murdered.

Armond snatched the blanket off the mattress and wrapped it around his shivering body. Worry twisted his gut and added to the sick feeling churning his stomach. He glanced toward the closed door. What would he find on the other side? He was afraid to look. He couldn't remember what had happened once the curse had transformed him. Had Rosalind died of shock alone at seeing him become a monster?

The door had deep scratches in the wood, and he glanced at his hands. His fingertips were bloody, his short nails torn and jagged. He did remember the last thing he had said to Rosalind. He had told her he loved her, but then had he killed her? Slowly, he rose and approached the closed door.

He swung it open and looked down the short hallway to the front door that stood open. The morning light tried to penetrate the dark shadows in the house. A glance outside showed a buggy and horse alongside of the house, and his horse still stood, head bent, reins dragging the ground. The phaeton that had been there when he'd ridden up last night was missing.

Franklin had escaped . . . and Armond had a feeling, a very strong feeling, that he'd taken Rosalind along with
him. She was in danger, if Chapman hadn't already killed her, but no, Armond couldn't accept that. She must be alive; he wouldn't allow her to be dead. And he must save her, even though all he wanted to do at the moment was slink away and hide from the world. To drown in the self-pity that threatened to overwhelm him. But he could not. Not yet. Rosalind needed him.

He turned and walked back down the hallway and entered the room where Penmore's body lay. Armond's clothes were shredded on the floor. He had no choice but to strip Penmore of his bloody clothing. Armond did so quickly, trying not to look at the man. He wouldn't feel guilty. One animal killing another. It was only natural. Penmore's trousers were too large and too short, but he made a quick makeshift belt out of the ropes that had tied Rosalind's ankles and hands. He stripped Penmore of his coat, not bothering to remove the man's bloody shirt. Armond pulled on his boots, then rolled Penmore up in the blanket. He hefted the man's deadweight over his shoulder, carried him outside, threw the body in his buggy, and approached the man's horses, luckily not the grays he had sold him, but a set of not nearly as nice blacks.

The horses snorted and startled at his approach. Even his own horse, the fine chestnut he'd taken because it was the fastest, shied away. Armond's scent was different now, he realized. The horses were frightened of him. And Rosalind—when he found her and rescued her, would she fear him now as well? He couldn't think about that. He could only think about finding her, making certain that she was safe.

Chapman would have taken her to his home, Armond suspected. The man would have probably been as scattered and shocked as Rosalind and Penmore had been to see him turn into a beast. Franklin wouldn't have been thinking clearly enough to take Rosalind anywhere else.

Armond shied the buggy horses and they took off down the street, carrying the dead body of their owner, he hoped back to Penmore's home, where the horses would automatically try to return. He approached the frightened chestnut, using soothing tones so that the animal would recognize him. He held out his hand and the chestnut sniffed him. The horse was still skittish, but Armond didn't have time to calm him further.

Armond jumped upon the chestnut's back; then they were racing through the streets. He had to get to Rosalind. It was the only thought he allowed himself. That thought and a prayer that when he did find her, it wouldn't be too late.

“I won't go quietly,” Rosalind assured Franklin. “I will not cower from the pain of your fists, or give you the power of my fear. You will get no satisfaction from killing me, Franklin. I won't allow it.”

His smile faded. “Brave words for a woman,” he sneered. “I'll see how brave you are when I throw you down upon that bed and take you.”

Brave words indeed. The thought of Franklin defiling her sent repulsion flooding through her. Despite the reaction, she raised her chin. “I have been loved and given love to a man of my choosing, a man who has won my heart. Nothing you can do to me will foul the memory of what we shared together.”

Her stepbrother's face turned an angry shade of red. How frustrating his life must have become since she'd married Armond. To have her so close but beyond his cruel reach. She would pay the price for his pent-up rage. Of that she had little doubt. Rosalind steeled herself for the pain to come. For the humiliation he would force her to experience. She would search the deepest core of her strength and regain the pride in herself he had once stolen from her. Pride that Armond had given back to her.

She steadied her gaze upon Franklin as he approached her. She curled her fingers in claws, hoping her nails
would rake and tear, wishing, in that instant, that she had been cursed as Armond had been cursed. For his curse had been a gift last night. A gift that had saved her from being defiled by two men, instead of only one.

“You will not touch her, Franklin.”

The command surprised her. Surprised Franklin as well. He wheeled around. The duchess stood in the doorway, allowing the frame to support her frail body.

“You should not be here,” Franklin growled.

His mother seemed to will herself to stand straighter. “I should have been able to come to Rosalind's aid sooner,” she argued, her voice still raspy. “For months you have keep me a prisoner of the addiction you forced upon me. I knew she was here. I knew when she visited me that her heart was heavy, that you were cruel to her, but I could not escape the bonds of my addiction to help her, to even tell her that I understood her suffering.”

Rosalind's eyes watered. She had hoped that her stepmother realized she was with her and that she cared deeply for the lady. How awful for her to have been trapped in her unresponsive body while her mind was still able to understand the injustices taking place around her. The injustices even being done to her by her own son.

“I should have killed you long ago, Mother,” Franklin said. “Stilled your voice of goodness and responsibility so that I wouldn't have to listen to you ever again. You are weak. Just as you would not stand up to my father when he beat you, even when he beat me, you will not stand up to me today. Go back to your room. I'll deal with you later.”

“No,” the duchess said, and her voice sounded stronger. “Not this time, Franklin. I thought I could help you, but you are beyond help. You are your father's son, and all you hated about him you now possess within you. Rosalind has always been a dear child. The innocent one in all the
darkness we have brought to her life. I could not save you, but I will save her.”

So saying, the lady lifted a pistol. Where the duchess had gotten the weapon Rosalind didn't know, nor did she care. Relief flowed over her. Rosalind was just about to rise from the bed and go to her stepmother when Franklin struck. He moved with lightning speed, was upon his mother before she could cock the pistol and fire it. He knocked her to the floor. Rosalind screamed and lunged from the bed. She jumped on Franklin's back, pelting him with her fists to keep him from further injuring his mother.