Page 6 of The Duke of Swords (The Highwaymen #4)

RAE DID NOT like the way the Duke of Rutchester looked at her.

Well, this wasn’t exactly true, because some part of her found it affected her oddly. It should have been horrible, and it was. It was like being looked at by some predator, some raging wild beast that was seconds away from ripping her limb from limb.

Terrifying, truly.

But there was something gratifying about it, and she couldn’t say what it was, exactly.

Fateux never seemed much affected by her at all, well, except that time when he was drunk and angry and had choked her so many times. That had been different than this, though.

Rutchester didn’t look angry, just… hungry.

That should be worse, frankly.

Perhaps something was simply wrong with her. She had been addled in her wits by all that had befallen her. She was well and truly mad. It must be that.

The journey to Bath took three days, and they spent two nights in inns along the way.

The first night, Rutchester did not dine with them in the inn. He simply disappeared and she did not see him until the following morning, when he settled into the carriage to occasionally stare at her like he was going to devour her.

The second night, he ate with them, but he would not have any of the ale the inn served, opting for black tea instead.

Fateux spent the meal teasing him, saying this was exactly what he had indicated was Rutchester’s problem. “Repressed, I am telling you,” he said. “Let something out. How do you know I’m wrong if you never try it?”

Rutchester glowered over his mutton stew and said little. When he looked at her, she felt his gaze sear her, as if his eyes could burn.

When Fateux could not convince Rutchester to drink ale, or indeed, to have a bit of brandy after dinner, he began to speak idly about what might happen when they got to Bath.

“Perhaps I’m simply going to give her over to the men at Gable’s household.

I understand there are at least four of them.

I’ll let them all have her. You could watch that, Rutchester. ”

Rae went very still, her entire body going quite cold.

Fateux laughed, not paying any attention to her reaction, only watching Rutchester instead. “After all, that would show them, wouldn’t it, what happens if I do not get my money. Let them think about what I might do to some woman they care about, yes. It will be a perfect object lesson.”

Rutchester rolled his head on his shoulders.

“You’d like to watch it, I think,” said Fateux. “It’d be nearly as good as doing it yourself, watching four pricks in her. They wouldn’t all have to go in her cunny, you know.”

Rae felt a sour feeling work through her. Where else could they go?

“Or,” said Fateux, “I shan’t. You claim her yourself, tonight, and she’s yours.”

Rae’s heart started to pound.

Rutchester looked up at her, meeting her gaze.

She gave him the faintest of nods, a sort of acquiescence. Yes, that, please, that. If it were a choice, that seemed preferable.

He looked away, swallowing hard. “No,” he said roughly.

Fateux rolled his eyes.

SHE DID NOT have her own room at the inn, because Fateux would not pay for such luxuries.

She didn’t have a female servant to see to her either, and she had to dress herself and comb her own hair.

She was sleeping on the floor in Fateux’s room tonight.

At the inn the night before, there had been a couch in the room where she’d been able to sleep, but this room had nothing like that.

Rutchester had his own room, though.

And Fateux hauled her there after dinner. He held her by the arm and dragged her across the hallway to Rutchester’s room. He knocked.

They waited.

Fateux knocked again.

Rae felt dizzy and frightened and something else, a feeling akin to the feeling one felt when one got dealt a very nice hand of cards when playing whist. Excitement? She couldn’t be excited .

Finally, Rutchester opened the door.

Fateux pushed her inside first. He pushed her directly into Rutchester’s chest, and Rutchester’s hands came up to catch her, but then he pushed her away, recoiling, uttering a cry of surprise.

Fateux came into the room and pulled the door shut behind him, laughing softly.

“No,” said Rutchester, looking at Fateux, not at her. “I don’t care what you think to force me into, Fateux, I’m not participating in this.”

“We shall see,” said Fateux. He moved forward and picked up the braid her hair was in—it was all she could do to her hair herself—and tucked it forward, over her shoulder. He began to undo her buttons.

Rae felt herself shrink inwardly, because—somehow—through everything that he had done to her already, none of it had ever happened when she was entirely unclothed.

Fight, she thought.

So, she wrenched herself free from him, but there was nowhere to go, because Rutchester was right there. She simply collided with him, and he shoved her away again, back into Fateux.

“Now, now,” said Fateux, his mouth at her ear, his breath hot on her neck, “something you should know about our dear Oliver is that he’s never had a woman, never once.”

Rutchester flinched.

“And he did chide me, you know, saying I ought to have been more gentle with you,” said Fateux, who was working her buttons again now. “Of course, he also told me that he’s quite afraid of ever touching a woman, afraid he might break her.”

Rae let out a tiny little noise.

“Stop it,” breathed Rutchester, his voice insubstantial.

Fight, fight, she thought again, but then she made the mistake of looking up and into Rutchester’s eyes, and she got caught in his expression.

She felt like an insect that had flown into a spider’s web.

She might wriggle her limbs, but every movement only meant that she was caught more firmly in the snare of it all. She was stuck staring at him.

He was gazing at her like a man lost at sea who had just caught sight of a lighthouse.

She stared at him and he stared at her.

And then, Fateux was pushing her dress over her shoulders and it fell down to pool on the ground around her ankles, and she was there in her stays and her shift beneath that.

Rutchester’s jaw worked. He dragged his gaze down over her entire body, and she felt the way he looked at her, and she realized it, she realized why she liked it when he looked at her as opposed to the way Fateux looked at her.

When Fateux looked at her, it was a declaration of his power over her.

When Rutchester looked at her, it was a declaration of her power over him.

It was different.

But she didn’t know if it mattered, because she didn’t have any power in this situation, not in any measurable way. It wasn’t as if she could stop this from happening.

No, there was some other power in this room right now—it wasn’t her power, and it wasn’t Fateux’s, and it wasn’t Rutchester’s. It was another power, an ancient power, something that moved through each of them and swayed them all to its deep thrum.

It was not her own power, no, but it was hers to wield in this moment, somehow, hers to own and hers to embody.

It twined itself into her, and she was alive with it, alive like the sunrise over a tangle of growing vines, alive like the in and out of the tides, alive like the change of the seasons, alive and aligned .

She sucked in a breath and she lifted her chin and she stared down Rutchester.

He shuddered. He felt it.

Fateux was still there, undoing her stays, but Fateux didn’t matter anymore.

Rutchester watched, lips parted, eyes half-lidded, noisy breath coming through his nostrils, transfixed by her, as Fateux peeled off her stays and then her shift and then pushed her drawers down.

She could have felt weak. She was the only one naked in the room. She didn’t, though, and she wasn’t sure why that was.

Fateux pushed her again, and she tripped over her clothes on the floor and fell into Rutchester again.

But this time, he didn’t push her away. He gathered her up against him, holding her carefully and reverently.

One of his huge, warm hands splayed out against her back and he supported her as he tucked her against his wide, wide chest.

“Go,” said Rutchester to Fateux, and she felt his voice rumble through her as he spoke.

“No, no,” said Fateux, though his voice wasn’t quite as strong as it had been. “I need to be here to make sure you don’t lose control, like we said.”

Rutchester tightened his grip on her. “ Go. ”

“If I go, you won’t do it,” said Fateux, his voice growing stronger.

Rutchester stiffened and then…

He let go of her, backing up, further into the room, turning his back on them both. He bowed his head, resembling nothing so much as an angry bull, head down, ready to charge.

Fear trilled through her again. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She felt vulnerable and exposed now. She missed the way it had felt to be in his arms. It had been safe there, and some part of her had known it in some way she could not quite explain.

The bed was against the far wall, a window over it, curtains open just an inch to reveal the darkness of the night outside. Rutchester sat down heavily on the bed and bowed his head.

Fateux swore under his breath in French. He came up behind her, putting his hand on her hip.

His touch made her skin crawl. She let out a little noise of dismay.

Fateux urged her forward, and she went, as much to get away from the way he was touching her as anything else.

“Perhaps,” said Fateux, as they approached the bed and the hulking form of the seated Rutchester, “you wish me to warm her up for you.”

Rutchester rubbed his face with one hand. He looked up and his eyes were shining. “What happened to you, Fateux? I know what happened to me , but what happened to you?”

Fateux laughed. “Oh, you mean when I was chased from my chateau or when my mother and sisters were beheaded on the guillotine? When my wife betrayed me with my closest friend? When I—”

“All right, shut your mouth,” said Rutchester dully. He turned his gaze on her. He rubbed the heel of his hand over his cheek.