A Lady's Vanishing Choices by Wareeze Woodson

everything.” He kissed her trembling lips. “I had special plans for you.” Allowing his jaw to tighten, he whispered, “Stupid little English girl. A pity. You could have worked at the Foreign Office gathering information for me.” He continued to stare deep into her eyes. “Cleaning, or perhaps working on your back. Your true calling.” Laughing with a deep ring of pleasure, he mocked, “You could have joined me in my quest. But now . . .” He shrugged.
    Tears streaked down her cheeks. “Forgive me. Let me help you now,” she begged.
    “Too late.” He watched terror fill her eyes. “That’s right, my sweet. No one, especially a woman, a woman such as you, orders me to do anything. You thought because you pleased me in bed, you could issue demands?”
    Trying to control his ragged breathing, he drew the swordstick lightly over her bindings. A small rip sounded, but her bonds held. “A jest, my sweet. Raised your hopes, I dare say. You thought I had finished with you, didn’t you?” He could hardly contain his elation as he raised his sword only to plunge the blade into her breast over and over again, several satisfying times.
    The excitement running through his veins increased while he watched her struggle to draw a breath. Finally, she laid completely still, her life drained away, and he gradually rose from the bed, his breathing heavy. Soon I will be able to rid myself of every encumbrance that plagues my life and be reunited with my precious Joliet.
    Stepping into his clothes, he didn’t bother to wash the spattered blood from his body. He loved the power that swamped him after the necessary kill. She had asked for her own death, the little slut, making greedy demands.
    He grimaced, wrapped the lifeless girl in a blanket, and quickly exited the back door of the pokey, rented cottage. Soon all shall be over, and I can shake the dust of this pretentious country from my feet and return to the civilized nation of my birth. Keep it together, mon ami. Tu devez.
    Later that night, the Frenchman’s eyes flew open and he immediately rubbed the small wound on his wrist. The little bitch marked me, but she paid—paid with her useless life. He smiled with a stretch of twisted lips.
    Glancing down at the woman beside him, he glared at her sleeping figure with contempt. The old hag was past her prime at nearly five and twenty, and it was well she had plenty of the ready to distract from her plain, unattractive self. He shuddered at the necessity of sleeping with her. Still, she had enough blunt to keep him in style—his due, after all.
    He laughed under his breath. If she only knew of the little dasher he had in his keeping in a snug little house on Mohan Street. She’d cut up his peace—until he cut her up. His fingers twitched. Control. Mustn’t lose it, like he had with that other little slut. He didn’t regret the death of that blonde tart, with her always whining, but he did miss moments with her. He sighed. Life isn’t fair.
    Take that fat fawn with his shaggy eyebrows. It isn’t proper or fair that the old wind-sucker is my superior. Why should such a gross Englishman have contacts in France and here in England as well, while I am tied by the heels in this blighted country? He sat up and moved to the side of the bed, rubbing his hand down his face. If only I can get my hands on that list of traitors, I’ll be set for life, a loyal follower of Napoleon. He’ll reward me. I’ll be promoted over that bushy-browed windbag. Sir, indeed. Harrumph.
    He couldn’t stand to lie abed a moment longer. He stood and began to pace. Now, if only he could pull things together, all would be well. He had agents under his command, but that wasn’t enough. Wanting more, he clenched his fist in frustration.
    He must prevent that paltry fellow from ruining everything. The inept bungler was under his command, after all. How had he let himself become tangled in the web of such an ineffectual man was beyond him. Still, he