The Passion by Donna Boyd Page B

feeble and inane "You—
    you're speaking English!"
    His scowl, if possible, grew even more fierce. "Of course I am. Aren't you?"
    "I—yes, I—"
    "Your name, damn it!"
    She gulped again and with al the courage at her command she held her position; she did not turn and flee. She even managed to speak, and her voice did not sound nearly as hol ow or as feeble as she felt inside. "My name is Tessa. I—you were injured and I—"
    "And you're the one who tried to stick a knife in my ribs, and made a mess of it, too." He pushed himself upright in bed, dragging a blood-encrusted hand through his hair. He grimaced when he looked at his fingers, and his voice was impatient. "The next time you take it into your head to play the assassin, wench, be more sure of your aim." He stifled a groan and touched his fingers gingerly to his chest.
    "I feel as though my ribs have been kicked in by a horse."
    He sat back against the pil ows with an exaggerated wince, rubbing the healed scar. "Damnation, I need a bath, and I'm in no temper to deal with you now.
    I'm starved. Where's my valet? Don't just stand there gaping, girl, fetch him! And clean yourself—
    you're offensive to look at. Attend me in an hour.
    Now go, before I have you for breakfast! Gault!" he shouted, flinging himself forward.
    Tessa ran to the door, fumbled with the bolt, threw it open. Gault was waiting there with an army of servants, each bearing a covered dish or a tray or a cart from which meats and breads steamed and simmered, fil ing the corridor with their succulent aromas. The valet smirked at her, giving the impression that he had been waiting outside the door for no other reason man to put her in bad graces with the master. And when she edged past him, her heart thundering in her chest and her eyes wide and wary, he suddenly lunged and bared his teeth at her, hissing. Tessa could not prevent the cry that escaped her as she fled, and she heard his laughter al the way to her attic room.
    Doubtless no one would have stopped Tessa if she had left the house then. Certainly no one—no one human, that is—would have blamed her. In fact, that alternative never even occurred to Tessa. She had spent so much of her life simply planning the murder, waiting for it, hoping for it, etching out the details night after night in her mind, that there had been no room left over in her imagination for what would happen afterward. Whether he lived or died, Tessa had no place to go from here.
    Not that she could have left him in any event. Not now. Not having seen what she had seen and knowing what she now knew, and with so many questions swirling unanswered in her head.
    Mme. Crol iere approached Tessa as she vaulted up the back stairs, her countenance thunderous and her crop raised. "There you are, you wicked girl!
    You think you can steal from your bed and shirk your duties to conduct your nasty little liaisons—not in my household you cannot! Alors !"
    She stopped suddenly when she noticed Tessa's bloodied garments, her disarranged hair and wild eyes. Mme. Crol iere's own eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared noticeably as she took in the story in scent. "Ah, so it was you with the chickens!" she observed with a satisfied smirk. "I wil inform Lavalier and let him deal with you. He's anxious to put someone's head on the block and no one wil be sorry to know it's you . And if you think you can ingratiate yourself to the master, I wil tel you now that he discards little nothings like you as easily as he tosses aside old linen. And I wil not have it with my girls, I've told him—"
    Staring at her, Tessa said dul y, "You're one of them, aren't you?"
    The housekeeper's eyes narrowed once again, although her sharp chin seemed to jerk a little with suppressed amusement. Her only response, however, was a disparaging sniff. "Clean yourself up, you filthy creature, before someone sees you. I'll not have it said that one of my girls stank up the house. Off with you!"
    She raised the riding