The Taking by Erin McCarthy

house, and within months he would be solely reliant on his income as a banker to survive, hence his desperate desire to marry her. Camille found it amusing that a banker had no money, but not amusing enough to bind herself to him in marriage.
    As far as she was concerned, he should have had the good sense not to lose all his money gambling.
    When they pulled up to the crossroad of his street and the main thoroughfare, Camille ordered her coachman to stop. “I’m going for a quick stroll,” she said. “I shall return momentarily.”
    “Miss, I don’t think that you should go alone.”
    But she ignored him, vaulting down with no assistance, and set off at a quick pace along the street, her linen gown swirling around her legs, her skin dewy from the humidity. She had chosen to wear dancing slippers instead of boots so that she could remove them in front of Mr. Tradd’s, and she did just that as she approached the lawn in front of his residence. The street had gaslights, which allowed her to see, yet weren’t strong enough to alert any neighbors to her presence should they glance outside.
    The door of his Greek Revival home was red, which made her laugh. It was the color said to ward off evil spirits, but it would not prevent her from infusing his household with her magic. Of course, she knew she wasn’t evil, just determined. But perhaps the magic was evil. It was of no importance to her as long as her goal was achieved. She would fling the very flames of Hell at his house if it would rid her of his presence. She padded across the dry lawn, slippers in hand, toes unaccustomed to the feel of the hard ground. Since the rainstorms of early July, when the fevers had come, the summer had been dry, which would suit her purposes.
    Throwing her arms out, she tipped her head back and did a slow pirouette, resting all her weight on her left foot as she completed a full rotation.
    Nine, eight. She stared up at the wide-open sky, thick, dark clouds rolling in as she chanted softly, “Mr. Tradd, Mr. Tradd.”
    Seven, six. Warm air rushed over her face as she spun faster, commanding, “Be gone, be gone.”
    Five, four. “Stay away, stay away.” Dizziness enveloped her, but she focused on the sky, on her desire.
    Three, two. “From me, from me.”
    One. “Or die.”
    She ground to a halt, her head swimming, body listing to the left, off balance from spinning, and she smiled at the sensation as she righted her head and black spots danced in front of her eyes. Reaching down, she yanked up a piece of the foliage and the dirt beneath it.
    Taking aim, she hurled the handful as hard as she could at his front door When it made contact with a satisfying thwack, Camille let out a triumphant cheer. She had never, never in her entire life of being the perfect daughter, the perfect lady, thrown anything, and it was exhilarating.
    And she’d made her mark.
    Laughing, she grabbed her slippers, picked up her skirts, and raced off down the street as fast as her legs could carry her. Moisture dripped down her back and her corset shifted on her breast. Pins fell out of her hair from the jostling, allowing the long tresses to tumble loose, and her hand was covered in dirt and grass.
    She had never felt so free or powerful, bare feet scraping and tearing as she ran over the stones. When she arrived at her waiting carriage, she was not in control of her speed, and when she tried to jump up onto the step, she slipped and smacked down onto the stones.
    Her coachman gasped and was getting down to assist, but she paused on the stones, hands and knees on the ground, head staring at the muddy step, the sting of pain in her palms and beneath her skirts. Her lungs burned from the exertion and she’d lost a slipper, but at that moment, the acute sharpness of pain merged with the exhilaration of breaking all the rules, and she had never felt so alive in her entire life.
    It was crystalline, heady, the wild thrill of freedom, and she didn’t want it to go