of Daniel, tried to break away only to be wedged between the sideboard and wall, blocked by Daniel’s body.
Because Daniel was a handsome, virile, funny, intriguing, and sensual man, the situation should have had her melting in surrender. And Violet might have, despite her better judgment, if the panic hadn’t come.
Daniel’s face vanished, to be replaced with flashes of another—a red-bearded man with a white, mean face, small eyes, and hands that took and hurt. Sixteen-year-old Violet screamed and beat on her attacker.
No, no, please no! Someone help me!
But no one came. Her fists contacted an unyielding body, a weight she couldn’t move. Violet screamed again, terror swallowing her.
This can’t be happening! This can’t be happening!
“Lass?” a voice asked from far away. It was a voice Violet wanted to reach, one that meant safety, but waves of panic poured over her and wouldn’t let her free.
“Are ye all . . .” the distant voice said, and then it grunted.
Violet’s vision half cleared to see Mary, her maid, with the bolster from the parlor sofa in her hands. Violet’s attacker backed from her, rubbing his neck.
Her panic returned. She needed something stronger than a pillow to stop him. Violet’s hand connected with a heavy vase on the sideboard. Without stopping to think, she lifted it, brought it around, and bashed her attacker on the side of the head.
Violet heard a heavy groan, a “Lass,” and Mary’s startled cry.
Her vision cleared completely. Violet was standing in the dining room of the London house, a vase in her hand, a round-eyed Mary next to her holding a red velvet bolster.
Mr. Mackenzie, blood on his face, stared at Violet with a stunned expression. He said, “Lass,” one more time.
Then he fell over like a tree in a high wind, crashing headlong onto the dining room floor. The vase slipped from Violet’s numb fingers and shattered next to him.
Mary dropped to her knees, the bolster rolling away, her hands going to Daniel’s cold face and closed eyes.
“He ain’t breathing,” Mary said frantically. She patted his cheeks.
Violet sank next to Mary, her movements wooden. She stared down at the handsome face of Mr. Mackenzie, his lips pale now, his chest not rising.
Mary hastily unbuttoned his coat then tore open his waistcoat and shirt, pushing aside his undershirt to jam her hands to the space over his heart. Dark hair curled over his chest, his pectorals well defined. “I can’t find his heartbeat,” Mary said.
Violet’s numbness left her with a jolt. She brushed Mary aside, and leaned down to put her ear to Daniel’s bare chest, trying to hold her breath and listen.
She heard nothing but the pounding of her own heart. The room whirled around her, undulating as though the machines were running again, the spirits rampaging.
Violet lifted her head. “Mary,” she said, barely able to squeeze out the words. “Oh God, I think I’ve killed him.”
Chapter 5
Mary got to her feet in panic. Violet shook Daniel, patted his cheeks, pried open one eye. He never responded, and his skin was growing clammy and cold.
“Mary, quickly, go for the doctor.”
“It’s too late for that,” Mary said, voice filled with fear. “Miss, if you’ve killed him . . . Oh Lord, he’s a rich man, and we’re nothing. We’ll go to prison. We’ll be hanged.” Mary’s hands fluttered. “What about your poor mum?”
“Stop! Stop, let me think.”
But Violet couldn’t think. She sat back on her knees, the room still darting and spinning. Mary waited to be commanded, because Violet always knew what to do.
But this was different from deciding how much to charge for the performances or from Violet telling her mother what to wear every day, and where to go and what to do. Violet had done all this since the age of seven, when she’d realized her mother had no idea how to take care of a daughter. Or herself, for that matter.
Violet pressed her fingers to her temples. If
Because Daniel was a handsome, virile, funny, intriguing, and sensual man, the situation should have had her melting in surrender. And Violet might have, despite her better judgment, if the panic hadn’t come.
Daniel’s face vanished, to be replaced with flashes of another—a red-bearded man with a white, mean face, small eyes, and hands that took and hurt. Sixteen-year-old Violet screamed and beat on her attacker.
No, no, please no! Someone help me!
But no one came. Her fists contacted an unyielding body, a weight she couldn’t move. Violet screamed again, terror swallowing her.
This can’t be happening! This can’t be happening!
“Lass?” a voice asked from far away. It was a voice Violet wanted to reach, one that meant safety, but waves of panic poured over her and wouldn’t let her free.
“Are ye all . . .” the distant voice said, and then it grunted.
Violet’s vision half cleared to see Mary, her maid, with the bolster from the parlor sofa in her hands. Violet’s attacker backed from her, rubbing his neck.
Her panic returned. She needed something stronger than a pillow to stop him. Violet’s hand connected with a heavy vase on the sideboard. Without stopping to think, she lifted it, brought it around, and bashed her attacker on the side of the head.
Violet heard a heavy groan, a “Lass,” and Mary’s startled cry.
Her vision cleared completely. Violet was standing in the dining room of the London house, a vase in her hand, a round-eyed Mary next to her holding a red velvet bolster.
Mr. Mackenzie, blood on his face, stared at Violet with a stunned expression. He said, “Lass,” one more time.
Then he fell over like a tree in a high wind, crashing headlong onto the dining room floor. The vase slipped from Violet’s numb fingers and shattered next to him.
Mary dropped to her knees, the bolster rolling away, her hands going to Daniel’s cold face and closed eyes.
“He ain’t breathing,” Mary said frantically. She patted his cheeks.
Violet sank next to Mary, her movements wooden. She stared down at the handsome face of Mr. Mackenzie, his lips pale now, his chest not rising.
Mary hastily unbuttoned his coat then tore open his waistcoat and shirt, pushing aside his undershirt to jam her hands to the space over his heart. Dark hair curled over his chest, his pectorals well defined. “I can’t find his heartbeat,” Mary said.
Violet’s numbness left her with a jolt. She brushed Mary aside, and leaned down to put her ear to Daniel’s bare chest, trying to hold her breath and listen.
She heard nothing but the pounding of her own heart. The room whirled around her, undulating as though the machines were running again, the spirits rampaging.
Violet lifted her head. “Mary,” she said, barely able to squeeze out the words. “Oh God, I think I’ve killed him.”
Chapter 5
Mary got to her feet in panic. Violet shook Daniel, patted his cheeks, pried open one eye. He never responded, and his skin was growing clammy and cold.
“Mary, quickly, go for the doctor.”
“It’s too late for that,” Mary said, voice filled with fear. “Miss, if you’ve killed him . . . Oh Lord, he’s a rich man, and we’re nothing. We’ll go to prison. We’ll be hanged.” Mary’s hands fluttered. “What about your poor mum?”
“Stop! Stop, let me think.”
But Violet couldn’t think. She sat back on her knees, the room still darting and spinning. Mary waited to be commanded, because Violet always knew what to do.
But this was different from deciding how much to charge for the performances or from Violet telling her mother what to wear every day, and where to go and what to do. Violet had done all this since the age of seven, when she’d realized her mother had no idea how to take care of a daughter. Or herself, for that matter.
Violet pressed her fingers to her temples. If
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