With grim efficiency they saddled Odin, his fastest thoroughbred, and he launched onto its back and thundered through the gates of his estate, determined to catch the reprobate who’d thought to harm Phillipa.
Orwell may have kidnapped Phillipa to marry her by force. Or he may have taken her simply to have his pleasure with her. But either way, the blackguard would take her body against her will. Anthony’s gut tightened. He despised men who raped or hurt the fairer sex. He would crush Orwell if he so much as touched Phillipa’s hair.
Anthony rode low in the saddle, Odin’s hoof beating like thunder as his long powerful strides ate up the distance. Orwell was ahead by at least an hour, but he traveled in a carriage. Even though it was pulled by a team of four, Anthony’s single mount would be much faster.
Storm clouds darkened the sky, and the cold rolled over him in chilly waves. Despite Orwell’s head start, if Anthony was headed in the right direction, he should catch up before the rain started. He sped into the windy night, hoping that Sebastian got his message informing him of his decision to marry.
Anthony would insist he and Phillipa marry if he could not extricate them from the situation without scandal. And there was a slim chance of that. Orwell would surely have seen to it that word got out of her ruin.
Before taking that step, Anthony would have to reveal the truth of his birth to her…much sooner than he’d planned. He prayed the fact he was a bastard would not turn her against him. Or worse, somehow become public knowledge. He didn’t know what he would do if she refused to marry him.
But first he must rescue her from Orwell’s clutches.
He sent a fervent prayer to God that he would find her alive…and unharmed.
…
Phillipa squirmed and twisted, bucking wildly against the fiend who held her, striking him ineffectually with her parasol. She saw his fist crashing down toward her face, and could do nothing but lurch backward to avoid its full impact. The blow glanced off the side of her head. Terror exploded inside her at the look of savage enjoyment on his face at her pain and terror. The carriage jostled, throwing her against the swabs with jarring force and she dropped the parasol.
“You are a madman, Lord Orwell!” she hissed, sounding far braver than she felt. “You will not get away with this. My father will see you hanged!”
Orwell barked out a laugh. “You honestly think anyone will believe your merchant father over a noble lord? It is you who are mad, my dear girl. And I am sure your family would be beside themselves with joy if I decide to make you my wife.”
Phillipa ground her teeth, wincing at the pain in her jaw. Unfortunately, he was probably right. Especially given the untenable position in which she found herself. Her only choice was between Orwell and complete ruination for her and her entire family.
He had come out of nowhere, grabbing her right off the streets. Regret flared that she had dismissed her maid, taking pleasure in walking the short distance to her home without someone watching her every move.
“You will ignore me no longer. I have begged, cajoled, sent you gifts, and you still rebuffed my attentions at every turn.”
“Attentions? You tried to make me your whore,” she spat out, swiping up her parasol again. The delicate fabric was torn.
“I asked you to be my wife…before I found out your true nature,” he said, his eyes glowing with lust. “You will never get a better offer than to be my mistress. Phillipa, I desire you in a way I have never desired another woman. I must have you. You will say yes.”
She shrieked as he came at her. She swung her parasol, smacking him in the eye. He howled, and ripped it from her hands, tossing it to the floor and reached for her again. She swung her fist at him. Pain splintered through her hand. She reeled as he slapped her hard, her vision wheeling.
“I will not be used by you!” she cried, even as despair swamped over her. No one had seen him take her, and when her abduction was discovered, her reputation would be shredded beyond repair.
It would not matter that she was the innocent victim of his despicable deed. The stain would be on her and her family. A harsh sob ripped from her chest, and fury filled her at society’s hypocrisy.
The carriage lumbered along a street, jarring and jostling her as it ran over cobbled stone. She lunged desperately for the carriage door and hollered at the top of her lungs, praying someone would hear her over the din.
“Quiet!” He rapped his knuckles against her head sharply, and she cried out in pain.
Orwell was insane. She was at the mercy of a raving lunatic. Never had she dreamed he would do something so horrible and underhanded.
“I cannot wait to taste you.” He moved in and wet kisses peppered her face and neck, sweaty hands tore at her sleeves.
“No!” Her scream split the air as he flung her on the cushion and shrugged off his coat.
“I must have you. Now.”
She lunged for the small brazier by her legs, grabbed the iron handle of the grate, and swung it at him. He roared, ducking to avoid her blow, but it struck his head with a sharp rap. His savage howl filled her with satisfaction. He leaped at her, enraged, his strength overwhelming. He was powerfully built, and she had never been more aware of her own body’s fragility.
“Do not do this,” she cried as his hand thrust under her dress, fighting to tear off her bloomers. Her mind frantically searched for a way to deter him. “Lord Anthony will kill you if you besmirch me!”
He went suddenly still. “What did you say?” he growled, his fingers squeezing her jaw.
“Lord Anthony made an offer for me yesterday. I accepted. He will kill you for what you are doing, I promise.” Fear squeezed her insides at the manic look that stole over his face. But at least he had stopped his assault.
“Have you let him touch you?” Spittle flew from his mouth. “Have you?” he screamed squeezing her jaw even tighter.
“I—”
He searched her face and his anger slowly turned to cold fury. Then a howl of madness ripped from him. “I saw you in the garden with him at last night’s ball. If you have given yourself to him, it is I who will kill him.” Orwell’s mouth crushed down on hers, his teeth savaging her lips.
Her desperation grew as she tasted the coppery tang of her own blood. “Stop!”
“If you have given him what rightfully belongs to me, I will destroy him! The only reason your other lover still breathes is because he lives on another continent.” Orwell’s voice was gravelly with anger and arousal.
Fear cramped her stomach.
With a rip, he tor
e the bodice of her muslin gown in two and grabbed her breast through her corset.
“No!” she screamed in pain at his savage grip.
With the brute force of his muscular thighs, he opened her legs.
A gag rose in her throat. She could feel the press of his manhood through his trousers digging into her stomach. Desperately, she searched for something, anything, she could use as a weapon. Hope surged through her as she spied the pistol that hung loosely from his jacket pocket. She grabbed it.
He was so intent on his attack, he reacted too late to stop her.
She cocked the hammer. The soft snick echoed through the carriage. His hazel eyes narrowed in rage.
She pressed the muzzle into his soft belly, uncaring that he might feel the trembling of her hands. So much the better. She could accidentally shoot him.
Or not so accidentally.
“Get away from me,” she ordered between her teeth.
The carriage lurched, but her grip remained tight. He slowly backed away and sank back onto the cushioned seat opposite her. She thought he would feel fear at having a pistol trained on him. Instead, a smile teased his lips. The smile frightened her more than his assault.
“I will shoot you,” she warned lethally. “Stop this carriage at once.”
“I will not.”
She raised the pistol a fraction. “Do it now.”
“You will not shoot me. You will be hanged. Your family made pariahs. Not even fleeing across the ocean would save them this time.”
She forced her hands to steady as she aimed the gun at his black heart.
“Go ahead.” He taunted her with cruel laughter. “I am a lord. You are an American nobody, offended that I spurned her advances.”
“You will not live to tell a tale,” she said coldly, wishing she could end his miserable life. She desperately wanted to pull the trigger, but fear cramped her stomach. What if he was right? She would hang, her family disgraced, even though he attempted to rape her. And if they married, it would no longer be rape. It would be his right.
She had confided his obsessive pursuit of her to no one save Elisabeth, and Elisabeth’s father would never allow her to testify in court. Not even to save Phillipa’s life. Their association would ruin her friend, as well.