of them in one night, or if I’ll be forced to stop over in some miserable inn.”
She couldn’t help but laugh a little.
“I’m not joking,” he said.
“Of course you are. You’re the Monster of Mayfair, not the Murderer.”
“You are my wife. Some villain took advantage of you.”
“I wasn’t your wife then, and he didn’t take advantage. I made my own choice. It may have been a poor choice, but it was mine. Besides, even if you desired to kill him, the war beat you to it.”
He cursed under his breath. “There’s still your father. He treated you abominably. Pestilent codpiece.”
Emma had to hide her face, lest he see how close she was to tears. She’d never been able to shake the feeling that perhaps her father had been right. That it was her fault—not entirely, but in part. Perhaps she had been a shameless hussy for seeking passion and love. At the least, she’d been a fool.
For that reason, she’d long resolved to keep emotions out of any relationship. However, it was growing more and more difficult to keep that resolution—not merely by the day, but by the hour. She was feeling too much tenderness toward the man currently plotting murder at her side. No matter that he deflected any suggestion of decency with a jaded, biting humor and had determined to convince the world of his monstrous nature.
Emma knew the truth. He wasn’t a saint, and he wasn’t easy to live with. But he did possess a heart—a large and loyal one—and some part of it was now committed to defending her. How could she fail to be moved?
“Come.” He tucked her beneath a heap of bed linens. “Will four quilts do tonight? Or should I fetch another?”
“Four quilts are fine, thank you. Can you . . . I’m feeling a bit fragile right now. It would mean a great deal if you’d hold me. You know, with your arms.”
Brilliant, Emma. As if he might have tried to hold her with his knees or eyelids without those instructions.
After a brief hesitation, he slid beneath the four quilts and draped his arm about her shoulders. He was growing very good at these things. Just as she had in the dark at Swanlea, she felt secure and protected. Safe.
She’d almost drifted into a warm, comforted sleep—
When he slipped from the bed and left the room.
It was well after midnight when Ash reached the village.
He slowed his horse to a walk as he approached the borders of the sleepy hamlet, then roped it to a tree branch beside a stream. The gelding deserved a rest, along with water and a graze. And for his part, Ash needed to make a stealthy approach.
It proved easy enough to find the right house—the smug cottage sitting next to the church. Just looking at it made him furious. The white boxes beneath the windows, stuffed with innocent red and pink geraniums. Botanical lies, every last one.
He found a place where a stone fence bordered the house and used it to hoist himself up on the ledge, just below the largest window. The one that looked out on the church.
He was prepared to put a wrapped fist through the window, but he found it was unnecessary. Apparently no one latched their windows in a goodly little village like this.
He lifted the window sash, then thrust his lantern through the opening. Bending himself nearly double, he managed to work one leg through, and then the other. Not the most graceful of entrances, but then—suaveness wasn’t his purpose tonight.
“Who are you?” An old man shot up in bed and pressed his back to the headboard. “What are you?”
“What do you think?” Ashbury raised his lantern to the gnarled, scarred side of his face and took pleasure in the vicar’s anguished whimper. “A demon come to drag you to Hell, you miserable wretch.”
“To Hell? M-me?”
“Yes, you. You crusty botch of nature. You poisonous bunch-backed toad. Sitting in this weaselly little house full to reeking with betrayal and . . .” He waved at the nearest shelf. “And ghastly curtains.”
“What’s wrong with the curtains?”
“Everything!” he roared.
The old bastard drew the covers up to his chin and began to weep.
Excellent.
“Never mind the curtains, you milk-livered, flap-mouthed dotard.” He loomed over the bed. “There aren’t any windows in Hell.”
“No. No, this can’t be.”
Ash stepped back at once. “Oh, it can’t? Perhaps I have the wrong house.” He drew a scrap of something from his pocket and peered down at it. “Vicarage . . . Buggerton, Hertfordshire . . .”
“This is Bellington.”
Ash straightened the paper and made a show of peering at it. “Yes, you’re right. Bellington, Hertfordshire. Reverend George Gladstone. That’s not you?”
The old man moaned. “It’s me.”
“Thank Pluto.” He crumpled the paper and cast it to the floor. “Such a nuisance when I cock these things up. It’s a devil of a delay when there’s so much to be done. Once you arrive in the eternal furnace, there are sinful debts to be settled. ‘Hell to pay’ is not merely a saying. Then there are the endless papers to be signed and filed.”
“Papers to be filed?”
“Naturally there are papers. It should surprise no one to learn that Hell is a vast, inefficient bureaucracy.”
“I suppose not,” the old man said meekly.
“Now where was I? Oh, yes.” He lifted the lantern and made his voice an unholy crescendo. “Prepare for eternal hellfire!”
“B-but I’m a vicar! I have been a faithful servant of the Lord.”
“Liar!”
The clergyman quivered. A dark puddle seeped across the dimly lit bed linens, and one sniff told Ashbury what it was. The craven piece of filth had pissed the bed.
“You are the veriest varlet that ever took to the pulpit. Doesn’t your Holy Bible have something to say about forgiveness?”
The man cowered in silence.
“No, truly. I’m asking. Doesn’t it? I’m a demon, I don’t read the thing.”
“Y-yes, of course. The gospel is a story of grace and redemption.”
Ash stepped toward the foot of the bed, until he loomed over the shrinking reverend, and lifted the lantern high. “Then why, you rank, miserable, piss-soaked serpent, did you fail to offer that grace to your own daughter?”
“Emma?”
“Yes,
