The barge rolled slightly beneath her as she sat at the small dressing table and stared upon her reflection in the gilded mirror. Her large brown eyes gazed back at her—too big, in her opinion. They were certainly nothing like Lady Joanna’s stormy blue ones. She immediately reprimanded herself for the comparison. Bloodsworth had not chosen Lady Joanna. He had picked her, Annalise, for his bride.
They had cast off some time ago and Bloodsworth left her so she could prepare herself. Prepare herself. For some reason the words made her feel like a goose before Christmas dinner. She shook the thought aside and considered herself critically, hoping Bloodsworth—Richard—would approve.
Sighing, she fussed with one of the ribbons at her throat. She supposed the nightgown was satisfactory. By no means seductive, it was still the prettiest thing she had ever worn to bed. The fabric was the finest lawn—virginal white with several delicate, pale blue ribbons braided through the neckline and tied off in a bow at the center of her chest.
She glanced to the cabin door, wondering where her husband had disappeared to. There couldn’t be too many places to hide on the barge. That look on his face rose up in her mind, and she gnawed at the corner of her lip. She closed her eyes in a tight blink and told herself to think no more of it. She had likely imagined it—projected it upon him because of her own embarrassment for losing her footing.
Rising, she moved to the window and gazed out at the river. A soft current rippled the black surface. The moon gleamed down, leaving a ribbon of glowing white on the undulating water.
The door opened behind her, and she turned, the hem of her nightgown whispering at her ankles as her bare feet rotated on the floorboards. Bloodsworth—Richard—stood there, leaning one shoulder into the doorjamb, a glass of port in his hand. He gazed at her thoughtfully, wearing that boyish smile she adored.
She tried not to fidget beneath his perusal.
“Frightened?” he queried, taking a sip.
She shook her head. Perhaps too quickly. “A bit,” she allowed, returning his smile with a tremulous one of her own.
He pushed off the door and closed it after him with a soft and final click.
Suddenly she was aware of how alone they were. Her throat thickened and she fought to swallow. She had never been alone with a man before. The air throbbed with a strained silence around them—as though they were sealed inside a tomb, secreted away from the world.
She knew there were two members of his staff on board. His valet, to see to their needs and someone steering the vessel abovedeck, but it felt as though they were utterly alone, cast adrift in a vast sea. When he first suggested the wedding be held at his family estate followed by a night aboard their very own wedding barge, she had thought the idea romantic and thoughtful. It had only confirmed her belief that she was the luckiest of girls.
Only now, on this barge, in this cabin, floating down a dark river, she wished they had married in St. James with all the pomp and ceremony of any peer’s wedding. She longed to hear the steady pulse of Town bustling outside her window. She missed the gentle cacophony lulling her to sleep. Somehow there was comfort . . . safety in the busy clatter.
He advanced on her. She held her breath, releasing it in a soft whoosh when he stepped past her to gaze out at the river.
“Beautiful night.”
She turned to follow his gaze out the window. “Yes. It’s been an altogether lovely day. A lovely wedding.”
She felt his gaze return to her face. She held her poise, her hands clasped together before her.
“It was, was it not?” he mused. “A memory to keep. Something to . . . cherish.”
If his comment struck her as strange, she didn’t reveal it. If an even odder sense of disquiet grew in her belly, she did not reveal that, either.
“Tired?” he asked.
She nodded, and then stopped, having no wish for him to think her too wearied and resistant to the notion of sharing a bed with him.
Her gaze skimmed over him. She knew the sight of him well by now—had memorized his tall slimness, his slightly sloping shoulders, the narrow waist. For nigh on a year he had been the embodiment of all her dreams.
He set his glass down and motioned to the bed with an elegant sweep of his hand. “Shall we?”
Her pulse leapt against her throat. She nodded perhaps too briskly. With her heart beating like a drum in her chest, she moved to the bed and sat upon its edge, folding her hands in her lap. At sight of her rough, chapped fingers, she winced, wishing she could hide them within gloves. Perhaps they would soften with time and be the sort of hands more fitting of a duchess.
He approached the bed. She stared steadfastly at his legs, too nervous to look up and meet his gaze.
With one finger he lifted her chin. His gaze held hers, and he was looking at her in that considering way he sometimes did. It wasn’t unkind or disapproving. It was speculative. As though she was something alien, something not quite decipherable. Not unusual, she supposed. He probably never imagined himself marrying the likes of her.
“Lie back on the bed,” he instructed evenly.
She hesitated at his command, at the flatness of his voice, relaxing only when he smiled. “Don’t fret. We are married now, are we not?”
She nodded and scooted back on the bed. Her heart pounded like a wild bird, fighting to burst free of her chest, of this room.
Her nervousness grew into something else as he crawled above her on the bed, his thighs settling on either side of her hips. His eyes pinned her in place, and fear stirred in her heart. She batted it back. He was her husband. Handsome. Charming. A duke. She had waited her whole life for him. There was no reason to fear him. None at all.
His eyes grew darker as they gazed down at her. Deep and dark. She blinked and looked away, looking back only when he said her name.
“Annalise. Look at me.” He loomed over her, his hands coming to rest on either side of her head, trapping the long strands of her hair beneath his palms.
She wet her lips. “Yes.”
He brought his face closer, his mouth a hair’s breadth from hers. The brandy on his breath wafted over lips. “Are you ready?”
She inhaled a sharp breath. No.
“Y-Yes,” she managed to get out, knowing it was her duty to comply. It was right. The correct thing to do. Even if some vague instinct shouted at her to get up, to squeeze out from under him and flee. She nodded. He chose her. Above all others. Even the dazzling Lady Joanna. He cared for her.
His smile deepened, a familiar dimple appearing in his cheek, softening him into that boyishly handsome man she had met so many months ago.
He traced his finger down her cheek. “I’m sorry. This may hurt a bit.”
She nodded jerkily. “I—I know.” She had heard as much from others. Her mother explained it once in somewhat vague terms, but she had understood. And then there had been the other shop girls who worked for Madame Brouchard. They were far more experienced than she. They had always shared stories of their exploits.
His head cocked to the side, his dark eyes glinting. “Do you?”
“I’ve been told as much, yes . . . but afterward it won’t hurt again.”
He angled his head, studying her with a sharpness that made her think of the hawks that had hunted the mice in the field behind the manor home of Mrs. Danvers, her mother’s employer. “No. I suppose it won’t. You shall never feel pain again beyond this initial discomfort. That is some comfort, at least. Cling to that, my dear.”
His hand moved so quickly then that she could not calculate his intent.
There was a flash of white, a blur of the pillow coming toward her, but she could not comprehend its purpose.
Until it was too late.
Until the soft, luxuriant fabric slapped down on her face, plunging her into a world of relentless dark and pain.
Her neck snapped back as he pushed down. Hard. Bearing her head and shoulders deep into the bed. She felt the bruising pressure of his two hands on her face, one at her cheek and another at her chin.
She opened her mouth but couldn’t cry out. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t breathe.
The smooth cotton filled her mouth, covering her tongue, muffling her sounds. Wild, panicked half-words and fractured thoughts.
No . . . Please . . . Don’t . . . Why. . .
Her hands searched, flailed all around her, grabbing at the pillow, clenching its softness in aching-tight fingers, desperate to rip the offending object from her face.
No good. He held tight and pushed, pushed, pushed.
Her legs kicked. Even her lame leg lashed out, her heel beating uselessly on the bed, fighting against the crushing weight of him. Her husband. Killing her . . .
Fear closed around her. Oh, God. I’m dying.
A desperate burning withered her lungs. She struggled against him, against her death. Her hands found his arms, his neck, his face. She clawed, scratched, scored his flesh until she felt his blood wet her nails. His curse dimly registered. She was rewarded with a sharp explosion of knuckles to her ribs. She gasped on a mouthful of linen. No air. No air anywhere.
A smooth blanket of calm settled over her, edging out the sharp sting of panic. Even the pain in her shriveling lungs abated.
Fighting wouldn’t stop him. It wouldn’t save her. She was too weak.
Faces flashed through her mind, her mother, the children in her village, Mrs. Danvers, the shop girls she lived with. Their eyes watched her, floating above her where Bloodsworth pinned her to the bed. Their eyes surveyed her as they had in life. Scornful. Judging. She could hear their voices.
Useless cripple. Weak.
She stilled. Utterly. Her hands fell limply at her sides, heavy as lead. Her chapped fingers opened, unfurling like the softest of petals. Fighting only proved to him she still lived. Only made him keep killing her.
Perhaps if she held herself still he would think he had succeeded. That he had successfully murdered her.
And perhaps he had. She could feel nothing anymore. A dark fog rolled in, dimming her awareness, eating at her thoughts, devouring the last of her.
All there was left. All there would ever be.