The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

Daniel brushed his lips to the corner of her mouth, so softly he made her shake. Then he licked his way inside her mouth again, the taste of him bold, dangerous.

Black spots spun before Violet’s eyes. She gasped and found her mouth full 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 she’d killed Daniel Mackenzie, even accidentally—a man from one of the wealthiest families in Britain and nephew to a powerful duke—Violet would be made to pay.

If she claimed she’d struck out in fear, that Daniel had attacked her, Violet would be blamed for putting herself into his power in the first place. If she argued that Mortimer had brought Daniel here, and Daniel had lingered inappropriately, she’d be blamed for taking up such an unladylike profession. After all, she’d allowed gentlemen to enter her house, unchaperoned, at such an hour.

Even if the jury were sympathetic to her, Violet still would be punished for killing him or hurting him, if he recovered. She’d be sent to prison or transported, Mary along with her, and possibly her mother too. Violet had seen firsthand the unevenness of the law and its prejudice against women. A jury of men would look upon Violet and happily condemn her before leaving the courtroom to visit their mistresses on their way home to their wives.

“Help me get him into the cart,” Violet said quickly. “And go wake up Mama and pack what you can. We are going.”

“Going? But miss—”

“We can’t risk staying. Mortimer and his friends will know Mr. Mackenzie came here tonight. Even if we’ve only hurt him, we can’t count on the Mackenzies not bringing the law down on us. No matter what, if we are far away when he’s discovered, the better for us.”