“You’re a monster,” she ground out.

He responded with a short laugh. “Suddenly I’m regretting that I did not sample what lies beneath your skirts . . .”

And yet he did not regret trying to kill her. Bile rose up in the back of her throat.

“Anna.” Owen’s voice rang out, and everything inside her seized.

Chapter Twenty-one

Relief, dread. Both sentiments washed over her.

Bloodsworth’s hand tightened on her arm again. “Is that him?” he demanded in a low voice.

She nodded and then stopped, catching herself. She did not know how to respond. She had never imagined this—Owen and Bloodsworth face-to-face. Of all the worst case scenarios, this was one she had not anticipated.

“Ah. I see that it is he. And from the lovely pink to your cheeks, I gather that you care for him. I imagine that it would hurt a great deal to be the sole reason for his demise.”

All the warmth bled out from her face as his meaning sank in. “You wouldn’t . . .”

He angled his head. “Truly? You think not? I would not even have to dirty my hands this time. I could simply hire some miscreant to dispatch him for me.” He uttered this as though he were remarking on the weather.

She quickly glanced at Owen and back to Bloodsworth again. She knew he spoke the truth. He’d suffer no compunction ending Owen’s life. Owen, who had only ever tried to help her, who tolerated her intrusion and demands on his life. He didn’t deserve such a fate. Especially after all he’d been through. He hadn’t survived a war to come home and be killed by the likes of Bloodsworth.

Her stomach rolled. She pressed a hand to her lips, fearing she might be ill. Swallowing back the tide of bile, she dropped her hand. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. The sudden urge to inflict violence upon Bloodsworth overcame her. He would not harm Owen. She must see to that. She would.

“Leave. Him. Be.”

The duke smiled. “Ah, such fire in your eyes. If looks could kill, I think I’d perish where I stand. Is this love then, my pet? Touching. And so tragic if he should die because you don’t know how to make yourself scarce. Because you didn’t know how to die like a good girl should.”

She flinched at this.

He tsked his tongue and shook his head as though she were a misbehaving child. “You should have never shown your face in Town. Really very unwise.”

“Promise not to harm him, and I’ll disappear.” She spoke quickly, her voice a feverish rush. “I’ll bury myself in some small corner of the country. In years, no one will even recall my face. I am quite forgettable. No one will remember you were ever even married to me.”

He scrutinized her, weighing her words, searching for the truth in her eyes. His gaze flicked to Owen, moving in their direction, before returning to her. “I believe you mean that.” And yet there was something in his words . . . a lingering distrust. Still, he nodded in agreement. “Very well. Know that if you surface, I will kill him. As soon as we part ways, I will follow you. I shall have his name and know where he lives. His life is in your hands.” His fingers tightened on her arm. “Understand?”

She nodded, a relieved breath escaping her. Owen’s fate was in her hands, and she would make certain he was not hurt.

At that moment Owen caught sight of her standing with Bloodsworth and paused. Everything about him tensed. It was imperceptible. And yet she saw it. She knew.

He flicked an imaginary piece of lint off the front of his jacket, but his gaze never left Bloodsworth. To the casual observer, he would appear nonchalant in manner, but she had made a study of Owen from the moment she opened her eyes to him in the back of Mirela’s wagon. She recognized the unwavering intensity of that gaze.

She well remembered his pose. The squared shoulders slightly pulled back. The tension feathering his clenched jaw. She had seen him like this before, on their picnic outside the fair when those two ruffians harassed them. And of course she had not forgotten what he did to those men with such ease and finesse.

Owen looked at her and then back to Bloodsworth, assessing, and she knew he was trying to correctly read the situation. Was Bloodsworth a stranger? Or someone she knew? A friend?

A quick glance revealed that Bloodsworth wore one of his artful smiles. The one she had always thought conveyed polite interest, but now she knew the darkest of thoughts lurked behind it.

Anxiety ribboned through her. Her hand pressed against her side, fingers curling, fisting the fabric of her skirts.

“Come. You have my word. Leave now,” she urged, hoping to avoid a confrontation between the two men.

“I should like to meet your lover,” he mused, clearly enjoying her misery.

“As yourself?” she hissed. “That will only complicate matters.”

He shrugged, neither agreeing or disagreeing.

“Please, stop toying with me,” she murmured. “I’ll leave Town this very night. Just . . . go.”

She couldn’t bear to watch Owen turn from her once he knew she was this man’s wife—and surely he would. She only had this last day with him . . . she did not want it full of ugliness.

Her husband cocked his head thoughtfully as Owen, who had paused slightly, now advanced on them, his strides swift and sure, his face cast in its usual blandness.

“Please, he will be upon us any moment.” She tugged at her arm, but Bloodsworth held fast.

“Anna.” Just the sound of that false name made her shiver. Not for the first time she wished Owen knew her real name. “Who is this?”

Bloodsworth cocked his head, surveying Owen.

“I—I—” She looked to her husband, the truth sticking in her throat.

Owen didn’t wait for her to answer, though. Or perhaps her hesitation was the only answer he needed. His gaze locked on Bloodsworth. “Take your hand off her.”

Her husband stiffened at her side, and she was quite certain this was the first time in his life anyone had issued him a command. He pulled back his shoulders, and she knew whatever his intent, he would reveal his identity now. “Do you know who I am?”

“I don’t need to know.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

She sucked in a breath, the tightness in her chest a physical ache.

This had become worse than facing Bloodsworth and falling into his clutches again. Owen turning his back on her—losing him. That was the worst part of all this. Even if she had to leave him.

She did not acknowledge the fact that she had never had Owen in the first place. Somehow she had felt bonded to him since the beginning. She had fooled herself into feeling safe with him. Absurd, when she was married to a man who would rather kill her than have her for a wife. She should have never been lulled into a sense of safety.

Owen was not hers. Never had that been clearer than now.

She blinked hard and long, waiting in dread for Bloodsworth to declare her his wife and for Owen to walk away. Except Bloodsworth didn’t say anything. He didn’t have the chance.

Opening her eyes, it was to find that Owen had moved with startling suddenness.

She gasped softly as his hand closed around Bloodsworth’s throat. “I can promise that if you don’t unhand her, you will know only pain.” He spoke slowly, succinctly, angling his head. “I’ve spent years learning how to inflict pain on men much more imposing than you. It will be an easy matter.”

There was something in his face, a steeliness in his eyes, a flatness in his voice, that guaranteed he meant every word.

The color leeched out of Bloodsworth’s face. Apparently he believed Owen.

His hand loosened but did not completely fall away from her arm. His tongue darted out over his lips. “You dare touch me? Threaten me?”

Annalise almost did not recognize his voice. Gone was the arrogant, lofty tone.

Owen nodded once. “Unless you want me to spill your blood all over this pretty jacket of yours, let her go.” The way his lip curled over the words told her he thought nothing of Bloodsworth’s fine attire. His knuckles whitened at Bloodsworth’s throat and she knew he was exerting more pressure.

Her husband’s face reddened as Owen continued, his voice a deep, ominous rumble. “It’s amazing how much blood is in the human face. It’s the head, really, I suppose. Those injuries always bleed the most.”

Bloodsworth’s eyes bulged. His hand trembled on her arm, and, as though he noticed the shameful tremor, he finally let her go.

Almost instantly Owen released him.

Annalise looked with astonishment at Bloodsworth. He was shaken, one hand rubbing at his throat as he took several steps back. This man whose memory had terrified her for so long was afraid. It dawned on her then that he was the veriest of cowards. One who bullied those weaker—such as an unsuspecting bride on her wedding night.

He glared at Owen as he backed farther away, lips pressed into a hard, cruel line.

A part of her should have been comforted at the ease in which Owen overpowered Bloodsworth, but she knew it did not matter. In his mind, he was calculating that he would have to hire multiple miscreants to kill Owen should she not follow through with her promise and vanish into obscurity.

“Anna,” Owen said, motioning her to his side, his gaze never straying from Bloodsworth. She moved in closer, allowing herself to take comfort in his nearness even though she knew it was fleeting. He could not protect her. Only she could protect him.

Her husband’s gaze slid to her and the threat she read there made her throat seize. He would relish hurting Owen. Or rather, having him hurt. She sent him a single nod that she hoped conveyed that she was as well as gone. He could count on that. Anything to keep Owen safe.

Bloodsworth held her gaze a beat longer and then turned abruptly, fleeing in the opposite direction. Air expelled from her lungs.

Owen’s hand settled at the small of her back. “Come,” he instructed. A quick glance revealed the rigid set to his jaw. He was not happy, and she intuitively knew it wasn’t just with Bloodsworth, the stranger who refused to unhand her. Indeed not. Much of the ire she felt radiating off him was aimed at her.

His hand on her back turned her and guided her down the sidewalk. She looked several times over her shoulder, almost as though she expected to see her husband give chase. Unnecessary, of course. He would follow them. He’d said as much, but he would be discreet. Especially after Owen nearly choked the life out of him.

Despite herself, she felt satisfaction curl deeply through her. That would be something she would take with her to warm her heart in whatever obscure location she buried herself.

She quickened her pace. Owen’s hand dropped away from her back. She spotted their carriage at the end of the street. The groom descended when he saw them, pulling open the door. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed no sight of Bloodsworth. All the same, she knew he was out there. Forever close. It was her task to make certain close never became too close again.

Falling back on the velvet squabs, she released a shuddery breath, grateful to be free of her husband. Now she simply had to say good-bye to Owen.

A lump formed in her throat that she couldn’t fathom. It was incomprehensible. She always knew they would part ways. There had never been an expectation otherwise. She gripped the edge of the seat and squeezed the cushion until her fingers ached.

She forced a tremulous smile and lifted her gaze to Owen, prepared to offer some dismissive remark about overly forward gentlemen. When they arrived home would be soon enough to explain she was leaving. After she packed. Perhaps on her way out the front door. She winced. Such a coward.

Any words she intended to speak died on her lips the moment she met his formidable gaze. His eyes gleamed almost black in the shadowed confines of the rocking carriage.

“Enough games.” His lips barely moved as they formed the words. “Who are you really?”

Chapter Twenty-two

Silence fell between them the moment Owen uttered the question. If possible, her hands tightened even more against the squabs. Even in the shadows he could detect the whitening of her knuckles.