He chuckled, and she caught the odor of rum rolling off his breath. “A female complaint, you say? I’m willing to bet I know it. Your little cunny was complaining it’s hungry for cock.”
Violet froze. No one had ever spoken to her that way. The crude words had just the effect he likely meant them to have. She felt small and nauseated. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course you do, you ruttish little baggage.” His boot made a heavy thunk as he stepped toward her. “You think I don’t what kind of soiled doves make their way to this village lately? Sent down here by the high and mighty families that can’t stand to look at their slatternly faces no more. That rooming house…” He turned his head and spat. “Nothin’ but a high-class whorehouse with lacy drapes.”
“That’s not true.”
She took another step backward. The counter’s edge bumped her spine.
So close.
Violet willed herself not to glance toward the pistol. She needed the advantage of surprise. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed on his ugly, leering face.
“The ladies at the Queen’s Ruby are quite virtuous.” Mostly.
“Excepting you, it would seem. Off to meet someone tonight, I’d wager. Come to pocket a few French letters from my top shelf first? A bit of vinegar and a sponge, before you go slumming with a farmhand? The high-class miss can’t risk getting a lowborn brat.” He sneered, revealing a grayed front tooth. “Cunning little whore, aren’t you?”
She clutched the edge of the countertop as his words backed her into a dark, shameful corner. Cunning little whore.
This was why Violet had never confided in anyone about her night with Christian. How could she admit to giving up her virtue so easily? Everyone knew well-bred young ladies didn’t do such things. She’d feared they’d mark her as loose, wanton. A cunning little whore.
And some part of her had feared they might be right.
But no. It wasn’t right. There’d been nothing salacious or tawdry about what she and Christian had shared. Nothing wrong about what they felt for each other, then or now. He loved her, and she loved him.
She loved him. Always had.
“I’m not a…” She straightened her spine. “I’m not a whore.”
“Well, then.” The black pupils of his eyes glittered. With ominous deliberation, he set aside the lamp. “Mayhap I’ll make you one.”
The brute reached for her.
Violet turned and made a wild grab for the pistol.
Oh, God. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t there.
The latch on the storeroom door began to rattle. Christian was trying to force his way out.
With a grunt, Roland Bright turned toward the noise. A menacing chuckle lifted his chest. “That your sweetheart?”
He released Violet and went to investigate the source of the noise. But not before drawing a knife from his belt.
Oh, Lord. Christian.
Violet hoisted herself onto the countertop and slid across to the business side. She yanked open drawer after drawer.
Shears. There were shears here, for cutting the fabric and ribbons. Somewhere. She would find them, and she would use them. To save Christian, she would stab that disgusting lout in the kidneys and not spare him a moment’s remorse.
Bang.
She whipped her head up—just in time to watch the room explode. Bits of white flew in every direction.
Nellie the dress form, propelled with bullet force, reeled away from the storeroom and tackled Roland Bright to the ground. Like an outraged, headless woman charging under her own power. Bright’s head made a sharp crack as it connected with the floor.
When the dust—or lint—settled, Violet saw Christian, pistol in hand, kicking his way through the storeroom door’s bullet-shredded latch.
She pressed a hand to her chest, overwhelmed. In firing that shot, he’d risked everything. His life, his mission, his family name. But his only thought was for Violet.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked. “In any way?”
“I’m fine.”
He stood over Roland Bright and nudged the man’s shoulder with his boot.
“Was he shot?” she asked.
“Don’t think so, unfortunately. He’s just stunned.”
Christian hauled on the man’s collar and slammed the pistol butt across the back of his head. Then he released his grip on Bright’s shirt, letting his ugly face fall back to the floor with a thunk.
“Well.” He panted for breath. “I needed that.”
A nervous giggle bubbled in Violet’s throat as she surveyed the scene. The unconscious Roland Bright sprawled limp, pinned to the floor by a disemboweled dress form wearing dotted muslin. Bits of cotton batting littered the ground like new-fallen snow.
There was no covering up this clamor. Already, Violet heard shouts, footsteps. Forget their lead on Rycliff and the militiamen. The entire village was coming awake. At any moment, they’d be discovered.
She reached for the smuggler’s lantern. Then she locked eyes with Christian, and they came to an immediate, silent agreement.
Run.
Chapter Seven