Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)

CONTROL. IT WASN’T EVEN some last vestige of control that had kept Ned from breaking every last bone in Harcroft’s body. It had been nothing more than an animal instinct to protect what was his, to stay here, growling, hunkered down over the object of his desire in unthinking possession.

Desire? Hell, desire barely covered it. His hands tingled with the need to feel that visceral crunch of breaking bone. If Ned shut his eyes, he still saw that satisfying image of Harcroft lying bruised and bloody in the aftermath of his fury. It wasn’t about reason or rationality; it was about that hot, unending rage that had filled Ned when he’d stepped into the corridor and seen that bastard—that pretentious, arrogant bastard—with his hands on Kate.

Everything had ceased to exist but the roar in his ears, and the next thing he realized, he’d latched his hands around the bastard’s throat. He flexed his fingers even now, but he could not shake off that murderous hatred. Harcroft had placed his hands on Kate.

He turned to her. Her breathing was only now beginning to even out; her hands were trembling. She hadn’t shaken one bit when that bastard was manhandling her; she hadn’t even betrayed the slightest tremor. She’d been as strong and unyielding as a stone cliff battered by the ocean’s rage. And perhaps that was why he’d held on to his civility by the bare thread that remained—because she had been strong enough not to lose control. And if she could maintain her cool demeanor…well, he could, too.

He didn’t know what to say to her, and so he reached out and took her hands in his. Her bones seemed so damned thin, so impossibly fragile. He could feel, now, the aftereffects of that frightening episode. Her hands were cold. Her eyes, when he looked down into them, were wide, as if just beyond Ned’s shoulder she could see the vista of what might have been. She let out a shaky breath—one, then another, and Ned looked down, away from her fear. If he let himself see it any longer, he would lose control. He would leave now and hunt Harcroft down. God knows what he might do if he actually caught him. Ned felt capable of any violence.

“Are you well?” He knew the question was stupid even as he asked it.

Still, she nodded.

Looking down had been a mistake, too. Because now he was caught by the veins in her wrist, that thin spider-tracery that formed a network. He could feel her pulse slamming against his fingertips. And there, at the edge of the lace of her cuff… Oh, God.

Every scrap of discipline kindled into heat. He slid her sleeve up her arm.

He had no words for the inchoate rage that welled up, hot and bitter, in his stomach. He had no label to put to the emotion that filled him in that devastating instant. Because there, tracing up her delicate skin, were the unmistakable red marks that Harcroft’s fingers had left on her. They were branded deep into her skin. The imprints were bright red for now; in a few hours’ time, they would purple and bruise.

That bastard had hurt his wife.

He looked up into Kate’s eyes. He couldn’t think what to say, how to apologize. He’d been enforcing an artificial distance between them because he feared if he spent much more time in her intoxicating presence, he’d succumb to complete savagery.

He’d been right. Language deserted him. There was no room for words in his mind; just that limitless, unspeakable rage. He held her hand—gently, even though every muscle in his body screamed to contract.

And then, as if to tempt his anger, he saw the impression the wall had made against her cheek—the red-on-white mark where that bastard had slammed her into the plaster, the tiny scratch where the rough surface had drawn a bead of blood.

“I take it all back.” He could not clench his hand around hers, could not even squeeze his hand. He had to stay in control. “I am going to kill him.”

It wouldn’t make it better, though. Nothing he did now would heal that cut, would undo the pain she had felt. She’d needed him, and once again, he had been gone, thinking of himself when he ought to have been thinking of her. He’d vowed that he would find a way to be a good husband not two days ago, and already he was forsworn.

Worse, whatever semblance of civility he had, he needed just to keep from crushing her hand. All his dark wants, all his savage desires—they were welling up in him now. A gentleman would walk away until he gained control—but the last thing Kate deserved after her bravery was solitude.

“I am going to kill him,” Ned repeated, “just as soon as I work up the fortitude to let go of your hand.”

“Don’t,” Kate said. And for a second that word, too, was meaningless—that silly implication that Harcroft’s life ought to be spared. She could not have meant anything so vapid.