The High Sheriff of Huntingdon by Anne Stuart

guilt as swiftly as it came upon him. “You will learn not to defy me,” he said. “Unless you relish pain.”
    “I was never particularly obedient,” she said quietly, rubbing her aching wrist.
    He took her hand and he could see that it required all her willpower not to flinch as be brought her wrist to his mouth, kissing the red marks his l o n g fingers had left.
    He felt the h o t chill run through her, and she shud dered, closing her eyes for a brief moment. He stared at her, obsessed, wanting her with an intensity that made him forget everything, including his suspicions, his des perate need for power. He stared at her, and all he wanted was her, h e r gentleness, her temper, her stubbornness, her humor. The thought terrified him, he, who had never known fear.
    “De Lancey,” he bellowed, his eyes not leaving her.
    “My lord?” h e said, appearing in the open doorway.
    Alistair still looked at her, and his fingers were caressing her wrist, u n a b l e to help himself. He had no choice. H e had to se n d her away while h e still could. “You w i ll take Lady Elspeth back to the con vent.”
    “No!” she cried, trying to pull away from him in sudden despair.
    He d i d n ’t let her go. “The marriage will be annulled. I nform the bishop.”
    “No,” she said again.
    “By your command,” De Lancey said, and there was no missing the satisfaction in his voice. “I warned you, cousin. She’ll weaken you, and there’s no way you can hold y o u r power if a woman gets in your way…”
    “Silence!” Alistair thundered, still staring down at Elspeth’s miserable face, his fingers caressing her. And then he threw her hand away from him and stormed from the room without a backward glance.
    He didn’t stop until he reached the courtyard. The people were scurrying away from him, as always, and he told himself he was pleased to have such a reputation for harshness. Doubtless they thought him capable of witchcraft at the very least, and no one dared disobey him.
    Except for the man who’d killed Jenna. The man who professed to be his devoted servant, his best friend, cousin. The man he’d left alone with his bride.
    It h a d been a simple enough matter to find who’d spent the last night with Jen n a . De Lancey was possessed of any number of useful qualities—brutality, charm, deviousness, and a certain slyness that stood him well in the place of intelligence. But he was also cursed with an overweening vanity, one that threatened to rival Alistair’s own, and he had failed to realize his cousin knew him far too well.
    He wouldn’t dare harm Elspeth while Alistair was close by, Alistair knew that much. Gilles would wait until he got her away from Huntingdon Keep. But s h e would never make it back to the convent. Some accident would befall her, and De Lancey would return alone, sorrowful, smirking when h e thought no one would notic e. And if Alistair had any sense at all he would allow him to do so, turning a blind eye while De Lancey did the dirty work.
    But Alistair’s cool common sense s e e m ed to h a v e evaporated. De Lancey had been a useful too l, but now his usefulness was at an end. He would send Elspeth away from him, someplace distant w h e r e he could swiftly forget about her. But first he would kill De Lancey. Before De L an c e y killed him.
     
    Elspeth didn’t move. Misery and despair formed a tight ball i n s i d e her heart, burning through her soul. He couldn’t dismiss her so readily, so abruptly. She couldn’t let him do it.
    “We’ll leave within the hour,” De Lancey said gently.
    She turned to look at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I won’t go.”
    “Yes, you will, my lady.”
    “He’ll change his mind,” she cried, certain of no such thing.
    But De Lancey suddenly looked unsure. “ It’s possi ble,” he said. “It could be made to happen.” For a moment the notion didn’t look the slightest bit pleasing to him, and then he put h i s usual affable