Page 33 of Surrender to Sin

“No!” screamed Baxter, grabbing her arm in a cruel grip and yanking her toward him, before jamming his cane hard against her throat and making her cough.

“Sebastian will kill you,” she choked out, her arms flailing as she tried to ease the pressure.

He chuckled. “Stupid whore. St. John has never bested me. I enjoyed breaking his spirited little Sara, but I will enjoy breaking you far more. Even the thought of your cleansing, that creamy skin bloody and welted and bruised—”

The carriage hit another stomach-churning bump, lurched to one side and came to a grinding halt. On the floor and gasping for breath, Grace glanced out the window, but the shabby wooden houses, unpruned trees, and damaged cobblestones could have been anywhere.

A fist pounded on the outside of the carriage.

“Get out,” said a muffled male voice. “We have your driver. And four pistols trained on you. We have no desire to dismantle your carriage, but will do so if need be.”

Lord Baxter’s eyes gleamed. “Or,” he called back, “I could kill Lady Carrington right now.”

Glass shattered, and a cocked pistol appeared where the side window had been. “You were asked nicely. Now I’m going to put a bullet in you for each minute you delay further.”

Almost sobbing at the achingly familiar voice, Grace reached back for the door latch. “Sebastian! I’m here!”

Before she could push the door open, Lord Baxter’s hand encircled her wrist, and his cane made a swishing sound as the blade extended.

“We are going to exit the carriage, Lady Carrington, but in a very orderly manner. If you attempt to run again, or fight me, I will bury this blade in your back. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good,” he replied, nudging the door open with his foot, twisting her arm painfully high behind her back, and prodding her forward.

Hardly daring to breathe, Grace eased out of the carriage, the night air icy on her bare skin. The whole time she could feel Lord Baxter’s breath on her neck, and the tip of the cane blade nicking her shoulder, the combination making her want to vomit.

“Grace. You have bruises,” said another familiar male voice to her right, and she sagged in relief.

“I’m all right, Uncle. Just…don’t do anything rash.”

“Waverly,” snapped Lord Baxter. “What the devil are you wearing?”

“I would have thought that quite obvious. A pirate costume.”

“No. No. Your bloodline…your brother is a bishop!”

“My brother is a damned fool to be in cohorts with you. Do not think for a moment I will allow a marriage between you and my niece to go ahead.”

Lord Baxter shook with rage, and Grace winced as the blade pricked her skin in two more places. “I don’t want to wed this trollop anymore. But she must be punished for her indiscretions!”

As loud as fireworks, two pistols discharged. Lord Baxter let out a bloodcurdling yelp, and all at once her arm was free, and the pressure of the blade gone. Instead, the man was a deadweight against her back, and she twisted sideways so he fell to the ground, two separate bullet holes decorating the shoulder of his pale gray jacket. Seconds later Diaz and Lord Grayson were on either side of Baxter, roughly binding his wrists and knees with rope.

Her legs buckled, but Sebastian’s strong, warm arms closed around her, lifting and cradling her against his massive chest. “Grace. I thought…I thought I’d lost you. Hell, your temple, your cheek…shoulder shots weren’t enough. I am going to kill him.”

“No, I am,” said her uncle, scowling fiercely at Lord Baxter’s inert body.

“Both incorrect,” said a stern female voice. “I will end the rotten bastard’s existence.”

Grace blinked in shock, grateful for Sebastian’s strength as the combined sickening throb of her head, cheekbone, stomach, and shoulder made her dizzy. “Aunt Anne, why are you here…dressed as a pirate?”

“Same reason you are dressed as a captive, young lady. Or should I say, Princess Grace.”

Hot color flooded her cheeks. Oh God. Her own aunt and uncle had been at the club! “I, ah, um…are you well?”

Anne Lloyd-Gates grinned. “Remarkably so. Your uncle and I wish to apologize, though. We’ve been away in Vienna on diplomatic business the last few months and only collected our correspondence this morning. Otherwise we would have put a stop to all this Baxter nonsense long ago.”

“Do you often attend the pirate ball?”