Page 85 of Broken

Lilly opened the door slowly and smoke poured through the crack, rising upwards to the roof. Atticus rushed forward and she stumbled after him.

She could not see much of anything and she could barely breathe. When she looked down, Lilly saw that the smoke was thinner closer to the floor. But bending down was difficult for her; her skirts twisted about her legs and hampered her every step.

At the top of the stairs, she stumbled heavily into the railing and gasped in pain, sucking up too much smoke when her wet cloth became detached. She coughed and struggled to find her feet again. Lilly gripped the railing with one hand and inched downwards, Atticus pulling relentlessly on her arm.

On the first landing, she stumbled again and went down hard, losing her grip on the dog. She felt a touch on her hand and he whimpered as he fretted over her fall.

Lilly pulled herself up, but pain lanced down her back. As much as Lilly hurt, she could not count on anyone coming to help. She had to save herself. Sweat broke out over her face as she inched down the last flight carefully.

She could not see the main door, but a faint breeze made the smoke swirl.

She reached out with one hand and her fingertips brushed a wall. Lilly followed the wall, found the door then searched for the lock.

Atticus pressed at her side.

The lock finally opened with a snap and she pulled on the handle, gasping in the fresh air that streamed into her face. They had escaped. Atticus had already bolted for the front drive, shaking his head to remove the cloth and barking at her to hurry. He raced back to Lilly and nipped at her skirts to pull her with him.

Lilly stumbled across the front drive and found the little patch of grass surrounding another ornamental pond. She collapsed to the grass, groaning as the hard ground slammed more pain into her, then coughing until she thought her lungs might burst. Atticus abandoned her to gulp down pond water.

When she lifted her head, smoke billowed from the back of the moonlit house. When she could find her feet again, she would go looking for the others, but the grass was so cool and soft that she lay there while she got her breath back.

Right now, she could not dream of getting to her feet again. She would be no help to anyone in her condition and would only be in the way. She dragged herself to a sitting position, groaning against the pain, and held her head while the stars behind her eyes faded.

When she could see again, she reached for the rag at her neck and pulled it off, squinting at it in the faint moonlight as she searched to find a clean patch to wipe over her face. She must look like a chimney sweep.

“That dog deserves a ball between its eyes for the trouble he’s caused me.”

Lilly spun on the ground to locate that voice and heard metal click on metal.

* * *

“Oh, its only you,” Lilly said, but then her eyes focused on his hand holding the pistol aimed at her heart.

Fortune smiled upon Bartholomew at last. He had Lillian alone in the dark of night, and all to himself, no less. He giggled then pressed his lips together. They had to be silent, lest someone hear them. As it was, he was sure they had little time enough before that scoundrel Daventry came looking for his whore.

It was true. She had shared his bed and done things with him that ought to be reserved for her husband. Her betrayal cut him to the core, and he shifted the pistol in his hand, debating how he might kill her.

There was a nice pond of water behind her back to drown her in after smashing her skull upon the marble. Anyone who found her later might imagine she did it herself. He glanced around and then tucked the pistol in the back of his breeches. He would enjoy watching her face as she drew her last breath.

That would provide far better enjoyment than the last time. Last time he had rushed, and not stayed to ensure the deed was done. His cousin would not be alone this time. He would stay until her end came.

“What are you doing here again, Barty?”

Her gaze flickered around the garden and back to him. Even though she was impure, touched by that swine, Lord Daventry, Bartholomew still desired her for himself. “You have always been my favorite cousin. How could I bear to leave you be?”

Lillian shifted to her knees, and he decided he liked her in that pose. She looked weak and pitiful. He could approach her, grasp her neck and squeeze until she took her last breath. The thought was appealing, so he stepped toward her.

The dog moved to her side and watched him.

He paused. The dog was a complication. To dispatch the beast with little fuss, he would need to use the pistol. But the noise would surely attract the notice of others unless they moved farther away.

“On your feet.”

The bitch licked her lips. “Why?”

He could always count on Lillian to be difficult. Her response pleased him. He would distrust her more if she suddenly became compliant and willing. He wanted her to fight, to battle with him to make his victory all the sweeter.

“Let me give you a choice. Either you get to your feet, or I shoot the dog. I know how you love to dote on the poor creatures. You can count on me to ensure that his end is agonizingly slow. Perhaps I could shoot one of his feet off first, or perhaps his tail. Do you wonder how he would feel about it?”