I Pretended To Be A Stranger’s Wife To Save His Life — Then The Assassins Came For Me
Part 1
Blood on a tailored collar is a quiet thing, easily missed if you aren’t looking for it.
Most people in the assembly room were looking at the musicians, or the cheap wine, or each other.
I saw the blood.
I saw the three men boxing the tall stranger into a corner, their hands hovering near their waistcoats in a way that had nothing to do with polite society.
I didn’t know him, and I certainly didn’t like the look of him.
But before my brain could catch up with my boots, I was already crossing the floor.
Rain lashed against the poorly glazed windows of the assembly rooms, rattling the frames like a beggar at a locked door.
I stood near the plaster wall, wearing a dress the color of bruised plums that had been let out and taken in so many times the seams were a topographical map of my fluctuating fortunes.
The door opened, letting in a sharp, icy slap of November air that cut through the stifling heat.
A man stepped inside, holding himself with a rigid hunch, as if breathing deeply was a mistake.
His overcoat was soaked black with rain, the heavy wool dragging at his shoulders.
He stopped near the punch bowls, leaning his weight against a heavy oak pillar.
He reached up to adjust his cravat.
That was when I saw the smear of dark, wet rust transferred from his leather glove to the stark white linen at his throat.
My stomach gave a slow, uncomfortable roll.
Three men walked through the same door less than a minute later.
They brought a heavy, suffocating stillness with them.
I recognized the type from years living above a tavern in a port town before Aunt Heather took me in.
I knew what men looked like when they were hunting.
The trio separated, slipping into the crowd, keeping their flat eyes locked on the stranger by the punchbowl.
The stranger’s spine stiffened as he calculated the odds, realizing he couldn’t draw a weapon in a crowded room.
The three men converged, forming a tight triangle, boxing him against the pillar.
One of the thugs leaned in, pressing his chest against the stranger.
The thug’s hand slid into his own pocket, and I heard the subtle metallic click of a switchblade hidden in the fabric.
They were going to gut him right there.
I pushed away from the wall.
My boots clicked sharply against the floorboards as I crossed the room, my heart hammering a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs.
I shoved my hands between the broken-nosed thug and the pillar, forcing a gap.
The stranger’s icy gray eyes fixed on me with absolute, unadulterated confusion.
“Brian!”
I shrieked, unleashing the ear-piercing cry of a woman pushed to the absolute brink of hysteria.
“You swore on your mother’s grave you were done gambling.”
He froze for a terrifying second, the coiled tension in his muscles radiating from his solid frame.
I dug my nails into the wet wool of his collar, silently pleading with him to play along.
And then I kissed him.
My nose bumped hard against his cheekbone.
His lips were cold, tasting of stale rain, expensive tobacco, and copper.
Instead of pushing me away, a heavy, gloved hand clamped down on my waist like a vise.
“You bastard!”
I sobbed against his jaw, pulling back just enough to slap his chest loudly.
I turned to face the three thugs, tears of genuine terror welling in my eyes.
“Are these your new friends, the men you owe this time?”
The broken-nosed man took a step back, holding his hands up as the deadly tension shattered under the shrill embarrassment of a public domestic dispute.
“We don’t want any trouble, lady,” he muttered.
“Then get away from my husband,” I shrilled, pointing accusingly at the door.
The thugs melted into the crowd, heading for the cloakroom.
Brian released my waist and stepped back, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
He tossed a gold sovereign onto the punch table, telling me to buy a better dress, before slipping out the side door into the rainy night.
I picked up the coin, finding the crest of the Duke of Blackwood etched into the metal.
I had just slapped and kissed the most ruthless, dangerous nobleman in the country.
Morning broke with all the charm of a wet cough.
I lay in bed, the gold coin burning a hole beneath my pillow, serving as both a fortune and a death warrant.
The heavy brass knocker sounded, three slow thuds vibrating through the floorboards.
A servant in austere dark livery handed me a blank envelope, requesting my presence at the manor.
I knew if I shut the door, the violence would simply come through the windows.
The carriage moved with silent speed to the decaying monstrosity of the Blackwood estate.
I was led into a cavernous library smelling of decaying paper and woodsmoke.
Brian sat in a wingback chair near the roaring fire, his fine white linen ruined by a terrifying bloom of crimson blood across his left side.
He looked up as I entered, the pale skin drawn tight over his cheekbones.
He leaned back in the leather chair, his gray eyes fixing on me with absolute, terrifying calm as he delivered the death sentence: ‘They know who you are, Brenda, and they will be coming for you tonight.’
