Page 49 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

It hadn’t. If anything, the wonders of the journey had grown richer, more vibrant, more varied, more pleasure-laden.

More shattering.

When at the last he hung poised above her, muscles like iron, veins cording his arms, the heat of their striving bodies nothing less than a furnace as he drove into her willing body and took them through the last veil into paradise, he knew beyond words, beyond thought, beyond understanding that this wonder, this joy, this aching togetherness would never end.

Not in this lifetime, and if they had any say in it, not in the next, either.

Chapter 9

Violet was late down to breakfast the next morning. She walked through the door still sliding the last of her pins into her bun. “I couldn’t sleep, then I overslept.”

Cook, seated at the table and crunching a slice of toast liberally spread with her marmalade preserve, nodded dourly. “Know just what you mean. Took me ages to drop off, and I feel right lethargic this morning.”

Violet poured herself a cup of tea from the pot left on the warmer. Setting the cup and saucer beside her plate, she slipped into her chair. “Where’s Tilly?”

“Not down yet, either.”

Violet and Cook sipped and munched, needing no words to share the moment. Violet welcomed the normalcy of the simple meal; last night, alone in her room, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the fate that had overtaken Runcorn—a hale and healthy man several years younger than she. If the villain could so easily snuff out the life of such a robust man, what of her? How safe was she?

Such thoughts had gnawed at her until nothing would do but for her to get up and push and shove and shift her small dresser across her bedroom door.

She’d felt silly. She’d told herself it was an overreaction, yet once the barricade had been in place, she’d been able to fall asleep.

Of course, pushing the dresser away from the door had delayed her even further that morning. And then she’d discovered that her door had been fractionally ajar; she’d assumed Tilly had stopped by on her way downstairs from her attic room and had expected to have to make an embarrassing explanation . . . she frowned and glanced at the clock. “Tilly . . . perhaps we’d better go and wake her. She might be unwell.”

Cook’s blue eyes met Violet’s; from their expression, Violet realized Cook was thinking much the same as she was—that it was strange that Tilly had not come down, no matter her state. Nothing short of complete incapacitation would have kept her from making her way to the kitchen, especially given the warmth there compared to the chill—real as well as imagined—that pervaded the rest of the house.

A whisper of unease slid through Violet’s mind, leaving behind the first stirrings of trepidation.

Cook compressed her lips, then stated, “I’ll come with you.”

Violet nodded and rose. She led the way out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Reaching the first floor, she paused at the head of the stairs; along with Cook, she strained her ears but heard nothing—no footsteps, no rustling.

No hint of life.

Trepidation welled; foreboding settled like a leaden cloak about her shoulders.

Exchanging a worried, increasingly fearful look with Cook, Violet walked slowly to the narrow door at the end of the corridor. As with her bedroom door that morning, it, too, stood slightly ajar. Dragging in a breath, Violet reached out with one hand and pushed the door fully open. Beyond, the stairs to the attic lay shrouded in perpetual gloom.

Again they listened, and heard nothing.

“Tilly?” Cook called.

No sound.

They climbed the stairs, Violet first, Cook on her heels. Stepping into the narrow corridor that led to the three small bedrooms tucked under the eaves, they halted at the first door.

The door was closed but not shut. Violet tapped. “Tilly?”

The door swung further open; when no sound came from within, Violet pushed it wide.

They didn’t need to go in to see what had happened.

Tilly lay on her back on the bed, her limbs twisted and tangled, her sightless eyes staring straight up at the ceiling.

Her mouth was open in a ghastly rictus, as if she’d been screaming to the last.

Violet stared at her friend—at the body that was all that was left of her. An icy chill bloomed at Violet’s nape, then swiftly spread over her shoulders and sank into her. Her eyes still looked, but her brain refused to see.