Page 83 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

She got the distinct impression that, in looking at her, he was seeing not her but some vision that pleased him to no end; her skin crawled.

But she almost had both her hands loose. Desperate to keep him dwelling on his plan rather than acting it out, she mumbled, “But why here?”

Refocusing on her, he tipped his head, then ventured, “Why bring you here?”

She nodded, trying to let nothing more than sincere interest show in her eyes.

He arched his brows in a superior way. “I would have thought that obvious, my dear. I want your father to see your body, and that sooner rather than later, so he can appreciate it in all its gory glory. As close as we are to the vicarage, I think that’s guaranteed. I want him to see what his piety has bought him.” Nunsworth’s features contorted, viciousness overtaking his expression as he raised his head. “I want to watch and see his shock. I want to watch him grieve! And ultimately, when he reads my note, I want to see guilt swamp him and bring him to his knees!”

The last was said like a clarion call—a summons to battle.

Abruptly, Nunsworth looked down and pinned Sylvia with his gaze. All humanity had leached from his face. “I want,” he stated, “your father to understand that your death and the manner of it is a judgment I’ve passed on him. He took from me the life I should have had. In return, I’ll take a life from him.”

Kit was crouching by the corner of the slab, a mere two yards from Sylvia. His blood ran cold at Nunsworth’s words. The man might be insane, but he was also deadly serious, driven by compulsive intent and a hatred fueled by obsession.

A rack of tools off to Kit’s right offered a pair of long, heavy iron tongs, the most useful implement Kit had spotted. But in going for the tongs, he would immediately be seen by Nunsworth.

The man was droning on, “I admit that I will regret marring such loveliness, but sadly for you, my dear, you are your father’s only child. So I fear it’s you who must pay.” Nunsworth bent, reaching for something on the floor.

Kit couldn’t see what Nunsworth was about to pick up, then his gaze was caught by movement on the floor behind Nunsworth. The watchman was starting to stir.

An in-drawn breath close behind Kit had him nearly jumping from his skin. He glanced back and saw Ollie just behind him, peering over the top of the slab, his eyes widening and a horrified look breaking across his face.

Kit snapped his gaze back to Nunsworth.

Just as Nunsworth said, “And now, it’s time for my revenge.”

His face alight with unholy fervor, in a two-handed grip, Nunsworth hefted a heavy iron bar, swung it high, and brought it down with maximum force.

Sylvia screamed.

Kit’s heart stopped. He died—or so it felt.

But at the last second, Sylvia tugged one hand free and flung herself to the right—toward Kit.

The bar hit the edge of the stone slab, and shards flew.

Kit leapt to his feet and raced for the tongs.

Momentarily surprised, then realizing he’d been thwarted, Nunsworth bellowed with rage.

Kit grabbed the tongs and spun as Nunsworth raised the bar again—this time angling to where Sylvia cowered, her other hand still tied to the railing despite her frantic tugging.

His features contorted with black fury, Nunsworth started a vicious downward swing—aiming at the back of Sylvia’s head.

Kit lunged between Sylvia and Nunsworth.

With the tongs gripped between his hands, Kit caught the iron bar on the tongs’s long handles.

The force behind the blow drove him down to one knee, but he gritted his teeth, straightened his arms and braced them, then surged upward, to his feet, flinging Nunsworth back.

Nunsworth staggered, but didn’t fall. He shrieked in frustration and, this time swinging the bar from the side, eyes slitted in fury, came for Kit.

Again, Kit caught the bar on the tongs, the force jarring through his arms and shoulders.

Nunsworth shrieked like a banshee and fell into a frenzy, hammering down blows so quickly it was all Kit could do to meet them.

He couldn’t turn the tide. In strength, he and Nunsworth were evenly matched, at least with Nunsworth in a destructive fury. All Kit could do was grit his teeth and pray the man’s energy flagged soon.