Read Online Surrender To Me by Sophie Jordan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sophie Jordan
Tags: Historical
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struggle.
Another whack shook the air, followed by Bertram’s pained grunt. Suddenly he fell back, his dressing gown flying at his bare ankles.
And then there was another sound.
Goose bumps feathered her flesh as a deep crack rent the air, like a melon splitting in half.
A thick, choking silence followed.
Bertram dropped with a loud thud to the floor, the sound like that of a sack of grain falling to the ground. Not a body. Not a man. Not a life.
Her husband lay inches away at the foot of the hearth, lips parted as though on the verge of speech, so close she could see the faint spittle on his lip.
Breathing hard, she squeezed her eyes shut as if she could escape the horrid reality of it all. She pressed her hands deeper against the floor to still their trembling but it was useless. Reopening her eyes, she stared, mouth widening on a silent scream.
Horrified, she stared into his eyes, watching the blue darken to night, watching the life ebb away and vanish to nothing.
Blood trickled from a deep gash along his temple, the wound telling its tale. Either deliberately or accidentally, he was dead, his head crushed.
Chapter 7
A hand filled Astrid’s line of vision, broad and masculine, sprinkled with black hairs. She jerked, almost as if she feared it would swoop beneath the bed and snatch her from her hiding place.
Instead of reaching for her, the hand brushed the side of Bertram’s neck. After several moments, a soft grunt drifted down to where she huddled beneath the bed.
The room’s other occupant moved away. Her eyes remained fixed on the blood marring the pale skin of Bertram’s face, so dark, nearly black. Its copper scent reached out to her, filling her nostrils.
Her gaze followed the boots as they moved about the room, stopping briefly before the dresser.
Her heart hammered in her chest, and she issued a silent prayer that the thunderous sound reached only her ears.
He turned from the dresser, the toes of his boots facing forward, in the direction of the bed. For a panicked moment, she feared she had somehow given herself away. Made a noise.
Then those dark boots turned and exited the room, his footfalls hard and sure on the wood floor. No remorse. No regret for the life taken.
She remained where she was for a long moment, her breath coming fast and ragged as she stared at Bertram, blood seeping profusely from his head, running to the floor in a dark river, silent as the flow of wind outside the window. The blood seemed a living thing, sweeping toward her.
With a strangled cry, she slid out from beneath the opposite side of the bed and rose to her feet, wiping her grimy hands on her skirt. She came around and crouched over the body of the man she had sought, the man that she had, in the darkest shame of her soul, wished dead on more than one occasion.
She reached out a trembling hand and touched his neck as his killer had done.
Nothing. No steady thrum of life, not even the barest thread. Dropping her hand as though burned, she rose, freezing when she caught sight of the blood staining the hem of her gown. She grabbed fistfuls of her skirt and shook fiercely as if she could shake off the stain like so many crawling spiders.
With her hands fisted in her skirts, her gaze drifted down again. To Bertram. Her husband. Dead. Alive only moments ago and bartering for the chance to continue his dastardly ways without interference from her.
She could not look away from the vacant pull of his gaze. Could not stop the deep pang of remorse in her chest. Child or not. Selfish, neglectful…even criminal, he did not deserve such an end.
And yet somehow she had brought about that very thing. She felt responsibility for his death as keenly as the prick of a blade to her flesh.
His murderer had used her to confirm his suspicions about Bertram. How he knew her identity—or Bertram’s—she hadn’t a clue. Perhaps he had been the one to send the anonymous note to her? She shook her
Another whack shook the air, followed by Bertram’s pained grunt. Suddenly he fell back, his dressing gown flying at his bare ankles.
And then there was another sound.
Goose bumps feathered her flesh as a deep crack rent the air, like a melon splitting in half.
A thick, choking silence followed.
Bertram dropped with a loud thud to the floor, the sound like that of a sack of grain falling to the ground. Not a body. Not a man. Not a life.
Her husband lay inches away at the foot of the hearth, lips parted as though on the verge of speech, so close she could see the faint spittle on his lip.
Breathing hard, she squeezed her eyes shut as if she could escape the horrid reality of it all. She pressed her hands deeper against the floor to still their trembling but it was useless. Reopening her eyes, she stared, mouth widening on a silent scream.
Horrified, she stared into his eyes, watching the blue darken to night, watching the life ebb away and vanish to nothing.
Blood trickled from a deep gash along his temple, the wound telling its tale. Either deliberately or accidentally, he was dead, his head crushed.
Chapter 7
A hand filled Astrid’s line of vision, broad and masculine, sprinkled with black hairs. She jerked, almost as if she feared it would swoop beneath the bed and snatch her from her hiding place.
Instead of reaching for her, the hand brushed the side of Bertram’s neck. After several moments, a soft grunt drifted down to where she huddled beneath the bed.
The room’s other occupant moved away. Her eyes remained fixed on the blood marring the pale skin of Bertram’s face, so dark, nearly black. Its copper scent reached out to her, filling her nostrils.
Her gaze followed the boots as they moved about the room, stopping briefly before the dresser.
Her heart hammered in her chest, and she issued a silent prayer that the thunderous sound reached only her ears.
He turned from the dresser, the toes of his boots facing forward, in the direction of the bed. For a panicked moment, she feared she had somehow given herself away. Made a noise.
Then those dark boots turned and exited the room, his footfalls hard and sure on the wood floor. No remorse. No regret for the life taken.
She remained where she was for a long moment, her breath coming fast and ragged as she stared at Bertram, blood seeping profusely from his head, running to the floor in a dark river, silent as the flow of wind outside the window. The blood seemed a living thing, sweeping toward her.
With a strangled cry, she slid out from beneath the opposite side of the bed and rose to her feet, wiping her grimy hands on her skirt. She came around and crouched over the body of the man she had sought, the man that she had, in the darkest shame of her soul, wished dead on more than one occasion.
She reached out a trembling hand and touched his neck as his killer had done.
Nothing. No steady thrum of life, not even the barest thread. Dropping her hand as though burned, she rose, freezing when she caught sight of the blood staining the hem of her gown. She grabbed fistfuls of her skirt and shook fiercely as if she could shake off the stain like so many crawling spiders.
With her hands fisted in her skirts, her gaze drifted down again. To Bertram. Her husband. Dead. Alive only moments ago and bartering for the chance to continue his dastardly ways without interference from her.
She could not look away from the vacant pull of his gaze. Could not stop the deep pang of remorse in her chest. Child or not. Selfish, neglectful…even criminal, he did not deserve such an end.
And yet somehow she had brought about that very thing. She felt responsibility for his death as keenly as the prick of a blade to her flesh.
His murderer had used her to confirm his suspicions about Bertram. How he knew her identity—or Bertram’s—she hadn’t a clue. Perhaps he had been the one to send the anonymous note to her? She shook her
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