Читать книгу A Scandalous Situation - Patricia Frances Rowell - Страница 9

Just North of London, 1801

I must be dying.

She could no longer feel the pain.

Then again, perhaps the agony had simply increased to the point of numbness as she lay on the frozen ground, drifting in and out of the blackness.

Death would be better.

They were still there. She heard them moving about.

And she smelled them. A strange smoke. The odor of nervous and excited men.

She fought to control a shudder.

She must not move, not even breathe.

Perhaps they would believe she was dead. Oh, God, please let them believe that! Let it be so. Then surely they would not do it again.

Against the background of her closed eyes distorted images swirled. Heads swathed in crimson masks. Eyes glittering through the eyeholes. Hot breath pouring through the mouth openings. Gleaming blades.

Pain. Pain everywhere.

Mask after mask after mask.

The blackness sought her. She reached for it, welcoming it. Suddenly a loud, braying laugh, the sound of a hand striking flesh and an angry, hissed whisper snatched it away.

“Quiet, fool!”

She held her breath. The creak of leather. Horses galloping away. Empty silence.

The smell of blood. The cold.

And blackness.