When the fingers closed over Nora Vance’s mouth in the dark, her first thought was impossible.
Her husband had no hands.
That fact had been whispered about in the church, pitied over at the wedding breakfast, and used like a weapon by every guest who looked at Silas Blackthorne with soft eyes and sharp tongues. Four years earlier, Silas had lost both hands in an accident at his family’s glassworks. His sleeves had hung neatly pinned at the wrists during the ceremony. He had signed the marriage register with a mechanical stamp guided by his forearm. He had eaten nothing at the wedding feast because his mother said he was too tired.
So when Nora woke in the bridal bedroom with a warm palm pressed hard against her lips, her mind split in two.
One part screamed.
The other part said, This is not Silas.
Moonlight spilled through the curtains in thin silver strips. Across the floor, beside the overturned chair, Silas lay on his side. A cloth was tied between his teeth. His empty sleeves were twisted beneath him. His eyes were wide, frantic, pleading.
He was trying to warn her.
The man above Nora leaned close enough for her to smell brandy on his breath.
“Quiet, little bride,” Rowan Blackthorne whispered. “You don’t want to wake the house on your first night.”
Nora’s blood turned cold.
Rowan.
Silas’s older brother. The charming one. The one who had toasted her at dinner with a smile too bright and eyes too still. The one who had said, “Welcome to the family,” as if family were a room with no windows.
Nora tried to twist away, but her body moved slowly, as if she were underwater. Her arms felt heavy. Her tongue was thick. The sweet almond milk Lady Evangeline had insisted she drink before bed burned in her stomach like a secret.
Silas slammed his shoulder against the floor.
Once.
Twice.
The dull sound barely reached the door.
Rowan glanced back at him and laughed softly. “Still trying to be a hero? That’s touching.”
Nora stopped struggling for one second.
Only one.
Then she bit Rowan’s hand with every ounce of strength she had left.
He cursed and jerked backward. Nora rolled off the bed, hit the floor hard, and dragged herself toward Silas. Her knees shook. Her head spun. She could taste blood, his or hers, she did not know.
Rowan caught her ankle.
“No,” Nora rasped.
Silas kicked the fallen chair with such force that it skidded across the floor and crashed into a small table. A lamp toppled. Glass shattered.
The house woke.
Footsteps thundered in the corridor. Nora looked toward the door with desperate hope.
It opened.
Lady Evangeline Blackthorne stood there in a dark silk robe, her white hair pinned perfectly, a gold cross shining at her throat. Behind her hovered two maids and the housekeeper, Mrs. Mabel Rowe, pale as candle wax.
For one blessed second, Nora believed help had arrived.
Then she saw Evangeline’s face.
Not horror.
Not shock.
Irritation.
Rowan released Nora’s ankle and stepped away, breathing hard. Blood dripped from the bite in his palm. Silas writhed on the floor, trying to spit out the gag.
Evangeline looked around the room as though someone had spilled wine on her carpet.
“Well,” she said coldly. “That did not take long.”
Nora stared at her. “He attacked me.”
Evangeline’s eyes moved to Rowan’s bleeding hand, then back to Nora.
“You have been in this house less than twelve hours,” she said, “and already you are making accusations.”
Silas made a muffled sound from the floor.
Mrs. Rowe stepped forward. “My lady, perhaps we should—”
“Leave,” Evangeline snapped.
The maids lowered their eyes and disappeared at once. Mrs. Rowe hesitated. She looked at Silas. Then at Nora. Something terrible passed across her face.
Fear.
Not confusion.
Fear.
“Leave,” Evangeline repeated.
Mrs. Rowe obeyed, but slowly, like a woman walking away from a fire she had helped start.
Evangeline crossed the room and bent beside Silas. With sharp fingers, she untied the cloth from his mouth.
Silas gasped for air. “Mother, let her go.”
Evangeline struck him across the face.
The sound was small, almost polite.
Nora flinched.
Silas did not.
That frightened her more than the slap. A man who did not flinch had been hit before.
“You ungrateful son,” Evangeline hissed. “After everything I arranged for you.”
Silas lifted his head, eyes burning. “You arranged her for Rowan.”
Nora felt the room tilt.
Rowan laughed under his breath.
Nora pulled her torn sleeve across her chest and pushed herself against the wall. “What is this?”
Evangeline stood slowly. The gracious widow from the church was gone. In her place stood a woman carved from old money and colder pride.
“This,” she said, “is the truth behind the vows.”
“I married Silas.”
“Legally, yes.”
Rowan wiped his bleeding hand on a white handkerchief. “But poor Silas cannot exactly be a husband, can he?”