Gritting his teeth against the agony, he tried to right himself, confused at first that he couldn't seem to move his arms. Pain came in staccato bursts as he rolled partway onto his back and took the pounding rain full in the face. His hands were tied behind him. His feet were tied.
But he had moved his feet. He thought. He tried now with some success. They were bound but not tightly. Loose enough to struggle against. Loose enough that he could work his boots off, and the binding with them.
The task sapped his energy, left him gasping for breath and choking on the rain, but he managed to get his feet free. Slowly he rolled over onto his knees and tried to bring his head up an inch at a time. The pain beat relentlessly, like a mallet inside his skull, the rhythm syncopated with a driving urgency.
Laurel. He had to get to Laurel. He would die in the process or in the aftermath, of that he had no doubt, but he had to try. For her… to make her proud… to show her he loved her… he hadn't told her… should have told her… wished he could have made it work…
The thoughts swirled around his brain as he struggled to stand in the boat, and the blackness swirled with them. Flecked with stars… promising relief… beckoning… sweeping in…
Fighting him was futile, but she fought him just the same. There was a principle involved. Honor. She would not go meekly to her death like a sheep to the proverbial slaughter. She wouldn't make it easy for him, would do her utmost to spoil his enjoyment.
The instant Danjermond's hand settled on her arm, Laurel jerked away from him and bolted for the door. He lunged after her, catching hold of her ponytail and jerking her back hard enough to make her teeth snap together. Laurel shrieked, in anger and pain, and twisted toward him, lashing out with her feet, kicking at his knees, his shins, any part of him she could hit.
His lips pulled back against his teeth in a feral snarl, and the back of his hand exploded against the side of her face, snapping her head to the side, bringing a burst of stars behind her eyes and the taste of blood to her mouth. The room seemed to swirl once around her, and unable to use her arms for balance, she staggered sideways and fell. On her knees, she tried to scramble for the door, never taking her eyes off it, willing herself to stand, to run, to get away. Adrenaline pumped through her like a drug, driving her forward even when Danjermond caught hold of her bound wrists and hauled her up and back, wrenching her arms in the sockets.
But her struggles stilled automatically as the blade of a dagger glinted in the candlelight.
Laurel's heart drummed, impossibly hard, impossibly loud, as the blade came nearer and nearer her face. It was slim and elegant, like the hand that curled around its golden hilt. The blade was polished steel that had been ornately engraved from the guard to the tip. Beautiful, deadly, like the man who held it.
"I would prefer if you would cooperate, Laurel," he said, stepping in close behind her, his left hand sliding along her jaw, fingers pressing into her flesh. The knife inched nearer.
The pitch of his voice was the same even tone that had always somehow managed to strike a nerve in her, but no longer was it devoid of emotion. Anger strummed through every carefully enunciated word as he brought the dagger closer and closer. Her breath caught hard in her lungs as he touched the point of it to the very tip of her nose.
"Be a good girl, Laurel," he murmured, sliding the dagger lightly downward. Over her upper lip to her lower lip. He let it linger in the valley between as if he were contemplating sliding it into her mouth. "I know Vivian raised you to be a good girl."
"Be a good girl, Laurel. Don't make trouble, Laurel. Keep your mouth closed and your legs crossed, Laurel." Somehow, she didn't think this was a situation that had come to her mother's mind during those lectures on comportment.
Laurel said nothing, afraid to speak, afraid to breathe as the blade point traced down her chin, down the center of her throat to the vulnerable hollow at its base. If she struggled now, would he slice her throat and be done with her? That seemed preferable, but there were no guarantees. If she waited, bought time-even a minute or two-might she find another chance to break away?
Outside, the storm had rolled past and gone on its way toward Lafayette, but the rain continued, pelting the roof, tapping at the single, small window like bony fingertips. What kind of chance at survival would she have in the swamp? What kind of chance would she have here?
The dagger rested in the V of her collarbone, the point tickling the delicate flesh above. The sensation made her want to gag. She swallowed back the need, felt the tip bite into her skin. Every cell of her body was quivering. She felt as fragile as a twig, poised to snap in Danjermond's grasp. Her eyes filled, but she held back the tears, held back the hysteria, grabbed her sanity with both mental hands, and hung on as Danjermond's words about Savannah echoed in her head-"She was completely insane by the end."
She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. He had killed her sister for sport, meant to climb on the bodies of his victims to fame in a profession he mocked with every breath he took.
"Damn you," she whispered, seizing her anger and hate and using them as shields to beat back the terror. "Damn you to hell."
Danjermond leaned close, bringing his face down next to hers, rubbing his cheek against hers. "I don't believe in an afterlife, Laurel," he murmured, dragging the dagger down between her breasts, where her heart pounded beneath the thin fabric of her T-shirt. With a slight motion of his wrist the point nipped into the cotton and nudged her breast. "I'd say, if there's a hell, it's here and now, and you're in it with me."
A scream tore from her throat as Danjermond sliced violently downward with the blade, opening her T-shirt from neck band to hem. Instinctively, she bolted back, colliding with his long, lean body, her hands pressing against his engorged sex. His left arm snaked around her middle and held her there as he eased his pelvis forward and raised the dagger slowly to her left breast.
Razor-sharp, the blade kissed along the plump swell beneath her nipple, and her blood beaded, bright red, along the knife edge, rolling across it like pearls to splash down on the floor. The pain came seconds later, throbbing with her heartbeat. And finally the tears spilled over her lashes and rolled down her cheeks, pale counterpoints to the drops of blood sliding down her rib cage.
"Be a good girl, Laurel," he purred, rubbing himself rhythmically against her. She shuddered in disgust as he traced his tongue up the line of her throat to her ear and caught the lobe between his teeth. "There's no justice out here for you to find, Laurel," he whispered. "The only law is my law."
He dragged her back to the bed, ignoring her resistance. With the dagger, he sliced the ties that bound her hands and quickly shoved her down on the bed, planting a knee in the middle of her chest to pin her down with his weight. Using the ties that had tethered other victims to this deathbed, he lashed her to the headboard.
"Too bad it's raining so," he said conversationally as he sat on the bed beside her, admiring the sight of her glaring up at him. Taking up the dagger, he dipped it in her navel and drew it lightly up the quivering flesh of her belly, between her breasts. "I would have brought Jack in and tried to rouse him for the performance. He should witness what his imagination only hints at, see for himself the power of it, the seduction. He has the darkness within him. Before he dies, he should witness the glory of it unleashed."
The blade hooked under the neck band of her T-shirt and, with a practiced move, he sliced it open. With the tip of the dagger he peeled back the ruined garment on either side, baring her to his gaze.
"Dainty," he whispered, rubbing the flat of the knife against her uninjured breast. "Exquisitely feminine."
"What happened to make you hate women so?" she asked, choking with revulsion as he dipped a thumb in the blood from the wound he had inflicted and painted it across first one nipple then the other.
Danjermond raised a brow. "I don't hate women," he said, sounding amused. "This is my hobby. It's nothing personal."
"I consider being murdered highly personal."
He rose with a sigh and rounded the foot of the bed to sit on the straight chair. He dropped the dagger on the floor at his feet and casually began to unbutton his shirt. "Well, yes, I suppose you would, all things considered. But then, that's been a longtime problem of yours, hasn't it, Laurel? You tend to personalize everything. That's what got you into such trouble in Georgia. You were too personally involved. You couldn't see the forest for the trees. We both know how important perspective is in building a case. A prosecuting attorney must be cold, thorough, detached. Emotionalism only leaves the door open for surprises from the opposition. As you've discovered for yourself, Laurel, I am a very thorough man. I don't tolerate surprises."
Without warning, the cabin door exploded inward, the rotted frame splintering, rain and wind sweeping in, and Jack with it. His momentum carried him forward, and he bowled into a stunned Danjermond before the district attorney could do more than turn and gape at him. The wooden chair disintegrated into kindling beneath their combined weight and the two men crashed to the floor.
Laurel screamed Jack's name and struggled to sit up, trying to see. She could hear the struggle-the scuff of boots on the floor, the grunts and cruses. She knew in her heart what the outcome would be. Jack was fighting literally with both hands tied behind his back, and he had to be barely conscious. Danjermond would kill him, just as surely as he would kill her-unless she could somehow manage to get herself free.
She wriggled up toward the headboard, inches at a time, trying not to strain against the ties that held her by her wrists, trying to move into a position that would give her some slack. Gritting her teeth, she concentrated on shutting out the sounds of the fight and tried to focus her mind on her bonds. Silk. Smooth, strong, slick, slippery. Her hands were small, fine-boned, her wrists delicate. If she concentrated, moved just right, didn't tighten them by struggling…
Jack struggled to keep Danjermond pinned beneath him, but his strength ebbed and flowed in erratic bursts, and his faulty sense of balance made it difficult to determine which way was up. He fought as best he could with his knees and his feet, jabbing, kicking when he could, ignoring the pain that screamed through his head and bit into his side.