Page 23 of Captive of Sin

There was a burst of patriotic cheering outside. Someone started to sing “God Save the King.” Clearly the locals were still stirred up at having a celebrity in their midst.

The celebrity straightened and shot Akash an angry glare. “For Christ’s sake, let us go.”

“God keep you, my friend. I’ll see you soon.” He stepped back and sent Charis an elegant bow. “Miss Watson. Your servant.”

Before Charis could respond, Tulliver whipped the horses to a pace dangerous in town streets. The lurch of the carriage nearly threw Charis from her seat. She clutched at the strap and stared bewildered at her companion.

He looked ill. As though he suffered intolerable pain. With a shock, she realized the set expression was endurance, not disdain.

Automatically, she stretched out to take his gloved hand. “Sir Gideon…”

“Curse you, don’t touch me!”

He wrenched out of reach. But not before she felt his desperate, uncontrollable shaking.

Four

Through the suffocating miasma, Gideon knew he’d frightened the girl. But conscience was a dim whisper against the screaming demons in his skull. He clutched his head with shaking hands to silence the howling devils. It didn’t help.

Nothing ever helped.

His sight failed, turning the girl’s face into a pale blur. His throat was so tight, he choked. He sucked a shuddering breath into lungs starved of air.

She said something. He missed everything apart from the end. “…get Tulliver.”

He forced himself to concentrate, pressed words to stiff lips until sound emerged. He didn’t want Tulliver. Tulliver would drug him, trapping the monsters inside his head.

“No.”

He sucked another breath through grinding teeth, even as thick darkness closed in.

“No Tulliver.” Then what he prayed wasn’t a lie. “This will pass.”

Words worn threadbare with repetition.

; Perhaps one day the nightmare wouldn’t pass. The constant terror of that prospect made fear congeal like greasy soup in his belly.

I’m not insane. I’m not insane.

His gloved hands clawed at the worn leather seat as he battled for clarity. For control. For calm.

The demons were too strong. Horrible, shrieking phantom images rioted in his mind.

I’m in England.

I’m safe.

I’m free.

The litany failed. What freedom could he claim when grisly specters haunted his every moment?

“Please let me get Tulliver.” The girl swam toward him through murky water. At the last minute, he realized she meant to rap on the roof and stop the coach.

“No!” The word emerged as a croak.

Speech was so damned difficult. He wished he was alone. But what couldn’t be cured must be endured. The old aphorism, his nurse’s favorite, helped him to cobble together an explanation. Even if every word cut his throat like broken glass.