A Perfect Secret Read Online Free PDF

with raised fists. Christian pushed back his consuming grief enough to fall into a defensive stance. If only he were armed.
    One man with no teeth growled, “Ye keep away from Lord Wickburgh, ye hear?”
    Ah, the payback. Of course.
    They attacked him as one. Christian avoided the weapons for a time, landing several solid punches, but there were too many coming at him from every direction. A blade lashed out. Christian deflected it but it left a sting above his eye. Hot moisture ran down the side of his face. He took a several blows to the stomach and more to his face. As he staggered back, another blade found its mark. Fiery-hot pain lanced his side. Genevieve’s treacherous face taunted him as his head exploded into fragments.

CHAPTER 4
     
    Northern England, late summer 1819, one year later
     
    For a woman determined to commit murder, Genevieve walked sedately, eerily tranquil, her heart beating slowly, her hands steady, her mind calm. Perhaps her serenity arose from a state of insanity, for only a lunatic would risk her immortal soul to an eternity of hellfire and brimstone.
    Birdsong serenaded her as she walked along the woodland path, and the morning sun shone despite dark clouds growing at the horizon. All of it mocked her, the perfect foil against the dark hole where her heart had once resided. A breeze carried the scent of the last few summer flowers but the cloying sweetness made her stomach lurch. Soon, it would all end, all the misery, all the fear, all the consuming loneliness. Her blank existence, broken up only with moments of pain and fear when Lord Wickburgh played another cruel game, would finally, blessedly cease. The emptiness of her life and womb and heart would fade away as if she never existed.
    In trance-like calm, Genevieve followed the dappled pathway. The river’s roar deafened her as she padded on the planks of the bridge. Stopping in the middle, she gazed impassively down at the churning, muddy water. Due to recent rains, the normally placid river had swollen to a rushing torrent. Perfect. Even if she could swim, she’d never survive such a swift current. The dark river no doubt hid all manner of danger and violence, similar in so many ways to her marriage.
    As she removed her shawl and let it fall, the crisp morning air raised bumps on her skin. The river, she knew, would be even colder. Undaunted, she unbuttoned her gown. She had dressed in a morning gown with buttons down the front so she could remove it without help. The weight of her clothing would hold her down better, but she wanted Lord Wickburgh, and anyone else who might discover her trail, to know she had deliberately ended her life by finding her clothing. The scandal of a wife who had committed suicide would be her one revenge upon the ice monster masquerading as a husband.
    She slid the sleeves of her gown off her shoulders and watched the fabric billow at her feet. Her petticoats, silk stockings and shoes followed. After twisting her wedding band off her finger, she laid it down on top of her clothing, carefully placing everything near the edge of the bridge. Wearing only her shift and stays, she swung her legs over the railing one at a time, and sat upon the narrow wooden slat.
    The water beckoned, each muddy wave topped with a whitecap. A tree branch rolled over and over as the current swept it along. It surfaced, only to sink again. It reappeared again further downriver. She wondered vaguely if anyone would look for her body, or if her clothes and ring would be enough evidence of her death. Knowing Lord Wickburgh, a body would be required as proof. Otherwise, he’d never stop searching for her, like a miser who had to account for every penny.
    She lifted her face one last time toward the sun but the clouds had closed in, threatening another day of rain. After bidding farewell to the stark ugliness of her life, she closed her eyes. Hell would probably be ugly, colorless, without music or light or scent. It would also be sans