Burning for Love by Evangeline Anderson
30
There had been no blood on her sheets or nightdress when she woke that morning. Not a single drop—not even between her legs when she looked hopefully, the moment she was alone in the bathing room.
Rissa knew what that meant—her Moon Blood had not come down. Which was a sure sign that she was pregnant.
I’ll have to drink the tea, she told herself, as she stared at her image in the mirror. Her hair was a tangled mess and there were dark smudges that looked almost like bruises beneath her amber-brown eyes. She’d spent a restless night, pursued even in her dreams by the Duke, who was holding a bundle in his arms that squalled and cried.
“Take it!” he had been shouting at her. “You must have it! I put it in you—the baby is yours!”
“No, take it away!” Rissa had shouted, running from him as fast as she could. “I do not want it—I cannot have it!”
But in that awful way of dreams, she had somehow only been able to run in slow motion and it seemed every minute that the Duke would catch her.
He will catch me, if I don’t do something about this right now—today, Rissa told herself grimly.
She would go out and pick some of the honeybell blossoms, making certain to keep them on their vines. By the time they got back from the gardens, Liza would have left the breakfast tray. It should be easy enough to slip some vines into the teapot and let them brew along with the thistledown leaves already in it.
James would be in no danger—he didn’t care for thistledown tea. She could drink a cup and then see if it made her Moon Blood come down. If it didn’t, she would drink another cup and then another, until she got the desired result or…
“Until I am dead,” Rissa whispered to her reflection in the mirror.
Because she would rather die than have the Duke’s baby and be tied to him for the rest of her life. Hadn’t she told him once that she would burn to death before she accepted him? Well, that was still true. And what difference did it make if she died by fire or by poison—either way she would escape a lifetime with a man she detested.
It was the only way out of the desperate situation she found herself in, Rissa decided. Death was better than dishonor—and far preferable to being married to the Duke.
With a determined nod to her reflection, she turned on the sink and began to wash her face. She must get ready for her walk if she was going to get back in time to put the vines in the tea while it was still hot.
