“Was that the whip?” Christopher indicated a deep bruise on her cheek.

“The stick.”

The corners of his eyes tightened. “Are your teeth all right?”

“They seem to be.”

He sighed heavily. “Thank God. Cary, do you think your uncle would agree

to issue a license tonight? There's no time for the reading of banns.”

“And it would undoubtedly prove fatal if we tried,” Katerina added softly.

Cary stared at the injury in silence for another moment, and then visibly shook himself. “My uncle is a rabble-rouser. He loves social reform. I think he

would be delighted. Let's go right now.”

Katerina attempted to take a step, but the room shifted around her.

Everything seemed to be moving. She swayed.

Christopher scooped her into his arms. Although the corset had hurt, not

wearing it meant the fabric of her chemise chafed her raw flesh uncomfortably.

Determined to enjoy the warmth of his arms, she tried to ignore the painful sensations, even when a couple more of her wounds reopened and started

bleeding. They would heal, and by then she would be safe.

Safe… does such a place exist? How wonderful it would be to find it. It seemed Providence had decreed she had suffered enough and provided her an escape. If this is wrong, I don't care. Anything is better than waiting for Fatherto succumb to a fit of rage and beat me to death, and the risk is constant.

A cab already waited, drawn by a black and white horse, and Cary gave

directions to the driver while Christopher settled inside with her on his lap. She

winced again as her weight settled on her bottom. He hadn't seen it, but she had

the worst, deepest bruises there. It was where he had started, full strength. The

pain dragged a confusion of terrifying images into sharp awareness. A rain of stinging blows onto her buttocks and thighs. The wood of his desk felt cold and

unyielding under her hands and cheek.

His strokes lost focus, raining at random onto her back, her shoulders. The thick scarring protected her from them somewhat.

As the memory of the cane flying toward her face bloomed in her memory, a

deep shudder tugged at her wounds. Her movement brought her face close to Christopher's shoulder. The appealing scent of cologne and her favorite man broke through.

With luck, this will be the last beating I ever have to endure. Imagine, a lifewithout fear. With Christopher willing to help, I'm determined to make ithappen… I only hope I'm able.

The ride to the bishop's home took only a few minutes. They approached

cautiously, uncertain of their reception, especially as Christopher still cradled Katerina in his arms. She leaned her cheek against his shoulder, drawing more strength from his touch and the scent of his skin.

Cary knocked.

The bishop himself, wearing a burgundy dressing gown, opened for them and

took in the scene with an eyebrow quirked in curiosity. “James, what's

happening?” he asked his nephew.

“Can we please come in?” the young vicar pleaded.

“Of course.” He ushered them through the door and into a sitting room,

where they all settled.

Though her focus remained shaky, Katerina noticed a luxurious oriental rug,

a table with an ornate Bible on it and some threadbare but comfortable furniture.

The bishop and Cary selected matching green upholstered armchairs, leaving

Christopher the settee. He sank against the back. Katerina breathed slowly to avoid crying in pain. Then she slowly turned to regard the bishop. Through the

veil of swimming black spots, she saw him looking askance at her, sprawled in

Christopher's lap. Her face burned with embarrassment, but she couldn't move.

Once again unconsciousness tempted her like a siren's song, promising blessed relief from her agony.

“All right, James,” the bishop said in a dark, suspicious voice, “what's going

on?”

“Perhaps Christopher should tell you,” Cary indicated his friend.

“Well, Bennett, what the devil are you doing?” the bishop demanded.

“I need a favor of you, Right Reverent Cary. I need a license right away.” He

stroked Katerina's cheek in a soothing gesture. His touch helped anchor her to her senses.

“A marriage license?” The bishop's eyebrows shot nearly to his hairline,

furrowing his forehead into deep lines.