Bound To Bea

Chapter Thirty Two

Cold blue eyes stared down at her, wild with madness and moistened by greed.

Her father!

Horrified by the sight of him, Beatrice scrambled from his reach further into the bed as her gaze ran down the length of his disheveled form. His gray hair fell to his forehead, uncombed, and his white shirt—turned brown by dirt—hung loosely on his lean form.

"Beatrice," he began, his voice unslurred by liquor. She was stunned to find that he wasn't drunk as he usually was. Perhaps he had run out of money to fund his debaucherous lifestyle. It certainly explained his appearance in her room; he was here for money.

Fear sent an icy shiver down her spine at the thought. The last time she had failed to provide him with money, he had beaten her to an inch of her life, but for the timely intervention of Noah. This time, she wasn't certain she would be so lucky, she thought, her gaze shifting around the room for a quick escape route. She saw the door from across the room, firmly shut, and knowing it was likely locked, she turned to the window. It was too high up to attempt a jump. She was trapped, she realized with trepidation.

Fighting to maintain control of her emotions, she swallowed. "What do you want?"

He shrugged and perched on the bed. "Where 'ave ya been?" he asked, reaching across the bed to touch her.

Wincing, she withdrew her legs from his venomous paws. "That doesn't answer my question."

"Can't a father be worried for 'is child?"

"You contradict yourself, Mr. Hobbs. One doesn't attempt to kill his child in a fit of rage and, at the same time, be concerned for her safety," she said bitterly.

"Still 'oldin' a grudge, I see." He raised a brow.

"I do not wish to endure your company."

"And will ya remain angry over summit I did while under the maddenin' possession of whiskey?"

"You shall not blame your madness on liquor, Mr. Hobbs. I'm certain it is inherent in you," she hissed.

"Believe it or not, Beatrice, I've always 'ad your best interest in mind. Perhaps I'm not the bloomin' best father there is. Perhaps I'm flawed beyond redemption, but everythin' I've done, every mistake I've made, I've fought ter correct. Do not forget it was I 'oo found Lord Atkins. It was I 'oo came up wif the plot ter get 'im ter marry ya."

"I do not forget, nor do I thank you for it." She crawled to the other end of the bed and climbed down, hoping to use the bed as a barrier between them.

"Ya 'ad nah future otherwise. Nah wahn was garb ter marry you. I stepped in! I gave ya a 'usband—a noble gentleman, 'oo saw ter your every need."

She laughed at that. Perhaps it was true her father had orchestrated her marriage to the vile man that was Oliver, but he was wrong about her; there was one man who had willingly married her, and that man was Noah. She was in love with that man.

Still, she failed to mention her marriage to Noah, for she didn't wish to include her father in her new life. If she never saw her father again, she would have been beyond grateful.

"You're right, you're singly responsible for my marriage to Oliver," she accused.

"I took ya off the streets, gave ya a home. It was Lord Atkins, or the whorehouse. Lord Atkins, the rich baron wif lands and businesses spread across England, or the whorehouse wif the scum of society soilin' your bed."

"It wasn't your decision to make!" How dare he think so little of her as to predict a future so dark...one so hopeless.

"I made the bloody right choice!" he barked, rising to his feet as well. "I did everythin' ter ensure ya were 'eaven and 'ell situated, everythin' ter give ya a proper future. I worked, planned, schemed... trapped a gentleman of the bleedin' ton."