And not only was it too late for him, but for his victims as well. How
many men had he killed in battle, or destroyed in the political arena,
to attain what he had once called power? How many women had he sucked
dry and then discarded? And for what? Only to learn when the damage
was already done that the actions of men, for good or evil, made a
difference. They mattered!
The bile rose in his throat, nearly choking him. For now the mindless
cruelty of life. . .was slowly turning back upon him. That same
unyielding blade, the heartless razor that he had served and become,
was proving to be double-edged.
But fear and a momentary helplessness were not to be confused with
impotent despair. The Lord Purceville was far from defeated. He let
the feelings run, because for the first time in many years he could
not stop them, and he knew it was unwise to try. Time enough to master
his emotions when the flood had died down. For now he must know where
personal weakness was likely to occur.
For as Anne Scott had already glimpsed, the truly frightening thing
about this man, was that he defied all the self-destructive traits of
the storybook villain.
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