The girl fell to the floor. A sharp kick struck her side, and she gasped in breathless pain.
“Would you but obey me, wretch!” rasped the voice of her tormenter. “If you cannot be taught with words, by God I’ll see your lessons learned otherwise!”
The well-dressed man circled her, loosening his cravat whilst doing so. The girl struggled upright.
“Please, sir,” she began. “Plea—”
“You will not speak to me!” the man roared. He snatched a poker from the hearthside and raised it above his head.
It began to fall.
She shrunk, arms raised to protect herself, but the blow never came.
“What do I find here?”
A new voice.
She glanced up. A hand restrained the blow, connected to a man, young, wearing the clothes of a traveller.
“Mr. Blakefield. I heard a commotion.” His voice was low and calm, but the firelight lent a sharp edge to his gaze.
“Th-this is a private matter,” Blakefield sputtered. “My hospitality does not extend to your interference in my private affairs!”
“Indeed.”
The poker remained upraised.