Brandywine: Regency historical romance (The Brocade Series, Book 1) (2 page)

“Oh, but it is, My Lord. I’m Helen’s cousin, Helene Marguerite Bingham, which...as you know...is the French form of—”

“Helen Margaret.”

He finished it for her. She tried to nod but all that happened was the creature in the window
shuddered with it.

“How did...?
Why
did Helen get you? And why in the blazes did you
agree?”

The pitiful creature reflected in the window tried to lift its shoulders to shrug in reply, but Brandy’s eyes narrowed at the attempt. The pain was so bad,
there wasn’t much time left before she might toss up what dinner Helen had
given her.

“Why did I...agree? I don’t rightly know. I—I was having such a wonderful
time at the sanatorium. I was...truly.” She wheezed the words, and the creature
dribbled down its face as she did. “Then, what do you know, but I’m visited by
my dearest, beloved...long-lost...cousin....”

“Don’t bother finishing. I see you find my predicament amusing. I’d ask
you to keep it to yourself, but that appears to be too much to ask a creature from the bowels of hell, at present.”

“Thank you, kind sir, for the compliment.”

Her attempt at sarcasm ended in a wheeze as a spasm hit her neck, sending agony worse than any fire through her entire left side. She curled her fist against it, and pushed her feet into the bottom
of Helen’s borrowed boots to be able to live through it without giving a clue. She
cursed Regis once again for not just back-handing her, like all the other times.

“How much do you want?” Gil asked without one inflection in his voice.

“Why—why would I want...anything?” She watched the disgusting reflection dribble more bloody spittle onto the lace confection that was Helen’s
wedding gown.

“How much?” He was speaking through clenched teeth if the tone was
any indication.

“A...guinea would be nice.” Her voice shook, causing her to lose her light
tone.
Damn him,
she thought.
Damn all men with their ceaseless tormenting.

“A guinea? Jesus, Woman! I’m not talking the time of day here. I’m
asking how much you want to get the hell out of my life!”

Oh, he’s a fine one, he is,
she thought
, full of his own pomp and
circumstance.
She longed to laugh in his face, if her body would cooperate long
enough. It would serve him right to be saddled with a banshee for life. If he was stupid enough to fall for Helen Bingham’s lies, it would be Brandy’s pleasure to
make him miserable in her stead.

She gathered a shallow breath, so she could get all the words out. “Why,
Gil, you naughty, naughty boy. I’d never even consider such a thing.”

He probably didn’t understand all the words, because they were filled with
the shuddering she couldn’t control, but he caught the main part of them.

“Cease your laughter, and face me, you devil-spawned woman! I’ve had a
horrendous day, and I’m not taking any more of your God-forsaken company!”

She let his words settle around her as if she had a say in the matter, but
she felt faintness closing in, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it.
Dots claimed the ugly image still staring from vacant eyes at her through the
glass. She hadn’t had a mirror or even window glass to see for herself in her cell, and damn, but it had been cold in the winter. Actually, it had felt cold every day
she’d been there.

“...I’ll take you right back to the Bingham’s. That’s what I’m going to do.
That will certainly solve—”

“Ten pounds!” Brandy ignored the pain wracking every pore of her body
to turn and face him, pulling the lazy side of her body with her right one. She
watched him flinch at the motion. She didn’t care that he saw. He was
threatening her with going back to Gerard, and it was because of Gerard that
she’d just spent thirteen months in that hell-hole. “Ten pounds, Guv! You set
me anywhere...with ten pounds, and I swear you’ll never see Brandy....”

Why does he have to look so blasted handsome?
she wondered.
Even with an expression of mixed disgust and disbelief on those features, he’s stunning
.
She longed to curse God for making that her last conscious thought.

“Ready a bed in the servant’s hall, Thompson,” Gil said, “and be quick
about it.”

He picked Helene from the floor of the carriage, knowing now he’d
need to have everything she touched cleaned and bleached. The chit weighed
exactly six stone, if he was any judge, and Gil liked to think he was.

Eighty pounds, give or take, and yet she filled out Helen’s wedding gown as if it were made for her.

“And call for Mrs. Wright and her maids,” he added. “I’m going to need
their help. Damn it, anyway. I’ve been cursed more than any man alive.”

Helene whimpered as he lay her on one of the iron-edged beds in the third
story wing. Although everyone always referred to this as Grandmama’s hunting
cottage, it was a misnomer. The place was nearly the size of Tremayne Hall. The stupid girl had used
him to gain her freedom, and while he couldn’t entirely fault her for that, he
would certainly make her pay—then, maybe, he’d give her the ten pounds.

CHAPTER THREE

“Oh,God!”

Brandy tried to roll onto her back, immediately aware of the danger, but
found her limbs pinned again. That cursed Regis had his revenge already, hadn’t
he? What further torment might the bastard be planning for her? T
hrobs of returning feeling made her long to moan, and she bit her tongue until it bled to silence the cries. She wasn’t giving away one thing that would
alert anyone to anything.

“Awake finally? Lord, what a heavy sleeper you are.”

She couldn’t turn her head to see him, not from the position in which she
was tied, so she sighed into the pillow. “Very heavy,” she whispered.

“That can be changed, too, can’t it, my dear?”

Where the blazes is he? And why must he talk in such an
iron-hard whisper?
Brandy thought she’d heard every male whisper in the
world, but this man’s sent chills down her spine.

“Speaking of changes...I, for one, am tired of that ridiculous wedding gown, and all it stands for. Perhaps you’ll agree, my love, when I mention a
peculiar odor about that dress?”

Brandy’s lips twisted. He must be referring to Madelaine’s perfume. It
must’ve worn off, and she wasn’t tied down. Her fingers found no
rope. So, instead of answering, she gritted her teeth and flung herself over.

Cor, but he seemed to have every lamp at his disposal lit around her bed. T
he light hurt almost as much as her shoulder. No, that was a stupid
comparison. Nothing could hurt this badly and not be the death of someone. She didn’t let any of her thoughts show on her face. Brandy never let anyone see
her suffering. When she and Sherry had nothing more than a one-bed room
called a crib in Paris, the only thing that kept all the others from falling on one of
them like a pack of wolves, was the ability to hide weakness.

How well she must have learned it! She watched the Lord of Tremayne’s
face grimace as he looked at her, but there was no pity on that handsome face.

“I’m having a bath prepared, Helene,” he informed her.

“Helene—”

“I’m not listening to any more of your stupid acting, my dear. Pray don’t strain my patience with it.”

“My...name is Brandy.” She choked out the words, wishing she could
choke him instead. Of all the people she had fooled over the years, why did it
have to be Helen Bingham’s intended that saw through her?

“Brandy? Helene.... Yes, l believe l see the connection. It’s obvious.  They rhyme.”

She giggled and instantly regretted it. Pain coursed her entire body. She found breathing was available only in gasps. Tears filled her eyes, and she banished them
, concentrating on one of the lamps as the tears slowly abated, unshed.

“How do you do that? It’s truly an interesting feat.”

She didn’t like the sly tone behind his question and would have stiffened,
except it felt as if every part of her was already in that state. “How do I do what?”
she whispered.

“Mrs. Wright has seen to having a big bath prepared. I’d very much like it if you’d avail yourself of the opportunity.”

“Never,” she hissed. Cleanliness meant—. She wouldn’t think about it.

“I don’t like forcing recalcitrant females to bathe. Let me rephrase that. I
don’t like forcing females to do anything, Brandy. Brandy...hmm...I rather like the name.”

Despite her best efforts, she flinched, showing she listened.

“However, I will force you to bathe the fleas, lice, and assorted vermin
from yourself before we spend another moment together. You may appreciate the company, but I won’t have my home overrun by such. And if you think I’m
an ogre, wait until I introduce you to Mrs. Wright.”

She choked on her reply, and even that hurt.

“No crass words of reply? No acting? No mimicking? Thank the fates. I
wouldn’t have hesitated turning you over to the Bingham Manor and the lap of
your loving family if that were the case.”

She tried to gather breath for her banshee wail, but her shoulder, neck, and damn it, even her face hurt too much for the effort. It was just as well. He
had the upper hand. And she’d given it to him. She’d been stupid, naive, and foolish to reveal her fear of Gerard, but she couldn’t
fault him for using it. She would have, too.

“No fight? This is much easier than I expected, but you don’t fight fair, do
you, Brandy, love?”

Tears filled her eyes again, brought on by the pain. They certainly didn’t
come from the way he leaned toward her, then pulled away as if repelled. She
was grateful for his reaction. She wanted it that way. She calmly watched the wall and silently
counted, as her tears dried again. She’d learned how to do it so long in the past, it was
reflex. No tears. Ever.

“Mrs. Wright will help you with your bath.”

“No help,” she croaked, wheezing with stifling the moan.

“If our wedding is legal, you’re the lady of the manor now, Brandy. As such, Mrs. Wright’s place is to serve. Besides, you couldn’t possibly get that dress off by
yourself, anyway, now could you?”

“No...help!”

She whistled the words through the working side of her jaw, but knew she was losing. She didn’t have the strength to fight off Mrs. Wright or
any other henchmen Gil might use.

“I look forward to your company, my dear. That is, when my eyes don’t
water by being in it.”

He chuckled at his joke. Brandy didn’t bother to
bristle. She wanted it that way, because it kept her safe, alone, and unmolested. Now, he intended to change it?

She was going to have to pay him back for that, too.

“See here, Madame, well have you up and about in—”  A new female
voice broke off suddenly. “Good Lord! What’s that stench?*

Mrs. Wright had a goodly face, probably the kindest one Brandy had seen
in years. It made her eye sting with unshed tears again as the woman held her nose and leaned
over her.

“Just...get the damned dress undone...and get out!”

Brandy put every
ounce of anger she had in her command. She still sounded like an alley kitten.
The effort of talking caused sweat droplets at her hairline. She had to let the emotion go. She was going to have to
conserve what little strength she had. She wasn’t up to fighting Gil or Mrs.
Wright. She’d just have to admit it, live through it, and survive.

“If you’ll roll over, Madame, I’ll see what I can do,” Mrs. Wright replied.
“Will that suit you well enough?”

Brandy nodded and then did it. God alone knew what that cost
her. The bedstead was rattling beneath her when she finished. She felt the woman’s fingers
deftly undoing the hooks Helen’s maidservant had fastened, while Brandy
wondered how she’d get it all off.

“You’ve...you’ve got on a mountain of gowns. It’s going to take me a spell,
Madame,” Mrs. Wright said. “Forgive me. I’m afraid I’ll have to go get the salts, after all
.”

Brandy listened to the woman’s retching through her words and tried to
find her ready, banshee smile as Mrs. Wright stumbled away, probably looking
for the nearest chamber pot. Brandy told herself she didn’t care. She had the privacy she
craved and a hot bath waiting. God help her, but she knew it would feel
wonderful, too.

***

“My Lord? A word?”

Gil looked up from the fire. “Witherspoon, isn’t it? Give me your word and go, Man.”

“It’s not mine, actually, My Lord, and I’d never presume to disturb your
lordship—”

“Get on with it, Man!”

Gil watched the butler stiffen. He
hadn’t meant to be so rough with the fellow, but he was still reeling from the aftermath of his
wedding and knowing that creature shared his name. No amount of brandy snifters seemed to cure the situation, either.

“It isn’t Mr. Witherspoon that wishes a word, My Lord, it’s me,” a woman said.

“Why, Mrs. Wright. I should’ve known.” Gil lifted his feet down from the
footstool and prepared to stand. “I suppose I’ve no choice but to attend her. And here I
thought I had her cowed enough.”

“Cowed? Oh, no, Your Lordship! Begging Your Lordship’s pardon, but
the poor puss has—. She has—. Oh, Lord, but I’ve never seen the like!”

Gil and the butler watched in amazement as Mrs. Wright dabbed her eyes
with her apron and took a deep breath. “That poor child hasn’t a speck of flesh that hasn’t been whipped, beaten, or burned, Your Lordship, and I—. The good Lord help
me, but I couldn’t even stay and help the poor mite bathe. I’ll need more
help, My Lord. I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Wright ended her speech by breaking into sobs. Gil, who’d never
seen such abandonment by the housekeeper, looked to Witherspoon for assistance. He got a surprised expression that probably matched his. It was probably his fault. He should’ve prepared Mrs. Wright for
what she was about to see. Of course the chit had marks on her. She probably
deserved them. Sanatoriums weren’t known for being luxurious, soft
environments. What Mrs. Wright had observed was probably a combination of
Brandy’s acting ability, combined with an inherent talent for gathering smells
and filth about her.

“Handle Mrs. Wright, will you, Witherspoon?”

Gil’s mouth tipped a bit as
Witherspoon looked at him as if he’d just been asked to manage Buckingham Palace. Gil forced down emotion as he walked toward the servant’s quarters. He told himself he wasn’t angry,

Yet.

***

“Mama, give me strength. Please, give me strength.”

Brandy managed to push the dress from her by using her working arm, cursing out the rest of her body. While she was at it, she damned that Madelaine, too, for fastening so many
damn nightgowns about her. Brandy hadn’t cared that they were Madelaine’s
. They might not be fine lawn, but the cotton was far softer
than her rags and that horrible straitjacket.

There weren’t any witnesses as she got the first nightgown off, howling in
pain the entire time. The remaining ones came off the same way, and she found that, once she began, it wasn’t all that difficult. She was getting soft. That wasn’t good. One day away from that hellhole and she was going soft? Of course, Lord Tremayne’s bouncing carriage ride hadn’t helped, but she was still alive and unmolested,
and she meant to remain that way.

The water was hot. Brandy stiffened as her feet touched it, torturing
the bites on her toes. And just look. Lord Tremayne had left her a fancy bar of soap. Wasn’t
that wonderful of him? How could she force soap onto skin that was already in
agony over a little hot water?

She decided to wash her hair first. Brandy gasped several times before submerging,
even though short breaths made the fire in her shoulder start up again. She
cursed Regis and his tantrum again, but it didn’t help. That stupid guard. Any of his other charges could have
slapped him, and he would’ve let it go with an answering slap, but not Brandy. He
made certain she’d never even look up when he came around, let alone fight him.

“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”

Each word filled her breast with as much
fire as the one that was eating her back, and she howled again at her failure to
banish the pain.

“I won’t cry. You hear me, God? Nothing on this earth will make me do so! Ever!”

The vow cost her. She couldn’t even suck in air to finish. It was better
to bathe as quickly as possible, and dress. Mrs. Wright would return soon and
Brandy had to be covered before them. Nobody ever saw Brandy without the
barrier of clothing.

Nobody.

Water lapped over the side as she knelt, rubbing the bar of soap with her working hand against the other one, as she forced herself to prepare for scrubbing. She kept telling herself that washing away dirt wasn’t that difficult. It was done every day, a thousand times, to a thousand other folk.

There wasn’t much to her body, but every bit of it was burning when she’d finis
hed.  She was also exhausted. She tried to sit back, but finding a part of her back she could lean
against took time, especially because her left side wouldn’t work.

Why…if she was a man, she’d return and run Regis through, despite the consequences. That was useless as well as stupid. Revenge never did anybody any good. Sherry had
lectured on it often enough…when she wasn’t on her back with a sweaty, rutting male on top of her, or coughing out her lungs into a bucket Brandy had to
empty.