Captive Scoundrel (14 page)

Justin swore and rolled his blasted chair into the hall, intent on rescue. He was sick of hiding like a coward. But at the top of the stairs, he looked down, and smacked the chair’s arms, snapping one clean off. He couldn’t defend a pup much less a woman, against a man who would stop at nothing to gain his ends.

Inspiration hit. Defence came in many forms. A man in a chair, with a weapon, could be as strong as one standing. Justin wheeled himself to the library balcony, pleased at the strength in his arms. But once there, he saw his father’s duelling pistols mounted much higher than he remembered. And it would be no use trying to get them if he couldn’t load them.

He checked the desk, where the case was kept. Lead balls and flints. The powder flask and oil bottle were full. Rod, patches, turn screw, spring cramp—all there. He examined the fireplace…and hoped he found the mantle as sturdy as his bedpost.

Faith stared at the vials and smoothed her skirt to wipe her palms and gather her wits. Footsteps in the hall reminded her she was not alone, except that she should probably not count on Vincent’s servants.

The mantle clock chimed the quarter hour.

Vincent’s impatient fingers drummed a tattoo on the desktop, and he stabbed her with his gaze. “Explain. Now!” he shouted, and she jumped.

Heart pounding, she stepped to the French doors to gaze out and steady herself. Forging courage, she imagined herself the cat, Vincent the mouse. The image emboldened her. She turned and smiled. “I’m not the naive child you think me, your grace.”

Infused with alarm, Vincent staggered and knocked over a chair, the crash bringing him to his senses. But the pungent taste of fear brought him the strong desire to punish the strumpet. She hadn’t even flinched when the chair fell. Even now, she ignored him and returned her gaze to the window.

Vincent whipped her about. “Tell me,” he demanded, shaking her, her alarm exciting, making him wonder whether he should beat her or take her.

She moved away and into the room, searching furtively, as if rescue were to be found in a dark corner. When she raised her chin, he laughed. Her fallacious courage might be spirited, but he wondered if she knew what a formidable opponent he could be.

Her eyes, the greenest he’d ever seen, widened as she took a step back for each he took in her direction. When the desk stopped her retreat, he smiled. As she poised to bolt, he lunged, devouring her with his kiss, invading her with his tongue, slipping his hand in her dress.

“No!” His quarry rebelled with astonishing force.

He stumbled, caught hold and tore her bodice, raking her breast with his nails.

Straightening, he saw the cuts, and smiled. The top of her breast bore the image of a music staff etched in blood. “I seem to have branded you.”

She raised her hand to slap him. He caught it, but her momentary strength amazed him, and he fell against a table. At his bellow of rage, the starch went out of her. He shoved her in a chair, imprisoning her with his arms. “Why were those vials outside?” He grasped her chin and raised it to examine her. High cheekbones. Full lips. The rapid pulse in her lovely neck revealed her fear. Her cat’s eyes pierced him so thoroughly, it was a wonder he didn’t bleed. “The truth,” he said. “There is no game I cannot win.”

She licked her lips, inviting him to do the same, and when he did, she bit his tongue. With an oath, he pulled away, highly aroused.

“Justin kept waking,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Double the dose!”

Faith watched in horror as Vincent growled and threw a chair at a glass-fronted cabinet. Even as it shattered, he narrowed his eyes on her and reached for a marble urn.

As fast, faster, she threw a Chinese vase.

Sailing by his ear, it splintered on the hearth.

His expression blanked. With shaking hands, he placed the urn on the desk. “Why did you do that?”

To hurt him, God help her. “I thought…you’d finish sooner if I helped.”

His smile, easy, disturbing, made him seem almost human. He straightened his coat and ran his hands through his hair.

A loud rapping startled them.

Vincent opened the door, and the library cat slipped into the room. Someone spoke. Vincent chuckled. “Thank you, no. Miss Wickham was just having a tantrum. But she’s fine now.”

He shut the door and turned to her. “You made too much noise.” He looked at the disarray. “And a nasty mess. What am I to…how the devil did that cat get in? Ah. Hemsted. Where he goes, so goes Satan.” He opened the door and kicked the cat out…literally. “Feeling better now?” he asked Faith.

Good Lord, did he actually think that she had done this? “I’m fine,” she said, afraid to unbalance him further.

“Look,” he said, all concern. “You tore your gown.” He made to console her, his hand on her neck clammy, his wine-sour breath too close.

She made to move from his hold. “It’s nothing.”

“No, let me help.” He tried to straighten her bodice. She wanted to slap his hand away; instead, she stepped back, holding the torn fabric against herself.

He stared at it. “You’re bleeding.” He reached for her. “Let me see.”

“No!”

His fury at her rejection made Faith panic. “Justin was suffering!”

“What?”

“That’s why I threw the vials.”

He stopped, collected himself. “You said he woke.”

“In a manner of speaking. He was out of control…mad.” If Vincent Devereux didn’t understand madness, no one would. And if she lived through this, she could go on the stage.

“You can’t stop giving him the medicine!” he snapped.

“No, no. Look.” She picked up an unbroken vial, and holding her bodice, she tried to open it.

Vincent came too close again, and Faith tugged hard, unstopping it with a vengeance, and almost-accidentally tossed the contents at him.

His jaw tensed.

“I apologize.” She pulled the soiled coat toward his face, nearly strangling him. “The colour is wrong. See? And the odour.” She shoved the soaked fabric under his nose, making him gag, tearing his waistcoat. “It’s plainly turned.”

She looked into his eyes. “The man responsible should hang.”

His eyes widened. His nostrils flared.

“I could hang him myself for mixing the medicine carelessly and causing Justin to suffer.” Faith shook so hard, it was a wonder she could speak. “If you will excuse me, your grace, I must see to my patient.”

Vincent seemed to awaken, as if from a trance. “About my manners. I was…overcome…by your beauty.”

Did he now remember his actions? Her shock must be apparent.

“If you would allow me to explain myself.” He paced as one caged. “When I think of my brother, dying, and there is nothing I can do, it fills me with such…rage.”

Faith didn’t want him to read her alarm, but his sporadic sanity frightened her more than his madness.

“Here now, Miss Wickham,” Vincent said with gentle rebuke. “Surely you can forgive your employer.”

A clear threat to her position, and she must heed the warning, for leaving Justin was unthinkable. She smiled as falsely as he. “There is nothing to forgive.” The words tasted bitter. Desperation to be free overwhelmed her. She willed herself to remain, and not to turn tail and run, yet. “If you will excuse me. It has been a difficult day.” She left sedately but without awaiting dismissal.

The moment the door shut, violent shudders seized her. Her skin was icy, yet moist with perspiration, her heartbeat erratic.

Hemsted stepped from the shadows, concern etching his features. He asked a silent question. Was she all right?

To discourage further inquiry, she gave him a relieved smile.

He relaxed, turned and stepped through a door, shutting it.

On shaking legs, Faith made her way toward her room. The hall seemed cavernous, the stairs too high, the corridors too dark.

Ill-prepared to face Justin, she sat in an alcove to let her tears fall.

Justin ignored his aching head. He’d smacked it on the hearth when he fell, but he’d gotten the pistols, by damn. He poured the powder, dropped the ball into the muzzle and tamped it with the loading rod.

The lower library door opened and Justin raised his head, alert. Vincent offered a glass of port. A man accepted. They discussed estates and profits—his—and left the library.

Where was Faith? Lord, she must be in his room and frantic at his absence. He placed the loaded pistols in their compartments, and returned the case to its drawer. If anyone noted their absence above the mantle, they would look here…where they would be ready should Justin need them. Better here than in his room with Beth or Faith. One was too curious, the other too trusting. He patted the case of loaded pistols and shut the drawer.

In his room, he was sick with worry. Faith had not returned. Then she came in, hair tumbled, cheeks rosy. Catherine all over again. She didn’t see him in the corner as she leaned against her door, hand to her heart, eyes closing. Dreaming of his brother?

Justin rolled his chair forward with the force of his anger.

Faith jumped and opened her eyes.

He took a breath, prepared to allow her to explain.

She raised her chin but said nothing.

His anger turned to disquiet. Her eyes spoke not of pleasure, but pain. He reached for her. “Faith?”

Her composure crumbled the minute Justin’s look changed from anger to concern. When he took her on his lap, her strength disappeared and she wept.

“Dear God, dear God,” he repeated, pulling her close.

As far as she was concerned, he couldn’t hold her tight enough. She wanted to melt into him, never to be separated from him again. He rocked, stroked and soothed her. She felt so safe, she couldn’t stop the first sob, nor the next, nor the one after that.

“Shh. You will make yourself ill. Please, Sweetheart.”

Faith stilled as best she could, her sigh ragged.

Justin touched her cheek. “You’re frightening the hell out of me. Please tell me what happened.”

She shook her head. She couldn’t, she couldn’t.

“Damn it, tell me what that bastard did! Look at me,” he demanded as he raised her chin so she was forced to stare into his furious eyes. “I’ll shoot him if he hurt you. I swear I will.”

“No, Justin. It’s…all right. He didn’t…actually.”

“My God. What do you mean, not actually?”

She shook her head and hid her face in his neck once more.

Once more, he pulled her away to look at her.

She leaned against the missing chair-arm and he caught her, but her torn bodice slipped open. His hand shook as he raised it toward the four bloody scratches across her breast. He stopped short of touching her. “I’ll kill him.”

She pulled up the fabric to cover herself and looked away. “I’m so ashamed.”

“Faith, whatever happened—and it can’t be worse than my imagination—it was not your fault. I know Vincent.”

Tears clouded her vision. “Before I left, you called me Catherine. As if, as if….”

Justin shook his head. “Seeing Vincent after all this time, knowing he wanted you. I was reliving the past, afraid he would take you from me. I’m stuck in a bed or this blasted chair. I get so angry, I can’t seem to help myself.”

“That’s what Vincent said.”

“Sweet Jesus, Faith, you can’t possibly think…God, what have I done? Please, darling, I didn’t mean it, though I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” He rocked her in his arms.

Faith pulled from his embrace. “Justin, are those tears?”

“No.” He swallowed and pulled her back. “Ah, Faith. I’ll never forgive myself for hurting you like that, or for being so useless to you.”

She wiped his tears with her fingertips “You would never hurt me. I know that. And what happened was frightening, but I’m all right. I am. Just hold me for a while.”