Cheryl Holt (35 page)

She crouched down, hands trussed behind her back, as he raised the bar, as he pulled it away, and . . . she lunged at him.

At the last instant, she ejected her gag, and, hurling herself at him like a banshee, she let out a bloodcurdling scream.

“Bastard!”

“Holy Christ!” As he realized what she was about, he tried to jump away, but he couldn’t avoid a collision.

Flying into him, she knocked him over, then she clambered to her knees, to her feet, but without the use of all her limbs, she was awkward and off balance. She attempted to run, but was too slow. Growling like a wounded bear, he scrambled after her, and he shoved her forward so that she landed with a painful thud. Smacking into the dirt, her cheeks and nose scraped across rocks and weeds.

After tackling her, he pinned her down, and she could feel the bones of his rib cage, the paunch of his obese stomach. Flattened to her bottom, she could detect his erect phallus. He was aroused by the violence, and she shuddered with revulsion. Up until that moment, what had transpired hadn’t seemed real. She’d known Willie for ages, had considered him an odd duck, a bothersome, polite nuisance, whom she’d tolerated because he was her neighbor. When he’d placed her under arrest, the encounter had been bizarre, like a weird dream.

But to discover that he was sexually excited! She wanted to retch.

He was abnormal, perverted. She’d heard of men who reveled in brutality. Kate had insisted that her husband had been one of them, that he’d enjoyed cruelty for cruelty’s sake, but the truth of Kate’s admission hadn’t registered. Anne’s experiences with evil had been too limited.

Willie was dangerous, mad, capable of any foul deed. He might begin with rape, but he wouldn’t stop there. Very likely, her life was on the line, and she was all alone in her jeopardy.

There was no one to rescue her, no one to ride up on a white stallion. Her brother, Phillip, was across the country at their father’s estate in Salisbury, while Stephen was being feted in London. She had to save herself, had to employ every wile and deception she could contrive. By any means, she had to keep herself alive, had to buy herself time to flee.

As Willie hovered behind her, his fetid breath coursed across her ruined face. “Bitch! I could kill you for that!”

“Yes, but then you couldn’t marry me. You couldn’t put your greedy paws on my farm.”

“Do you presume that marriage is the only way I can gain your property?” He laughed, a wicked, revolting chuckle that sent chills down her spine.

“Yes, and it shall never happen.”

“Before we’re through, you might just sign the deed over to me.”

“Never!”

“Although I prefer matrimony. I want you forever under my authority and forced to do my bidding.” Grabbing her by the neck, he grated her injuries into the sharp stones and twigs. “So proud! So strong! But you’ll learn quickly enough.”

“Brute! Monster!”

He laughed again, recognizing that words were her sole weapon, and as he moved off and yanked her to her feet, she peered around. They were out in the pasture, surrounded by trees and tall grass, where no passerby could observe them.

There was a small building in front of her, with a single door, a sloping roof, and under the eaves a few tiny slits for windows. It was his personal jail. Rumors had abounded as to its construction and use, but she hadn’t actually believed the stories. How naive she’d been!

She assessed the structure with an enormous amount of dread, overwhelmed by the impression that if she went inside, she might never come out. She started to flail and shriek
as he dragged her toward the threshold. It yawed like the gates of hell, a grotesque, black chasm that would swallow her whole, but try as she might, she couldn’t alter their progress.

“Struggle as much as you like,” he declared, relishing her inability to best him. “Yell, beg, plead. It won’t do you any good.”

She dug in her heels, but with no success. “Why aren’t we at your home? I thought you wished to fornicate with me.” If they were in the house, there’d be servants, would be more options. “Take me to your bedchamber. I’ll go peacefully. I won’t fight you.”

“Maybe I want you to fight me.”

“I’ll do whatever you ask. Tell me what you’d like.”

“What I would
like
is for you to languish in my little private prison. You’ll be much more amenable once you perceive how miserable your life can truly be.”

They were at the stoop, and he pushed her through, into a big chamber, with three cells, bars to separate the enclosures. It was dark, dreary, and she could smell sickening odors, of blood and fear and human torment, though it was empty of any other occupants.

At the far end, there appeared to be a torture chamber, complete with shackles, whips, and bludgeons.

How many people had he brought here over the years? Why had there been no hue and cry in the neighborhood? Were her acquaintances as oblivious as she had been? Perhaps others assumed—as had she—that any miscreant incarcerated in the sordid facility deserved his fate.

“Welcome to my gaol.” He smiled. “I see that you’re frightened. Splendid!”

She wiped away any expression. Though he was correct, and she was scared, she wasn’t about to let him witness it. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“You will be.”

He tried to urge her in, but she relaxed her muscles, growing heavy so that he couldn’t lift her, and he tussled with her shifting torso, battling to maintain his grip. He hauled her past the three pens, to the other side of the room, where his dastardly equipment awaited.

She continued to wrestle, but she had scant purchase, and he lugged her over, and spun her toward the wall. In seconds, he had her arms shackled, her legs splayed and chained at the ankles.

His body was mashed to hers, and he was sweating, his respiration labored, and she garnered some petty satisfaction in noting that he was winded, that her skirmishing had made it difficult for him to harness her.

Leaning in, he bit her nape and nibbled her ear. “We’re going to have such fun, you and I.”

“That’s what you think.”

“Hold your tongue.” He reached for a riding crop, and he struck her alongside the head.

“No.”

He hit her, harder, and she made no reply. “There,” he crooned, “you’re learning already. It will be so much easier, once you decide to obey.”

“You can force me into anything”—she endeavored to sound bold, even as she hoped he couldn’t detect that her knees were shaking—“but you’ll never control me.”

“Don’t be too certain.”

Clasping the neckline of her dress, he ripped it down the middle, so that her back was bared, the sleeves of the garment drooping, and he tugged down the fabric, exposing her to the waist. He wrapped himself around her and cupped her breasts, pinching the nipples until they hurt, and she swallowed down her need to beg him to desist.

She wouldn’t grovel. Despite how vile it became.

“It’s time for your first lesson.”

“I’ll never master it.”

“I’m a patient teacher.”

She glanced over her shoulder, and he’d retrieved a larger whip, one that had knots in the corded strands.

“For your cuckolding of me, by copulating with Captain Stephen Chamberlin, I sentence you to fifty lashes.”

The switch crashed down, tearing into her flesh. She clenched her teeth until her jaws ached, refusing to cry out, declining to titillate him further with an overt show of agony.

His gestures were methodical, practiced, as if he regularly lashed people. He was adept, sure of his mark, and he thrashed her over and over. The pain was intense, and blissfully, she sank into a barren void, where she could feel nothing at all.

Charles ambled down the dock, hunting for the ship of which he’d been apprised the previous evening. He’d been up and down the wharves, but hadn’t found the blasted vessel, when it occurred to him that he was in no hurry to locate it.

When he did, he’d book passage, and on the tide the following morning, he’d be off to America. Originally, he’d thought about traipsing to Spain, but in light of his exploits there, he couldn’t bear to return. With the realization that Eleanor wasn’t pregnant, there was no reason to dawdle, so he’d resolved to journey as far away from England as possible.

He’d heard tales of the young, wild country, that a man could have his own land, that there were opportunities around every corner. If a fellow couldn’t make a fresh start in such a place, where could he?

Many of his distant Scottish relatives had settled in the Carolinas, and he imagined he could dig them up, could find some family.

The notion of being surrounded by kin was too dear to
contemplate, and as he gazed around at the busy harbor, at the bustle of the crowd, and the supplies being loaded and unloaded, he suffered a wave of melancholy. Except for the short period when he’d been married all those years ago, he’d never planted any roots, had never belonged anywhere.

He was tired of carrying on alone, of having no connections, no ties to bind. Perhaps it was his advancing age, or his depression over his maiming, that had him reeling, but he craved attachments, responsibilities, and obligations. His sojourn at Bristol Manor, his destructive affair with Lady Eleanor, had underscored how desperate he was for a few scraps of affection.

He was so pathetic! Lost, wandering, forlorn, with no one and nothing to call his own.

Down the pier, he observed the ship for which he’d been searching, and he was so despondent at having encountered it! The only bond he’d had in an eternity had been with Stephen Chamberlin, and once he climbed up the plank and stowed his gear, once the wind caught the sails and whisked him out to sea, he’d never see Stephen again, his last link with another human would be severed.

He would travel across the world, to another continent, a spot so exotic and distant that he might as well have been trekking to the moon. Could he do it? How could he not?

He’d been so positive that Lady Eleanor was pregnant, but no word had been delivered to verify his suspicions. Even after she’d arrived in London with Stephen, he’d tarried, hoping with each footfall in the yard that it was she, eager to inform him that she was having a baby, to solicit his forgiveness so they could begin anew.

What a wretched soul he was! While she’d been staying in the Chamberlins’ grand mansion, he’d slept in his servant’s bed in the barn, yet he’d been stupid enough to pray that she still wanted him, that she would brave those few steps, but she never had.

There was naught to do but leave, to tromp down the wharf, speak with the purser, and pay his fare. Resigned, saddened, he sighed and set forth, when a gilded carriage pulled out in front of him, blocking the entire lane from side to side.

“Bloody rich sod,” he grumbled, and he was about to duck through the alley, when a man exited the vehicle.

He was nodding and whispering to whoever was sequestered inside, then he stared at Charles so intently that he shifted, uneasy with the scrutiny. Though the man was attired as a gentleman, with a hat and walking stick, the cane seemed more like a weapon than a dandy’s adornment. He was muscled, rugged, a former pugilist, a bodyguard, or even a Bow Street runner, though why such an unsavory character would be looking for him was a mystery.

“Are you Mr. Charles Hughes?” he inquired as he approached.

“Yes.”

“Formerly of the Fighting Hundred-and-First Regiment?”

“That I am.”

“I’m Mick Rafferty. If you’ll come with me, please.”

“I don’t
please,
Mr. Rafferty,” Charles retorted. “What the hell do you want? And be quick about it. I’ve got business to attend.”

“It’s a matter of some delicacy. I’d rather not discuss it here on the street.”

Charles grabbed a fistful of Rafferty’s shirt. He might have one arm, but he was tough and fearless, and he wasn’t about to have a stranger accosting him. “Start talking. Fast.”

“Steady, my friend. No need to be surly.” Not intimidated, Rafferty slapped him away. “I have a client who is considering filing charges against you.”

“Charges? For what?”

“Breach of promise.”

“Breach of . . .” He stopped. There was one family that
would raise such a fuss. Was this how they’d chosen to play it? To what end? What damages did they seek? He had no assets, so maybe they were angling for a pound of flesh.

A powerful nobleman such as Lord Bristol could have many punishments imposed that didn’t involve cash remuneration. Imprisonment, flogging, deportation. A myriad of embarrassing scenarios careened through his head.

After all he’d done for Stephen, was this to be his reward? Was Stephen aware of what his father had set in motion? Was Eleanor?

He was so furious, he could have torn Rafferty in half.

Rafferty studied him. “I take it you’re cognizant of the situation to which I refer, so I trust I won’t be required to provide details.”

“As I proposed marriage several times, and was consistently rebuffed, which promise—precisely—am I alleged to have breached?”

“I’m not privy to the facts, but I understand that there is some question as to the lady’s reputation being tarnished.”

Charles was aghast with outrage. “You can tell that horse’s ass, Lord Bristol, to bugger off.”

He’d meant to stomp away in a huff, but Rafferty halted him with a hand to his shoulder. “Let me make myself more clear: refusal to join me is not an option.”

The lapel of his jacket was loosened, and Charles could view a concealed pistol. “What will you do?” Charles scoffed. “Shoot me?”

“I wouldn’t push it, if I were you. It appears as if you’re about to flee the country, and I’ve been well compensated to ensure you don’t.” He gestured toward the carriage. “My client is most insistent for the two of you to parlay. Shall we go?”

Charles was so incensed, he wanted to break something. There was nothing he hated more than bootlicking to a wealthy, arrogant prig such as Bristol, and he had a few
cutting, terse comments he’d like to share as to the buffoon’s pomposity.

“I’m anxious,” he announced, “for the two of us to chat, as well. Lead on.”

“A wise man.”