Healing Grace (20 page)

The boy wasn’t sure how much time passed, but it was a while. He was somewhere drifting between sleep and consciousness, somewhere in the quiet, when the wind roused him. He could barely hear it, but it was there, a faint whispery breath of air, “I’m such a disgusting, selfish bastard. I knew something wasn’t right. I’ve seen… I’ve touched your scars. I never meant to hurt you. Dear god, what have I done? What have I done to you?”

The colonel was still holding him, rocking him. The continuous sway was lulling, consoling. The boy’s eyes were barely open, but he could see the dingy gray wall in the moonlight. It was supposed to be white, but it was gray. He’d wiped it down, to make the room clean for the colonel, but it was still dingy. All he could hear was the bed as they rocked. He listened to the steady crinkling noises and stared at the wall. Left, right, left, right, like soldiers marching, but slower. Left, right, left, right. “Colonel?”

“Yes, love?”

“I tried to be good. I tried. But I’m bad. I’m bad.”

“Oh no. No, love, you’re not bad. What your daddy did to you was sick, horrid. What
he
did was bad. But not you. You were just a child, an innocent child. You did nothing wrong. Nothing.”

“He had to,” the boy whispered. “That’s the way daddies love their sons.”

Sharply the colonel inhaled. “No! Oh, no,” the colonel said. “That’s not true. That’s not how daddies love their sons. Your daddy abused you. He beat you. He raped you. That’s not love. Good daddies would never do that to their sons. No, dear one, that’s not love at all. Love is caring and giving. Love is trust and kindness and respect. Love is tenderness and healing.”

The colonel kept rocking. Slow and steady, crinkle back, crinkle forward, crinkle back, crinkle forward. The boy didn’t want to leave this comfort. He just wanted to lay here and rock, but as the colonel’s words replayed in his head, the gray wall grew blurry and his eyes began to sting. His throat grew tight, and though he swallowed and swallowed, he couldn’t make the thickness go away.

“Go ahead and cry,” the colonel said. “You cry as much as you need to.”

The boy wasn’t allowed to cry, but the colonel said it was okay. The colonel never got mad, no matter what he did. “Were you bad… when you… were little?” It was hard to get the words out. “Did your d…daddy…?”

“No, love. No, he didn’t,” the colonel murmured.

Everything hurt. Not physically, not the way Daddy had hurt him, but on the inside, in the boy’s head, in his chest. The colonel’s arms tightened so much, he could barely breathe, but he didn’t want to breathe. He’d tried so hard to make Daddy like him. Daddies were supposed to love their sons, but the colonel said mean love wasn’t love at all.

He felt like if the colonel let go of him, his body would crumble into a million tiny pieces. The colonel’s arms were a refuge, a haven, and it was okay to cry there. Sobs choked him, and between them the words spewed out, “Can I hate him? I want to hate him… can I? Can I?”

“Yes, you can. You can hate him,” the colonel whispered. “Go ahead and cry, love. I won’t hurt you. I will never ever hurt you.”

The boy didn’t know how long he cried, but it was a long time. He didn’t know when he fell asleep, but when he woke he was still cocooned in the colonel’s arms. He felt groggy. His eyes felt swollen. It was sometime in the middle of the night, but he could tell the colonel wasn’t asleep because when he stirred the colonel’s arms squeezed and the colonel made a noise, like a soft hum.

“Colonel?” he whispered.

“Yes, love?”

“May I stay here with you?”

“Yes, love, you can stay with me. I want you to stay with me,” the colonel said.

“Colonel?”

“Yes, love?”

“You’re the only person in the world who’s nice to me.”

The colonel’s arms gently constricted and he kissed the boy above the ear, but he didn’t say anything.

“Colonel?”

“Yes, love?” This time the colonel’s voice was scratchy.

“Is it okay for me to love you that way? Not mean love, but good love, the way you said, with caring and giving and healing?”

The colonel didn’t answer right away. Instead he sucked in a breath and held it. When he let it go, it came out of him in pieces. In the same raspy murmur, he said, “Yes, it’s okay. Go back to sleep now. I won’t let you go. I will never let you go.”

The boy was still within the colonel’s embrace when he woke in the morning.

The colonel said he would never hurt him.

Physically he never did.

The colonel said he would never let go.

But he did.

“What the hell are you doing?”

At the roar, Constance flung around from the clothesline, and oh, that wasn’t such a good idea. It felt like someone slammed her in the head with a frying pan, and the dizziness that swarmed was so severe she had to grab hold of the pole to keep upright.

“Good god, woman!”

She wasn’t that far gone, however, to miss Etienne hurtling off Igore. It took all of a second for him to stomp over and sweep her up into his arms.

“This isn’t necessary. I’m fine,” she protested, though it did little good. He was already halfway to her house.

“Like hell you are,” he scoffed. “You’re supposed to be resting. You were asleep when I left. What were you thinking coming outside?”

Constance wrapped her arms around his neck. Not because she wanted to, but because she felt more secure that way. “Laundry. I washed your clothes. I was hanging them on the line,” she told him. She’d needed to, lest that nasty odor permeate her entire house. Fortunately the clothes he wore now didn’t reek like the others. Now, he smelled nice.

“There’s no need,” he said.

“Yes, there was. They made you smell bad.”

He was already ducking through the rear door of her house. In the next second he laid her down on the bed. Then he just stood there, fists on his hips, glowering down at her. God only knew what was going through his mind. But Constance was too tired, and her body ached too much to try to figure him out.

All day he’d been overwhelming her home. Despite the numerous times she’d told him she was fine and he could leave, he’d refused. He’d been there, every single second, not letting her out of bed, except for necessities. When she’d told him she wanted to get dressed, he’d argued. Although in the end he’d given in, he’d been the one to pick the clothes from her closet and then he’d insisted on helping her put them on.

He hadn’t even let her answer the door when Harry came knocking. As he did every Sunday, Harry had come to drive her to church.

Etienne had opened the door and said to Harry, “Constance is ill. She won’t be going to church today.” And then, before Harry could say a word, Etienne had slammed the door. Constance had heard the whole one-sided exchange from her bedroom.

The next thing she’d known Etienne was with her again. He’d wanted to check her dressings and change them, if need be. Three times already today he’d done so.

In the few moments he hadn’t been lording over her, he’d been scrounging things from her pantry. Then she’d been subjected to being spoon-fed—breakfast, the midday meal and again during this afternoon’s tea. He’d served it with bread he’d already buttered.

An hour ago, she awakened from the nap he’d insisted she take, only to discover, except for Rex, she was alone. And she’d been infinitely grateful. Finally she’d been able to take care of private things without Etienne peeking at her every half second. She should have known he’d come back.

“Where did you go?” she murmured curiously.

“To town. We needed supplies and I have medicine for you, too. Igore’s loaded down. I’ll go unpack so long as you agree to stay in bed. I won’t be long.” That said, he marched out.

He’d said
we
needed supplies. How long did the overbearing man intend to stay? And medicine? She didn’t need medicine, though she supposed she was lucky to have survived last night’s ordeal at all, at the very least that she’d come away from it with no broken bones. She remembered the sudden wrenching across her shoulders and falling from Izzy, or rather being dragged by Izzy. From that point, things were sketchy. Somewhere along the road, she’d fainted.

When she’d awakened, Etienne had been carrying her, and talking. She remembered hearing, “…first saw you…remember how you screamed? I’ll never forget that…want to know what I did to scare you… will you tell me someday?” and “…can’t stop thinking of you… on my mind all the time…” Over and over he’d called her
‘ma chérie.’
He’d also said, “… had me duped… amazing horsewoman… now I know why you didn’t stop… you knew it was me in the dress?”

That meant he’d figured out she’d been the one dressing as the spook. Obviously he knew, because he’d found her last night and brought her home. Oddly enough, other than the bits and pieces he’d babbled while he’d thought she was unconscious, he hadn’t mentioned anything more about her nightly exploits.

The only thing he’d said that was mildly related was that Izzy and Igore had run off. Both of them, however, had been munching away in her yard this morning. They’d come home on their own. Well, Izzy had. Why Igore would have come to her property was a mystery. The only other time Etienne had left Constance alone had been to see to the horses, and that had been before Harry showed up.

Etienne hadn’t brought up what she’d said about George, either. Everything had been fuzzy, but Constance remembered the recurring dream coming to her—the same dream she’d had periodically ever since George died, and she was sure she’d spoken aloud. She’d asked Etienne if she’d killed George.

She knew she hadn’t really. She hadn’t poisoned George, or shot him, or done anything tangibly heinous. But she had wanted George to die. The guilt that drove her nightmares was the same guilt that hovered in her mind constantly. Because she’d wished for it, had she ultimately been responsible? Had her endless yearning brought on his illness? Had she, by will alone, killed her husband?

But Constance didn’t want to think about George. She didn’t want to think about anything. She closed her eyes hoping to drift away. At least in slumber she wouldn’t have to feel the endless throbbing in her head. She wouldn’t have to consciously remember her shame.

Etienne padded in so silently she didn’t hear him. But she felt the dip in the mattress as he sat on the bed beside her.

“Are you asleep?” he murmured. “Don’t pretend. I know you’re not. It’s time for your medicine.”

“I’m fine,” she murmured without opening her eyes. “I don’t want medicine.”

“Come on. Sit up. This will help you.”

There was no point resisting, because he’d keep badgering until she did what he wanted. That much she’d learned throughout the day. So she sat up, allowing him to adjust the pillows behind her. Then he put a filled-to-the-brim iced tea glass in her hand.

“Drink up,” he said.

“What is it?”

“I told you. Medicine.”

Constance drank heartily—the better to get it over with so he would go away—or she attempted to. The harsh liquid made her sputter and cough so badly her eyes watered. She would have dropped the glass had Etienne not snatched it out of her hand. When finally she could open her eyes, the imperious man was grinning.

“That’s whiskey!” she spouted.

“Yep. Medicinal whiskey,” he said. “It’ll be a few minutes before you begin to feel the effects. And you’re off to a good start, but you need to finish it. Here.”

Constance wasn’t about to take the glass he was trying to press into her hand. She wrenched away, then had to cringe when her badly scabbed elbow bumped into the headboard.

“Trust me. If you drink this, your elbows won’t hurt anymore. Neither will your head. And it’s not
that
bad. I watered it down for you. Here you go.”

“Fine.” Constance took the glass. He was probably right, she supposed. At the very least, the alcohol would put her to sleep, and in that state she wouldn’t have to deal with him. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath and a decent-sized swig, though she didn’t swallow nearly as much as she had the first time around.

“Very good,” he said. “Keep going.”

That domineering beast stayed right there, staring at her, until she finished the glass. But he was right. Her head didn’t hurt any longer and her aching muscles didn’t seem to matter so much. She was still dizzy, but it wasn’t the nauseous kind, like before. This was sort of pleasant, and funnier. Somewhere along the line she’d developed a severe case of the giggles.

“Would you like more?” Etienne asked.

“Okay.” She hiccupped and giggled again. “Are you having some, too?”

His eyes flashed as he produced the bottle and a second glass, though his was just a small tumbler, not a big tea glass. He poured for them both. Constance wasn’t sure if he lied when he’d said he watered hers down before. This time he didn’t, but she didn’t really care. It was odd how the taste wasn’t nearly as nasty as it had been.

“Are you getting sleepy?” he asked.

“No. I’m not tired at all, and I don’t want to sit here anymore. Let’s play chess.”

Constance didn’t wait for him as she scrambled off the bed. When she swayed as she walked, it set off another round of giggles. Etienne was right behind her, his arm slipping around her waist to steady her. He had her glass in his other hand. Where his was, she didn’t know, but it didn’t much matter. Again she scampered away, this time to get the chess board and box with the pieces in it. Soon enough they were across the small table from each other, the board set up between them.

Like the first time they’d played, he hounded her. The problem was Constance couldn’t concentrate, either on the game or ways to come back at him. She was fumbling, not sure what move to make.

“You’re not going to sacrifice that poor pawn, are you, Constance?”

“Maybe I will,” she challenged.

“You’re not a pawn in this game, are you?”

“No,” she said with exaggerated aplomb. “I’m a knight.”

“You are that,” he chortled. “But you’re the queen too, aren’t you?”

“I am!” she spouted. Oh, how silly the drink was making her!

“A dangerous queen with a revolver,” he said. “Do you know how to fire a gun?”

“Yes, I do. And I’m good at it.”

“Aha! And you’ll protect your king at all costs?”

“I have to.” She tried to be demure, but it was hard not to succumb to giggles. “Because I love him.”

“Do you?” He reached over and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. As he withdrew, his finger lingered, trailing along her cheek and jaw. “Is Harry your king?”

“No, not Harry. Someone else.”

He stared into her eyes and his hand settled over hers. “Will you tell me who? Tell me who you’re protecting, Constance,” he murmured, as his fingers mingled with hers, tickling.

“It’s a secret,” she tittered, playing along. “I can’t tell.”

“But you can tell me. You can tell me anything.”

“If I tell, then you’ll know my strategy.”

“I want to know your strategy.” He floated her arm up to his mouth and pressed soft kisses to her palm—lingering, goosebump-raising kisses. “I want you to tell me everything. I want to know you, Constance. All of you.”

Why did he have to go and ruin the fun by being brazen? Constance yanked her hand free and stood up. She had to catch herself on the chair to steady her legs, which felt like soggy noodles. “I don’t want to play anymore.”

“Yes, you do,” he said. He was right behind her, his voice husky in her ear. Her glass was in his left hand. On the right, his fingers trailed down her arm, took her hand and raised it to hold the glass. “Drink,
chérie
.”

She took the glass and his hand came to her hair, to draw it back. His lips touched her shoulder, her neck, trailing soft, tickling kisses, and she didn’t like it.

“You want to make me drunk,” she said in a surprising moment of clarity.

“I do,” he murmured. “I want you drunk. I want you to share all your secrets with me. I want those lovely long legs of yours wrapped around me, while I lose myself in you. Yes,
chérie
, I want you drunk, very, very drunk… on me…”

“You made me drunk so you can try to seduce me,” she said.

“No,
chérie
. Make no mistake. I’m not going to
try
. I
will
seduce you. Because you want me to.”

“No,” she murmured, as she turned to push him away. But she was too close. And his arms were already around her, ensnaring her. Somehow he’d taken the glass from her hand. His mouth was on hers, probing, seeking, and though she shoved at his chest, she couldn’t break free. After that she didn’t know what happened to the glass. But the buttons of her dress were already unfastened and his fingertips were trailing her spine.

“Constance…” he breathed against her mouth, “Constance… sweet
chérie
… let me touch you… let me love you…”

The ‘no’ she attempted to cry was smothered by his kiss, and sounded more like a moan, even to her own ears. She was powerless as he slipped the sleeves down her arms. The dress pooled at her feet. Because of the scrapes on her back, he hadn’t let her put her corset on. She didn’t have on a petticoat or stockings, either. The only thing under her dress was the flimsy chemise. In seconds that was gone as well, and his hands were everywhere—her arms, her back, her breasts, her derriere, reaching down her thighs and back up.

The only solace she had was that she knew how long—or rather how short a time—it would take. The words trickled through her head, over and over,
It won’t take long. It won’t take long.

He floated her, naked and defenseless, to the bedroom and laid her out. Constance did what she was supposed to do, bending her knees, opening her legs for him. She kept her eyes closed while he undressed, and waited for his heaviness to settle on top of her. He was different than George in that regard. But she knew that’s what he’d do, because that’s what he’d done in the barn.