Patricia Hagan (28 page)

Holly kissed her mother good-night and left before her poise crumbled.

Roger was scowling. He was wearing a red silk dressing robe, open enough to reveal his nakedness. “Hurry up,” he snapped, tossing his riding crop on the bed. “You deliberately dallied, and you’ve only made it worse for yourself, because I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

Holly began to undress, using that time to move her consciousness elsewhere. Lately, she had become adept at transporting herself back to those wonderful times in Scott’s arms. Not that she could pretend it was Scott holding her instead of Roger, but she could at least take herself away from where she was.

She struggled with her undergarments, and Roger moved forward to rip them away. “Damn it, I’ll buy you more. I can’t wait any longer.”

When she did not move quickly enough to suit him, he put his hand roughly on the back of her neck and slung her forward onto her knees on the floor. “Let’s begin this way, since you delight in provoking me tonight. You pretend it hurts you, but you know you love it. Now receive me, my willful whore!”

He thrust himself into her, and Holly toppled forward in a flash of red-hot pain. He wrapped his fingers in her hair and jerked her back up to her hands and knees. “None of that,” he grunted. “Enjoy, my darling. Enjoy. The night is just beginning.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

As the carriage rolled to a stop, Roger leaned over and squeezed Holly’s arm tightly. “Remember what I told you. Behave well, or you’ll suffer for it later.”

She wrested her arm away furiously. “You don’t have to tell me how to act, Roger.”

He glowered at her. “This will be a very important party for us. A lot of important people are coming. The governor doesn’t invite peasants to the King’s House. I
intend
for us to be invited back, understand?”

Holly stared straight ahead. In truth, she wasn’t really miserable at all. Getting out of the house, seeing other people…she looked forward to it. They were staying in a hotel for the night, too. But she couldn’t let him know she wasn’t unhappy. He’d find some way of ruining the evening for her.

Their carriage was lined up behind nine or ten others, waiting to reach the brick-columned entrance, with its tall, burning torches. Coachmen resplendent in red satin waistcoats and crisply starched white pants were helping the ladies to alight from the carriages. Groomsmen took the carriages away to hitching posts just across the street.

The King’s House was the residence of the governor, and was now occupied by Sir John Peter Grant. It was impressive, in an austere fashion. Offsetting the austerity was the lawn. Lanterns glowed beneath thick clumps of banana and coconut trees, giving the appearance of a playground for wood sprites and fairies.

Music reached them as their carriage moved forward. “That’s the royal military band,” Roger said. “They were sent all the way from England just to play for this occasion.” He sighed. “It’s good to know we’re accepted. One never knows about society, even if you’re quite wealthy. I like living here, so I’m glad I’ve been accepted.”

Holly could not resist asking, “But how much longer before we return to Mississippi? Mother seems homesick, and I must admit I’d like to see some familiar faces.”

It was the wrong thing to say. A scowl replaced his peaceful expression. “I don’t give a damn about your mother. She should be grateful I’m taking care of her. As for you,” he snorted, “I imagine you
would
like to see familiar faces—men you’ve been to bed with.” Holly shook her head, but Roger delighted in ridiculing her. “You know, Holly,” he went on, “I have tried to be good to you. I don’t
like
having to be so heavy-handed, but you would try the patience of a saint. You
make
me treat you roughly. It’s really all your fault. When are you going to learn to be obedient to your husband? Then I’ll be able to be nice to you.”

He searched her face. She said nothing.

“I have no plans to take you back to Mississippi,” he said. “I will be returning soon, on business, but you will stay here. I can control you pretty easily here.”

It was like being struck in the stomach with an iron fist. Her only hope was to return home. For there, surely to merciful God, there would be someone to help her escape the nightmare her life had become. Here, among strangers, who would help her? She had even thought of telling her mother the truth, asking Claudia to run away with her. But how? Even if Claudia had the strength, they had no money. Roger saw to it that Holly never had any money of her own, and he kept her locked in her room most of the time. When she was out, he often had spies watching her, and she had no way of knowing whether she was being watched or not.

“So,” Roger was saying, “now you have a special reason to behave yourself tonight. Since you are going to remain in Jamaica for the rest of your life, these people are going to be your neighbors and friends. You’d be wise to make them like you, so we can be invited out often.”

She glared at him then, no longer caring whether she made him angry or not. He would punish her later, but at that particular moment
he
had no choice but to endure
her
fury for a change. “I hate you, Roger,” she said very quietly. “I hate everything about you. You are evil, and I wish you were dead. When you take me in your arms, I wish for my own death. I loathe you. You make me sick.” She gave him a little smile, enjoying the white-hot rage that had taken over his face. His eyes were glowing like hot coals, and his hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I wonder why you don’t have any pride. A woman tells you that she thinks you’re disgusting, that she hates you, and you still want to keep her around?”

There was a deadly silence.

“You will pay for this,” he finally said hoarsely. “When we get back to the hotel tonight, I’m going to tie you to the bedposts and strip you naked and beat the flesh from your contemptuous body, you bitch.”

Holly knew he was capable of starting to do just that, but he wouldn’t finish. He might start to beat her, but he’d lose control of his desire and fall on top of her to pummel away until he released himself. And she, meanwhile, would take herself away mentally, to oblivion. Or, if she could manage it, to another time…another place…and other arms.

“Get out,” he growled as the carriage rolled to the final stop before the entrance. “Get out before I turn around and take you back this very minute.”

She knew better. Roger was a miser, and he’d had to spend a great deal on their clothes for this party.

A coachman helped Holly to the ground, and she was at once aware of the admiring stares of the other women. She supposed she did look nice, but there was no reason to care. Her hair was curled in ringlets, with tiny strands of pearls intertwined among the tresses. Her dress was of lime-green satin, setting off the red in her hair. The bodice dipped so low she was embarrassed.

“I want to show you off,” he had declared when she protested the design of the gown. “Let the other men see what they will never possess.”

He took her elbow and whispered, “Stand up straight. Thrust your bosom out. Everyone is staring, and I want them to envy me.”

Holly bit back tears of frustrated fury. “You make me feel like a whore. Please, Roger, let me have my shawl.” She had brought the lace stole along in hope that Roger would yield and allow her some semblance of decency, but he snatched the garment away angrily.

“You stupid little Southern imbecile! You know nothing! Why, that dress style is the rage in Europe. You should be proud of your bosom. Jesus Christ, why was I stupid enough to make you my wife instead of my mistress?”

How she had hated him then…hated him now…loathed him more and more with every beat of her heart.

He hissed, “Stand up straight, I said. Start walking, Holly. People are beginning to stare.”

Suddenly, the spirit that, by God, he would never destroy, erupted. Looking him straight in the eye, she said, “Roger, go to hell!” Hooking her thumbs into the bodice of her dress, she yanked it up as high as possible and began to walk up the walkway as fast as she could without actually breaking into a run.

He was right behind her, grabbing at her arm, at the same time turning his head to flash artificial smiles all around. It was a joke…nothing serious.

Inside, Holly forced herself to be poised as they passed through the receiving line, saying and doing the proper things. But every time Roger attempted to touch her, to clasp her arm or take her hand, she jerked away.

“You’re going to pay for this,” he seethed over and over. “So help me, before this night ends, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

“I already do, Roger. Believe me, I already do.”

She took only passing notice of the opulent furnishings and made her way to the refreshment table, quickly downing the glass of champagne a hostess handed her, reaching for another in a second.

After several glasses, a pleasant buzzing took over. It was her only relief, and she partook only when desperate. Perhaps she would become a hopeless drunk one day. She hummed a little tune, wondering if she would ever escape the hell of her life.

She had drifted back to the refreshment table when a firm hand clamped down on her bare shoulder. A masculine voice said quietly, “Holly, I think you’ve had enough.”

A familiar voice. But not Roger. She turned, disbelieving when she found herself staring up at Neil Davis.

It could not be so.
Neil.
In Jamaica? He was in United States Army full-dress uniform. What cruel trick was her mind playing on her? She turned without a word and ran.

Neil caught her arm and led her from the room, out a side door and onto a patio enshrouded with fragrant blossoms and vines. A quarter-moon peered down on them as Holly dared to look up at that wonderful face.

“Why?” she whispered. “Why are you torturing me?”

He gave her a gentle shake. Lord, despite her beauty, she looked terrible. The gauntness, the shadowed eyes.

“Holly, I knew you were in Jamaica somewhere, and I’ve been trying to find you. I didn’t dream you’d be here tonight, but thank God, you are.”

Doubts disappeared. “It is you! Oh, Neil…”

She stepped into his arms and he embraced her, holding her close. He began to speak, to tell her why he was in Jamaica—a military assignment, more or less based on goodwill. But he interrupted himself. “What the hell is the matter, Holly?”

“There is nothing you can do for me, Neil. Nothing anyone can do,” she said.

“Not even Scott?”

There was a long pause before she dared say, “Scott? Is Scott in Jamaica?”

He smiled, inclining his head toward the sound of revelry. “Somewhere in there. I’ll go get him.”

He turned, but she stopped him. “It’s too dangerous, Neil. Roger—”

“Yes, I know you’re married. But Scott doesn’t know, Holly.” He explained. “He knows you’re in Jamaica, but I didn’t want to tell him you were married. He probably thinks you and your mother just came over with Roger on family business.”

“Has he said anything about trying…to find me?” she asked very hesitantly.

“Scott keeps things to himself, Holly,” he said. “You know that. He hasn’t said anything, but I know he’s been looking. We’re leaving day after tomorrow to go back to Mississippi and clear up…a few matters there. I figured if he didn’t find you this time, he’d come back to Jamaica and keep on searching. He loves you,” he went on matter-of-factly, as though it were all quite simple and there was no reason not to say it. “You love him. Fate would have brought you together again, sooner or later.”

Time was so short. Roger might find them any second. “We are living in Roger’s house on the bay in Ocho Rios,” she whispered rapidly. “Tonight we’re staying in a hotel in Kingston because it’s too far to ride home. Tomorrow we’ll be going home, and—”

“No,” he interrupted firmly. “You’re going to meet with Scott tonight. I’ll arrange it.”

Was he joking? She shook her head wildly. She had to make him see. Roger was already planning to beat her. She had dared too much as it was. “Neil, listen. As much as I want—”

Taking her hand, he pulled her to the end of the patio. An opening in the thick shrubs and vines led to narrow steps and a path leading into the darkness. He pointed, saying, “Go straight down the path to a small duck pond at the bottom of the slope. I’ve seen it in the daytime, because Sir Peter had us here for an afternoon tea when we arrived. There’s a lot of planting there, bushes and shrubs, and you’ll have privacy. There’re no lanterns down there either. You won’t be seen. Go now. I’ll find Scott.”

She hesitated, and dear, sweet Neil gave her a little push. “Go, Holly, now,” he said sternly.

She hurried down the steps and disappeared into the shadows.

Neil stared after her a moment, then turned and went inside. He didn’t see Roger anywhere. Scanning the room, he spotted Scott talking to a trio of men in a far corner, men Neil recognized as government officials assigned to Jamaica from England. Approaching the group, he exchanged nods and forced himself to wait for a chance to interrupt.

“I think,” one of the men was saying, between puffs on an odorous cigar, “it’s the banana trade with the United States that will bring prosperity back to Jamaica.”

“That, and the indentured labor being brought here from India,” another interjected. “It makes my blood boil every time I think about the uprising in Morant Bay. It would suit me if we never put those damned Jamaicans back to work. Serve ’em right.”