Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (20 page)

Her kind heart touched, Charity whispered, ''Oh, poor little
boy."

"A ugly customer he is," Lion went on grimly. ''Got hisself
all mixed up with this Frenchy. And made me—" He broke off, eyeing her
uneasily. "You don't want to hear all that. Thing is, he don't beat me
much and I gets fed reg'lar. So I puts up with the rest. Only…" He took
up the kitten and stroked her soft fur absently. "I thought as they was
going to keep yer to stop the Colonel from sticking his nose in. I
thought they didn't mean you no harm, account o' you being in the
family way. But that Frenchy on the dock''—he glanced broodingly at the
porthole—''he talked to me like I was a slug. I told him I been looking
arter you. And he said…" He put the kitten down and grabbed Charity's
arms. "Don't you be scared, now. Lion ain't good fer much, but I'll see
they don't hurt you. I promise. I ain't sunk so low I'd let no lady be
hurt. 'Specially you.'' He was scarlet, and his eyes fell away
bashfully. But he looked up and reiterated, "Don't be scared, mind."

The door latch was lifting. Lion snatched up Charity's
bandbox. "I'll take this, ma'am,'' he said as Jean-Paul stuck his head
inside. "You bring fleabait."

Blinking away tears, her knees shaking, Charity followed him
through the door, prepared to meet her fate.

Outside, the air was bitterly cold, and Charity drew her cloak
tighter about her shoulders. Clem and Jean-Paul walked along the deck
on each side of her, Lion following. She saw now that the ship was tied
up in a landlocked harbour, a place teeming with activity, a large yawl
moored next to them, and two other vessels standing off in the channel,
waiting a chance to dock. The island was quite large, as she had
gathered, and looked a harsh, bleak place. Far off to the east a long
range of hills lifted bare and jagged teeth against the cold sky.
Northwards rose another hill, solitary and surmounted by a frowning old
castle that appeared to Charity to crouch there as though gloatingly
awaiting her arrival.

Jean-Paul assisted her down the gangplank, from which all
other passengers had been cleared. When they reached the ground, it
seemed to Charity to sway as though she were still aboard ship. A
closed chaise was waiting, a groom holding the door. To her relief, it
was empty. Jean-Paul handed her up, and he and Clem occupied the seat
opposite. The coachman cracked his whip, and they began to edge through
the noisy, bustling confusion of the dock area, coming at last to a
well-kept road that wound inland.

Despite her terrible apprehensions, Charity tried to notice as
much as she could of this strange place. The area they had left
appeared to contain most of the major buildings, and there were many of
them; large sheds and warehouses, crude houses and huts and long low
buildings that, as they climbed higher, she could see were erected
around a parade ground where men were drilling and where she fancied to
glimpse Gerard's dark figure.

The road curved around the hill, and rows of dense,
high-growing trees shut out the view of the docks. The ocean was
visible now, slate-grey and frigid-looking with lines of whitecaps
stretching to the misty horizon. A schooner was approaching the island,
her sails being reefed in as she neared the channel. The sight of the
vessel, so much smaller and sleeker than the ship that had transported
her, put Charity in mind of the
Silvering Sails
.
Only last year, Justin had worked so hard to refurbish the yacht… Her
brother's kind, loved face drifted before her mind's eye, and tears
blurred her vision.

Clem said, "Well, 'ere's your new 'ome. Ain't it a fine
cottage? Proper cosy like, eh?" He laughed. Jean-Paul chuckled.
Charity's gaze shot to the right.

From this elevation the castle was even larger than it had
appeared earlier; a great threatening bulk against the gloomy sky. Even
had she not known who dwelt there, Charity must have thought it a
brooding pile, its massive walls spreading out over the brow of the
hill in a low sprawl, rather than soaring up in lofty splendour like
the castles she had known.

She asked in a shaking voice, "What… is it called?"

"It's Tordarroch Island, yer ladyship," Clem said. "And the
little hovel up yonder"—he jerked his bullet head to the castle—"that
there's Tor Keep. And that's what they're a-going ter do, lady, keep
you
there. At least till yer brat's born."

Jean-Paul gave him a contemptuous look, but was silent.
Charity stared at Clem and wondered in a remote fashion how a tiny,
innocent babe could grow up to become so bestial, so without feeling as
this coarse, ignorant man. And she remembered what Lion had said of his
own early years. "He could be the same," she thought sadly. "If no one
rescues him from his hopeless servitude he might eventually become like
this creature, lacking all compassion and humanity." She sighed and
asked, "Where is my kitten, please?"

"Lion has her," said Jean-Paul. "He is upon the box, madame."

They were rattling across cobblestones. A dark shadow slid
over them and with it a chill that seemed to pierce Charity's heart.
They jerked to a stop. The door was swung open and the steps let down.
A liveried footman bowed and handed Charity down. The bitter wind blew
her skirts about. The great dark walls loomed over her. Wide steps,
worn by the elements and the tread of countless feet, led up to an
enormous door embellished with bands of black iron and great iron
studs. To Charity it seemed the door of doom, beyond which could lie
only horror, and she faltered, her wide eyes fixed upon that fateful
entry.

A familiar voice grunted impatiently, "Hurry up, do, ma'am.
This worthless mog's clawing me!"

Her terrified gaze flashed to meet Lion's. He was scowling
ferociously, but the eye that was farthest from Clem twitched into a
faint wink. Immeasurably heartened, Charity tried to stop trembling.
The door opened slowly, and somehow she managed to walk across the
chill yard and into the ancient frowning keep that was Claude
Sanguinet's stronghold.

She entered a great hall. A fire blazed on an enormous hearth
to her right, and lofty walls were beautified by fine tapestries.
Several gleaming suits of armour were placed here and there, and the
furnishings were antique and massive.

The footman who had admitted them passed them on to the
butler, a dapper gentleman who ushered them to a broad stone staircase
and thence to an upper floor and a wide hall hung with weapons and
banners, the shining floors strewn with thick rugs. Tall lackeys stood
about, their eyes following the little procession curiously. The butler
paused outside a carven door. "You will wait,
s'il vous plait
,"
he murmured, and slipped inside, closing the door behind him.

Clem muttered a profane imitation of the Frenchman, and
Jean-Paul grinned. "I hear as his royalty's generous when he's
pleased," Clem hissed. "We'll likely rate a fat bonus fer this job of
work, mate.''

Knowing Claude, Charity thought they would be far more likely
to rate a thrashing, at the very least.

The butler reappeared. "Madame Leith and you"—he gestured to
Jean-Paul—"are to be received. You two may go.

Clem growled resentfully, but shambled off. Still carrying the
kitten, Lion followed, backing away, his gaze fixed on Charity in
undisguised apprehension.

Jean-Paul took Charity's elbow. "
En avant
,
madame."

He led her into a magnificent apartment, all red and gold and
for the most part appointed in the same semifeudal fashion as the lower
areas. Rich red velvet hung at the window embrasures; deep chairs were
set about before the fire; fine tapestries and paintings softened the
mighty walls. All this, Charity saw only dimly. Her attention was fixed
upon the two occupants of the room. Claude Sanguinet, slender and very
dark, was seated at a large, ornately carven desk near the fire,
looking up at his brother. Guy, a man at least ten years his junior,
with brown hair, a sturdier frame and a lighter complexion, stood
beside Claude's chair, leaning back against the desk and speaking in a
low, intent manner. Neither man glanced up as the newcomers entered,
but the very sight of them caused Charity to feel as though the blood
had frozen in her veins, and she leaned giddily upon Jean-Paul's arm.

Guy glanced at them idly. With an expression of horrified
astonishment replacing his gravity, he sprang up. "
Sacre nom
de Dieu!''
he gasped.

Delighted by such a violent reaction, Claude chuckled and
swung his chair around. His eyes fell on Charity. He checked, as though
turned to stone.

Pale with shock, Guy stammered,"Ch-Charity…?" He spun to face
his brother. "For the love of God!
Now
what have
you done?"

Claude came to his feet and stalked around the desk. For a man
of such enormous wealth and power, he presented a disappointing
appearance. He was elegantly clad, but, despite the care with which his
nearly black hair had been brushed into youthful curls, it was obvious
that he would not see forty again. His figure was slender, but he was
neither tall nor muscular; his features were regular but lacked
distinction; his complexion was inclined to be sallow; and only his
eyes were noteworthy, being wide and of an unusual brilliance, although
the colour, somewhere between brown and hazel, was not admired, some
maintaining that Claude Sanguinet's eyes glowed red when he was
angered. He was angered now, and those hot eyes deepened the terror in
Charity's heart.

"
You
!" The word was a hissing whisper.
His hands crooked into claws as he advanced on her. "
You!''
It was a howl this time, his face contorting with frustrated rage as he
sprang forward.

Guy leapt between them. "Are you gone entirely mad?" he cried
in French. "Why in heaven's name have you brought her here?"

Claude gave vent to a muffled sound somewhere between a snarl
and a sob. His arm flailed out, and Guy was sent staggering. Crouching,
looking up from under his brows, Claude turned on Jean-Paul. "
Peasant
!"
he cried shrilly. "How could you mistake this insipid girl for a
glorious creature like Rachel Strand? Idiot!
Animal!''
He advanced on Jean-Paul, his expression so twisted, so maniacal, that
Charity retreated, trembling.

Backing away also, one hand flung out protectively, Jean-Paul
whimpered, "We do as we are told, monseigneur. Your spy tell us to take
the lady wearing the cloak. We take the lady wearing the cloak.
Monseigneur! Name of a name! The lady say nothing. I beseech you—-how
are we to know?"

"You… were…
paid
… to know!" screeched
Claude, his tight clenched fists raised and quivering with passion.
"Moronic dolt of a
canaille
! You were
paid
to know!"

He flung around to face Charity, but Guy again came between
them.

Very softly, Claude said, "Stand aside… little bastard."

His fists lifting, Guy replied grimly, "Not this time."

On a marble platform in one corner of the room stood a tail
marble clock; a cunningly wrought mechanical device that now shattered
the tense quiet to begin its preordained salute to the hour. Doors
opened on each side of its wide base, and a parade of porcelain figures
began to emerge and make their jerky way from left to right to the
accompaniment of a peal of merry bells.

Claude's narrowed, glinting eyes turned to the source of that
sound. He ran to seize the massive timepiece. With astonishing
strength, he raised it high above his head and turned to his brother.

Guy uttered a gasp, jerked Charity behind him, and threw up
both hands prepared to defend himself against that great weight.

Face purpling, teeth bared, Claude hesitated, his enraged
glare shifting to Jean-Paul. ''
Mais non!''
gasped
Jean-Paul, retreating.

Claude turned and hurled the still chiming clock straight into
the large and lovely Chippendale mirror that hung over the fireplace.

The crash was deafening. For an instant the room was alive
with hurtling shards of glass and marble. Guy whirled around, pulling
Charity closer and bending above her. Jean-Paul essayed a frantic leap
for the shelter of a bookcase. Only Claude did not attempt to shield
himself, but stood there, his shoulders a little hunched, his arms
slowly lowering as the porcelain parade was ended for all time and the
pealing little bells gibbered discordantly into silence.

Peeping at Claude, Charity saw the slim shoulders rise and
fall again, as though he had sighed deeply. She saw also that Guy's
hand was cut and that Jean-Paul had suffered a graze across his cheek.

Claude turned to them. His face shone with perspiration, but
the madness had faded, and a mild smile curved his mouth.
Astonishingly, he was completely untouched, although he had been
closest to the exploding mirror.

Guy wrapped a handkerchief about his small injury while
watching his brother steadily.

"So," said Claude, strolling forward to eye Charity with
amused contempt, "you said nothing. Why, I wonder? Did you fancy you
were protecting your sister? Your fine sister who broke her promise to
me as soon as my surgeon had restored your health?"

Charity thought, incredulous, "He behaves as though nothing
had happened!" Somehow she managed to answer, "Your doctor kept me
chained to an invalid chair long after I should have been well. You
used my illness and prolonged it, so as to force Rachel to agree to
marry you.''

"And now I shall use you once more, I believe." Claude stepped
closer, saying gently, "Were I to have one of your fingers removed and
sent to your so-gallant brother-in-law every three or four days, say, I
wonder how long it would be before he agreed to exchange his life for
yours…"