Sinful Seduction (24 page)

‘Amply,' smirked Mrs Wilkes. ‘Very generous, I'm sure.' She waved a hand towards Maggie. ‘Help yourself, my lord. You may remove her whenever you please.'

Throughout this conversation Maggie had listened with growing outrage. How dare they haggle over her as if she was a cabbage on a costermonger's stall? And as for going with that bastard - she'd rather die!

‘I'm going nowhere,' she said defiantly. ‘You can't just buy and sell me like a pound of sausages. Lord Wilberforce abolished slavery, remember?'

The man and the woman stared at her with as much astonishment as if a piece of furniture had suddenly announced it no longer wished to be sat upon. It would have been comical had they not been casually playing with her life.

Mrs Wilkes recovered first. ‘Ignore her,' she said. ‘The silly little chit doesn't realise the honour you've done her, my lord. If you care to call your coachman, I shall deal with her.'

Ten minutes later, tied, bundled in a blanket and slung over Jebediah's shoulder, Maggie was deposited in the back of Lord Anston's carriage, to be carried off kicking and screaming into an unknown future.

 

 

 

The nightmare journey seemed to last forever. Half smothered beneath the evil smelling blanket, nausea threatened to overcome Maggie with ever jolt of the carriage. To avoid it, she concentrated on what little information she could garner from the sounds and sensations that penetrated the thick cloth.

At the start of the journey she could hear the clatter of hooves as the wheels of the carriage rumbled over the cobbled stones. As time passed, the hoof beats became muted and the familiar street cries died away, to be replaced by unexpected silence, broken only by the distant lowing of cattle or the occasional complaining bleat of a sheep. Where was he taking her? To some dark copse where he could ravish her again - or worse? She writhed against her bonds. If she could only break free she could jump from the carriage and flee to the nearest farmhouse. They would help her, surely?

Maggie sagged in despair as her struggles merely served to tighten the thin ropes until they bit painfully into her wrists. There was nothing to do but wait - and hope.

Eventually they drew to a halt. Strong hands hauled her out, dumped her unceremoniously on her feet and peeled the blanket away from her trembling form. For a moment she thought she had gone blind, then as her eyes adjusted to the half-light she realised it was almost dawn. Staggering, she sucked in a lungful of blessedly fresh air, opened her mouth - and screamed over and over again until the pain in her throat forced her to stop.

But it was useless. No one rushed to her rescue. No one knocked the villain to the ground and carried her off to freedom. Only the rooks, startled from sleep, wheeled above her head for a few moments before settling again.

And even more humiliating, her captor was lounging against the carriage laughing at her!

‘Feel free to carry on, my dear,' he chuckled, waving an airy hand. ‘My servants are well paid for their ability to turn a blind eye, and my nearest neighbour is five miles away, and stone deaf into the bargain.'

She closed her mouth abruptly, taking in her surroundings for the first time. The carriage sat on smoothly raked gravel at the foot of large stone steps that led up to the house. And what a house! It dwarfed the London mansions Maggie had been used to. The centre part alone could have accommodated three of them, and to each side was an additional even larger wing. Ivy grew up the grey stone walls almost covering the windows, and the pale dawn light reflected off them, giving them a look of ancient menace, like brooding, hooded eyes.

Maggie glanced around, frantically seeking an avenue of escape, but all she could see were acres of rolling parkland. There was no point in running; where could she run to?

‘Well,' he taunted, ‘you've gone very quiet. Cat got your tongue?'

‘There's nowhere to go,' she said bitterly. ‘You might as well untie me.'

‘Certainly, my sweet,' he purred. ‘Your wish is my command.' He produced a pocketknife and sliced through the rope at her wrists, and ignoring the pain as the blood rushed back into her fingers, she lifted her hand and slapped him as hard as she could.

‘Bastard!' she hissed. ‘You make me sick. You think your title and your money entitle you to treat girls like me as if we were dirt. I'll bet if I'd been Lady Muck you wouldn't have carted me off like a side of beef.'

‘Actually, you're wrong,' he grinned, ruefully rubbing his jaw. ‘That's exactly how I got my dear departed wife - and her fortune, of course. Abducting an heiress is very little different from abducting a whore. Only the stakes are higher.

‘A few days in my bedroom and she was positively begging me to marry her,' he went on. ‘After all, who else would want soiled goods?' He pulled a face. ‘A rather vulgar girl, I'm afraid. Her family was in trade, you know. But sweet and biddable - after I'd trained her a little.' He smirked. ‘And she did have the good taste to die in childbirth, leaving me with her money without the inconvenience of her presence.' He sighed. ‘Pity she took the brat with her. I could have done with an heir.' He shrugged. ‘But then, one can't have everything.'

Maggie stared at him, dismayed by his sheer callousness and the misery concealed in the brief story. Her heart sank. What hope had she if he could treat his own wife like that? Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the housekeeper, carrying a small lantern.

‘Welcome home, sir,' she beamed, holding it aloft. ‘There's a good hot meal waiting in the oven and your favourite claret already decanted.' Her smile vanished, to be replaced by a look of hostility as she inspected Maggie in her torn white dress. ‘Shall I put the young lady in the blue room?'

‘The nursery, I think,' he said thoughtfully. ‘If I remember correctly the bars are still on the windows. After all, we wouldn't want her to leave before she has fully experienced my hospitality.'

‘Certainly, sir,' agreed the woman, with another simpering smile. She turned to Maggie. ‘Follow me, girl,' she ordered, her lips twisting with distaste at having to deal with such dross.

Maggie stared back at her with equal distaste. The housekeeper wore the same uniform of respectability as Mrs Wilkes: a black silk apron over a black dress. The cold-hearted bitch must have known why she'd been brought here, but was prepared to accept Maggie's misery as the price of her own continued prosperity. How dare she look at her like that? The only difference between her and Mrs Wilkes was that she was pandering to one man, while Mrs Wilkes pandered to many - and at least she was honest about it.

Nose in the air Maggie pulled the blanket around her shoulders and swept past the woman as if she didn't exist, leaving her to bow and scrape to her precious master. In the entrance hall she hesitated, suddenly cut down to size by the vastness of her surroundings. The black and white marble floor seemed to stretch into infinity in front of her.

A surreptitious push in the back almost made her stumble. The housekeeper had come up behind her as she stood with her mouth open, gawping like a booby. ‘This way, madam,' she sneered, stalking ahead of her, and reluctantly Maggie followed, her faltering footsteps echoing as she walked.

The nursery was in the west wing, up seemingly endless flights of stairs, and as Lord Anston had said, the windows were barred. Originally this might have been to protect its child occupant, but now it served equally well to imprison its present one. Maggie shivered. It was obvious the room hadn't been used for years - and that the servants had been neglecting their duties. She wrinkled her nose.

The room was icy cold and permeated with the smell of must and age. Dead ash filled the fireplace and layers of dust covered everything from the nursery table to the hideously snarling rocking horse in the corner. Off the playroom were two smaller rooms, one containing a cot and the other an old chest of drawers and a narrow iron bedstead with a mattress rolled up at the foot.

It was into this area that the housekeeper ushered her, in a parody of hospitality. ‘You won't freeze,' she said. ‘There're blankets in that chest under the window and coal and suchlike beside the fire in the playroom. I'll send one of the maids up with something to eat.' With a final haughty sniff she departed, her black skirt swishing with indignation at having to wait on one of the lower orders, and with a sinking heart Maggie heard the key turn in the lock behind her. She had heard that sound so often over the past few weeks that she'd learnt to dread it.

Left to her own devices, Maggie wrapped the blanket more tightly round her shivering body. She smiled ruefully. There had been no offer to start a fire for her, so she'd better get on with it.

Investigation proved that the woman had been almost right. There was coal in the scuttle, along with a few sticks of kindling, and a further search produced half a box of matches tucked behind a candle-stick on the mantelshelf - but there was no paper.

Undeterred, Maggie found the toy cupboard and several tattered board games pushed away at the back of the top shelf. They'd do, and she hoped they had sentimental value for that bastard. Smiling vindictively she tore them to pieces and used them as a base for her fire, carefully piling the kindling on top and adding the coal. Finally she crossed her fingers, struck a match, and coughed as a wave of smoke billowed out and for one dreadful moment she thought the chimney was blocked, but then the tiny flames flickered, caught and began to send out weak tendrils of warmth.

Satisfied, Maggie stood up, wiped her hands on the tattered remains of her white frock and began to look around. If she was going to stay here she might as well make herself as comfortable as possible, and doing something - anything - would help to pass the time. So she unrolled the mattress and made up the bed, wrinkling her nose again at the reek of dampness. Then, tearing a flounce from her skirt, she used it as a makeshift duster. What she really needed was a bucket of hot water and a scrubbing brush, but this would have to do.

By the time she'd finished the room was cleaner, but she was filthy and as hungry as a bear, so it was a relief when there was a faint tap on the door, then the sound of the key turning again and two young maids entered, one carrying a tray and the other a basin and a can of hot water. Casting frightened glances at Maggie - they'd obviously been warned not to speak to the scarlet woman - they put them down and hurried out as quickly as possible.

As soon as they'd gone Maggie lifted the cover on the tray and inspected the food beneath. Lord Anston might have been served his ‘nice hot meal' but the same didn't apply to her. All she was getting was a hunk of hard cheese, the heel of the loaf and a jug of watered milk. She smiled ruefully; well at least she wouldn't have to worry about it getting cold while she washed.

Stripping down, she scrubbed herself, the firelight reflecting rosily off her pale, shivering body. Clean at last, she looked with distaste at the filthy white dress, unable to bear the thought of putting it back on. A rake through the chest of drawers produced an old moth-eaten uniform, which had obviously belonged to some long-ago nursery maid. Like everything else it stank of age and decay, but it would have to do, so she draped it over a chair in front of the fire and hungrily ate her bread and cheese as it steamed in the heat.

Once aired Maggie slipped it over her naked body, revelling in the warmth from the rough material. Fed and warm at last, the horrors of the last few days slipped from her mind and drowsiness overcame her, so she stumbled through to the other room, relieved herself in the chamber-pot from beneath the bed, then crawled between the unaired sheets, and within moments was sound asleep.

When she woke again it was still dark and confusion swept through her. Had she only dozed? Surely not? She felt completely refreshed. Rising, she went back through to the playroom and discovered that more food had been brought and the fire renewed, and she gasped as it dawned on her that she must have slept for a full twenty-four hours.

The food, beef stew with dumplings, was better this time, even though it was cold. She ate gratefully, then sat gazing into the flames of the fire, dreaming wistfully and wishing she were anywhere but this cruel prison, until her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the key turning in the lock and she sprang to her feet.

Lord Anston stood in the doorway, his smile evil in the red glow from the coals. ‘So,' he grinned, taking in the shabby uniform she was wearing. ‘Sitting doing nothing when you should be working.'

She stared at him blankly. What on earth was he talking about?

He stalked across the room and ran a finger along the mantelshelf, then held his dusty digit under her nose. ‘Disgraceful,' he hissed. ‘This room should be spotless. You have failed to do your duties, and maids who fail to do their duties must be punished.'

Slowly it dawned on Maggie that he was playing some twisted game, with her as the prize, so hastily gathering up her skirts she dodged past him and darted for the door - but it was too late. The brute seized her arm and pulled her to him, his breath hot on her face, stinking of brandy. She squirmed in his grasp but he held her easily, wrenching the dress from her shoulders with his free hand.