Sweet Release (44 page)

Please let Alec be alive
.

She shut her eyes to ward off unwelcome memories, but they would not leave her in peace. The bitter crack of the whip as it ripped into Alec’s skin. His body tensing with pain at each blow. Blood flowing down his back.

Alec had been flogged until he collapsed, unconscious. Though Alec must have been in agony, he’d never once cried out, much to Geoffrey’s obvious disappointment. When Geoffrey had finally called his man off, Cassie, afraid Alec would succumb to fever or die of shock, had begged Geoffrey to let someone tend his wounds. Geoffrey had refused, then dragged her to his carriage. He’d left Alec hanging unconscious from the well post, his wrists bound, naked. She’d fought Geoffrey, kicked, screamed he’d hit her so hard she’d blacked out.

Oh, to be free of these unbearable images! To have witnessed Alec’s suffering was unendurable torture. The recollection of it no better.

Where was poor, sweet Jamie? They hadn’t found him, but what of later? Cassie was sure Takotah had taken him, likely to her father’s cabin. He’d be safe there. Still, it was tor to be uncertain and absolutely helpless.

God, keep them all safe.

A robin landed on the sill outside her window, hopped a on its tiny feet, and pecked at some unseen meal before taking flight again. How Cassie envied the birds their wings. If only could fly away. She’d thought about trying to climb down the vines that reached the third floor were but slender tendrils could not support her weight, the bricks were scarred from and full of pits, giving her lots of places to gain a fingerhold. From this height, one slip would mean her death. Still, had she been certain she was carrying Alec’s child, she might have taken that chance.

The night she’d arrived Geoffrey had had several slave who bathe her, scrubbing her skin until it hurt, washing roughly between her legs. To remove the taint of what she’d done. Except for those women—and the slave girl who brought her meals and emptied her chamber pot—she’d been allowed contact no one here. Geoffrey had not yet come to see her himself. That, at least, Cassie was grateful.

Why had he done this? He said it was to protect her, his bride.
Curse him!
She’d told him she had no intention of marrying him—ever. He said he loved her, but, like most planters’ sons was most likely it was her dowry land he loved. Or perhaps he and his father saw an opportunity in the usurping the guardianship of Blakewell’s holdings.

It would take some time for the senior Master Crichton to seize legal control of the estate, but the moment the ink dried on the parchment making him guardian, he’d be free to sell the crops, slaves, bondservants as he saw fit, and if he were clever, to profit by it.

Cassie knew he had a cruel streak, but never in her worst nightmares would she have thought Geoffrey capable of such heartlessness. Now all those she loved were paying the price of her mistake, Alec perhaps with his life. Would Geoffrey harm Jamie, too? He was her father’s only heir. If he were to die, the entire estate would go to her husband. Was that Geoffrey’s goal?

What of the child she carried? She’d not be able to hide her condition for long. Cassie placed a hand protectively over her belly, fear nearly making her retch. God forbid Geoffrey should harm it in anyway. Or wrench the babe newly born from her arms and give it up to be raised by some farmer’s wife miles from here. She could not even bear to think of it.

There was no one she could turn to for help. No one—not the sheriff, not the court, not Geoffrey’s father—would make Geoffrey pay for what he’d done. In most people’s eyes he would be a hero for having saved a fallen woman from herself and from the convict who had ruined her. Most people would think him daft for still wanting to marry her, a woman who deserved to be cast into the streets.

Tears of grief poured down Cassie’s cheeks unheeded, the dullness of exhaustion creeping over her mind like a mist. She had no idea how much time had gone by when she heard footsteps coming up the hallway toward her room. Light and close together, they did not belong to Geoffrey. A key turned in the lock, and the slave girl entered, this time carrying a gown and chemise.

“The master say to dress an’ come to dinner.”

The girl laid the dress on the bed, her ringers lingering lovingly on the material. Cut in the latest fashion of emerald silk and embroidered with tiny golden bees, it was beautiful, but Cassie could not have cared less.

“Tell Geoffrey I’ll not play his mistress, no matter how beautiful the gown.” Cassie wiped the tears from her face. “Nor will I dine with him. I’d as soon sup with swine.”

The girl gasped, an expression of horror on her face.

“If I send you back with that message, he’ll punish you, won’t he?”

The girl did not answer.

“Tell him I’m too ill to dine with him tonight.”

The girl hesitated for a moment, her eyes dropping longingly to the gown. She turned and walked out the door. The lock clicked into place behind her.

Cassie stood stiffly and walked to the bed. Every time she’d tried to sleep, she’d been overwhelmed by nightmares, until she’d become afraid to close her eyes. She was so tired. Sweeping the dress and chemise onto the floor in a heap, she crawled under the covers.

Geoffrey strode down the hallway toward the miserable servant room he’d locked her in, trying to get control of the rage seething inside him. What did Catherine mean by refusing to dine with him?
Ungrateful little bitch!
He’d done so much for her. He’d risked his father’s certain wrath to save her from the man who had defiled her, who was as far beneath her as the dirt she walked on. Then he’d spared the bastard’s life, not to mention his manhood, though it was a decision Geoffrey now regretted.

Rather than dying, as the convict was supposed to, he had escaped, thanks to the Indian witch. She’d somehow managed to slip a potion into his men’s food or drink, cut the convict’s ropes, and spirit him into the forest without being seen, heard, or abetted by anyone. Nor had anyone seen Jamie or his dog. The boy, too, seemed simply to have vanished. No doubt all of them were huddling together on that miserable island somewhere in the marsh. Despite repeated attempts, the stupid Scot hadn’t been able to find his way back to their hideout yet. But Geoffrey wouldn’t give him a moment’s rest until he did. Dogs were searching for them everywhere along the edges of the marsh. It was only a matter of time before one of the hounds picked up their scent and tracked them down.

Geoffrey suspected some of the slaves and bondsmen knew more than they cared to share, but most seemed eager to martyr themselves to protect their mistress’s secrets. None of them would admit to having any idea how the convict had escaped, where Jamie was, or where Catherine had hidden her father. Geoffrey knew she’d never tell—not without unpleasant persuasion.

How lucky she was he’d stayed his hand so far. When he’d seen her lying naked with that whoreson, he’d wanted to kill her, to break her neck, to Jed the life drain from her body. But he’d kept his temper in check, barely laying a finger on her, except when she’d given him no choice. He was even willing to overlook the fact that she’d been bedded by the convict—nay, seduced, he corrected himself, for surely in her right mind she would never have lain with the man.

She ought to feel grateful. He was still going to marry her. There were many young ladies wealthier than she, and with better connections, who would have eagerly married him. But not Catherine. Catherine, who’d spread her legs for a convict, who worked with her slaves and dressed little better, whose father had raised her with no respect for the rules of society. Catherine, who never left his thoughts, night or day.

Instead of being grateful, she’d fought him, shrieking like a madwoman. She refused to eat the food he’d sent up. Now she refused to show herself at dinner. Did she think to rule him by sulking like some pampered bitch? Her life and all she received depended upon his goodwill. She’d do well to remember that.

But he must control his temper. Catherine had strange ideas about how people were supposed to behave, ideas she’d gotten from her addled father. She’d made it abundantly clear two nights ago that she considered him a worthless barbarian. What was it she’d called him? Despicable bastard. Heartless swine. Inhuman piece of shite. Indeed, what hadn’t she called him? He’d had to hit her hard to make her cease her caterwauling.

But he didn’t want to hit her. He loved her. Didn’t she see how good their lives could be together? He’d have to make her see. He’d show her how forgiving and indulgent he could be. He’d give her no excuse for not loving him this time.

Taking a deep breath, Geoffrey unlocked her door and strode into the room to find Catherine sound asleep, her hair a tangled, coppery mass on her pillow. Even with her eyes closed, he could see she’d been crying. Her face was deathly pale, except for the dark circles under her eyes and the purple bruises on her cheek. Dismissing a stab of regret, Geoffrey reminded himself that she had caused her own misfortune.

He called her name, but she did not awaken. Could it be she was not pouting but truly ill? She certainly looked it. Geoffrey moved to check her forehead for fever and was relieved to find it cool.

It was then he spied a heap of green silk on the floor.

Heat rushed into his gut. “Get up!”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Catherine started and sat bolt upright, her eyes round with fear.

“I said get up!”

“No.” Hatred replaced the fright in her eyes.

Geoffrey grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward onto her knees, drawing a gratifying gasp. “I warn you, do as I say! I’ve been lenient with you so far, but my patience is at an end!”

Abruptly Geoffrey released her and turned away. She was doing it again. She was goading him, trying to make him lose his temper. He would not let her succeed this time.

“You will get up and dress—now.” He picked up the gown from the floor and dropped it on the bed before her.

“And if I refuse? Will you strike me again? Perhaps you’ll have me flogged.”

Clenching his fists, he turned to face the window. “It is not my wish to strike you.” He choked back bile.

“No? Then leave me in peace. I’ll not primp for you or play your mistress by entertaining you at dinner.” Her voice trembled.

“Ah, but you see, Catherine dear, you
are
my mistress.” He turned to face her, ignoring the look of defiance on her face, then picked up a panel of silk and brushed it against her cheek. “I had this gown sewn for you by the finest dressmaker in all of Williamsburg.

There is an entire wardrobe filled with gowns even lovelier than this one—”

“After hurting those I most love, kidnapping and beating me, you expect to win me with frippery? How little you must think of me and all women! Take your bit of silk and get out!”

Rage surged through Geoffrey’s veins. Then an eerie calm crept over him like the slow melt of snow. He didn’t have to hurt her to gain her cooperation. “Perhaps some news from home would cheer you.”

She lifted her head. “You have word?”

Geoffrey felt a thrill of triumph. Turning away so she could not see his smile, he considered carefully what he should say. Not that it really mattered. She had no way of knowing the truth. “Now, let me see. The new overseer tells me the cook is supervising the cidermaking and pickling—”

“New overseer? What of Micah?”

“The tobacco seems to be drying quite nicely. I’ve lent your father’s estate the use of two coopers to help with the making of hogsheads. That’s quite a harvest, my dear. You are to be congratulated.”

“You taunt me! What of Micah? And Jamie?”

Geoffrey knew whose name was next on her tongue, but was pleased she knew better than to speak it. “The blackamoor has been discharged. Don’t look so horrified, my love. He is still a free man. I sent him packing northward with his papers in order and all the tobacco he could carry. Aren’t you pleased?”

“But what—”

“As for word of the rest, including the
convict
”—Geoffrey spat the word—“I’m afraid you must join me for dinner.” Feeling quite satisfied, he turned and stalked from the room, stopping to lock the door behind him.

Cassie felt like a whore. Dressed like this, in a gown cut so low it was indecent, she must surely look like one. Stopping in front of a gilded looking glass in the hallway, she nearly gasped at her reflection. Though her hair was neatly coifed, its tangles having been brushed and pulled painfully into order by a sullen slave woman, her face was that of a stranger. Gaunt and pale, with deep purple bruises on her cheeks and dark circles under her tear reddened eyes, she looked like a woman haunted by fear—years older, timid and weak.

“Damn you, Geoffrey!” But as quickly as it arose the anger dissipated, leaving Cassie trembling and as shaken as before. Tears pricked her eyes. She hastily wiped them away. It would do her no good to weep now. Geoffrey was waiting, and she must play his game to the end.

Struggling to pull the neckline of the gown up over the exposed tops of her breasts, she wondered just what he wanted from her this evening. Would her appearance at dinner be enough for him? Would his price for news from home rise even higher? If it did, what would she do?

Would she lie with him?

No, she would not. She could not. Quelling another wave of queasiness, Cassie forced such awful thoughts to the back of her mind. She smoothed her skirts and walked down the central stairs to the dining room.