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by Pamela Clare
Another blow. Alec’s mouth filled with the taste of his own blood.
“Don’t try to move.” It was Takotah. “Drink.”
Alec fought to the surface from the depth of his nightmare, struggled to open his eyes. God almighty, he hurt.
He was lying on his stomach. Takotah was lifting his head, placing something cool against his lips. He recognized the taste of laudanum. It would numb the pain. But it would also numb his wits, and there was something he urgently needed to do. If only he could wake. If only he could remember.
He turned his head, refusing to swallow, and pushed Takotah’s hand away.
“No.”
“You must heal if you wish to help her.”
Memories crashed in on him. Men breaking down the bedroom door, Crichton pulling Cassie by her hair, wrenching pain as the lash tore his skin, the taste of blood as he bit his tongue to keep from crying out. The bastard had taken her. Alec had to save her. But how long had it been? Where was he?
Alec forced his eyes open again. He recognized the bed, the bookshelf. It was the cabin on the marsh island.
“How did I get here?”
“I mixed a potion into the guards’ cider. When they fell asleep, Luke cut you down and lifted you onto Aldebaran’s back, and Micah brought you to me.”
“And Jamie?”
“The boy is here. Don’t worry about him.”
The sound of a child’s laughter echoed from somewhere nearby.
Thank God! Jamie was safe.
“What time is it?”
“You’ve been sleeping for two days.”
“Two days?”
Alarm coursed through Alec’s veins. God only knew what Cassie had suffered in that time. He tried to rise, only to sink back onto the bed in a haze of pain. His head throbbed. His ribs ached. The flesh on his back burned like fire.
“They’re hunting you with dogs. Before you can make the journey, you must be much stronger.” Takotah pressed the cup to his lips again. “Rest.”
Alec drank reluctantly.
So Crichton was tracking him. Or trying. There was little chance they’d find him here. The marsh surrounding this little island was dense and wet enough to lose even the best tracking dogs. Still, it meant the moment he emerged from the marsh, they’d be able to pick up his scent. They’d know where he was going before he got there.
But Cassie needed him. She needed him now. He could not fail her. He had to think.
* * *
Cassie stared unseeing out the window. The lunch the slave girl had brought her sat untouched. She knew she should eat, for the babe’s sake if not her own, but both her stomach and heart were unwilling. She hadn’t been able to eat or sleep since she’d been locked in this accursed room two nights ago.
If only she knew Alec was safe. Was he suffering? Had anyone comforted him, tended his wounds? Cassie couldn’t even be sure he was still alive. Regardless of what he might say, Geoffrey meant for Alec to die sooner or later. Had he already gotten his way?
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, but 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 was no easier.
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 torment to be uncertain and absolutely helpless.
God, please keep them all safe.
A robin landed on the sill outside her window, hopped on its tiny feet, and pecked at some unseen meal before taking flight again. How Cassie envied the birds their wings. If only she could fly away. She’d thought about trying to climb down. Although the vines that reached the third floor were but slender tendrils and could not support her weight, the bricks were scarred from rain and full of pits, giving her lots of places to gain a handhold. From this height, one slip would mean her death. Still, had she not been certain she was carrying Alec’s child, she might have taken that chance.
The night she’d arrived, Geoffrey had had several slave women bathe her, scrubbing her skin until it hurt, washing roughly between her legs. To remove the taint of what she’d done, he’d said. Except for those women—and the slave girl who brought her meals and emptied her chamber pot—she’d been allowed contact with no one here. Geoffrey had not yet come to see her himself. For 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, it was most likely her dowry land he loved. Or perhaps he and his father saw an opportunity in the guardianship of Blakewell’s Neck. It would take some time for the senior Master Crichton to gain legal control of the estate, but the moment ink dried on parchment, making him guardian, he’d be free to sell the crops, slaves, and bondservants as he saw fit, and, if he were clever, to profit by it.
Cassie knew Geoffrey had a cruel streak, but never in her worst nightmares would she have thought him 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, 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 fingers 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 feel 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 cheeks. 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, choked back bile. “It is not my wish to strike you.”
“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 and 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 cider making 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 ex
posed 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.
“There you are, Catherine. Don’t you look lovely.” Geoffrey rose to greet her as she entered. His gaze moved over her, resting on her breasts. “I knew the color would suit you. Do you like it?”
Cassie realized Geoffrey was awaiting her answer, as if something as unimportant as the color of a gown could mean anything to her now. “Aye.”
Speaking to him made her feel a traitor.
Taking the seat he pulled out for her, she unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap, her fingers knotting nervously around the linen. Steam rose from a tureen of soup and several meat dishes placed neatly around the table on silver platters, their mingled smells turning Cassie’s stomach. Candlelight from the enormous brass candelabra flickered off the facets of a crystal goblet a young slave woman was filling with red wine.
“Catherine, are you listening?”
“ I … my mind must have been wandering.”
“I said I had the kitchen prepare your favorite—roast beef. I hope it’s cooked to your liking.”
“I’m sure it will be fine.” She lifted the wine to her lips and took a sip. Its sickly sweetness nearly caused her to throw up. She took a deep breath, willing the nausea to subside.
If he noticed her discomfort, he said nothing, picking the most succulent pieces of beef and putting them on her plate like a dutiful host, prattling about the lengths to which he’d gone to ensure the meal was perfect. The pleasant tone of his voice grated on her already frayed nerves.
“The sauce on the lamb is a French recipe my father won from Robert Carter in a card game. The Carters on occasion use a French chef, brought directly from France, I’m told.”