That galvanized her. She kept low, skirting the vegetable patch, running toward the straggly stand of trees some thirty feet beyond. She was panting, a stitch in her side, when she slid behind one of the trees, falling to her knees, and peering back toward the farmhouse. She saw nothing except that goat, still chewing on the boot.
Now, where was she? She looked at the sun, hot now in the midday, and gathered her wits together. She wanted to go north to the English Channel. But where the devil was she? Surely not too far away from the sea because she hadn’t been unconscious for all that long. Had she?
She realized after five minutes of running that the trees were going to give out. There was nothing northward save an endless stretch of meadow, not even any low bushes, nothing to protect her, to hide her.
She couldn’t remain here. It was now or never. She rose and began to run northward.
The sun beat down. She was bareheaded and soon she was light-headed from the heat and from hunger. Her breathing was rough and getting rougher. She was so tired she couldn’t imagine being more so, but she forced herself to keep running, even walking quickly as the stitch in her side forced her to hobble like an old woman.
When she heard the horse’s hooves pounding behind her, when she felt the earth shaking from the horse’s hooves, she wanted to scream with fury, but instead, she just kept running.
She heard his voice and it was loud and mean. “You perfidious female!”
In the next moment, he scooped her up about her waist, bringing her against him and the horse’s side.
Alexandra twisted around and struck at his face. She clipped his jaw solidly and knew a flare of success, but he jerked back and her next blow did nothing but glance off his cheek. He shook her like a bundle of rags and threw her facedown over the saddle. His hands were on her back to prevent her from lurching up. “Hold still, damn you!”
Alexandra felt bile rise in her throat. She tasted failure and she tasted fear and her own nausea. She was going to throw up. She tried desperately to control herself, but in the end, she couldn’t. She vomited on the saddle, on his buckskins, on the horse.
The stallion went berserk at her uncontrollable jerking, the horrible retching noises. He reared violently, jerking the reins from Cadoudal’s hands, flinging them both onto the ground. Alexandra came up immediately, her arms around herself, jerking and shuddering with dry heaves. Finally, the dreadful cramps stopped and she remained still, on her hands and knees, her head lowered, trying to control her breathing.
Finally she looked over and saw Cadoudal on his side looking at her.
She said, “I’m sorry. I tried to stop it but I couldn’t. Is the horse all right?”
He could only stare at her and wonder if he hadn’t struck his head when he landed on the ground. He shook his head now as if to verify that his brains were still inside his skull. His horse was grazing some yards away, looking quite unperturbed by all the ruckus.
“The horse looks to be fine, no thanks to you.”
Her belly cramped again and she moaned softly, jerking once again with the dry heaves.
She was panting when she said, “I’m glad you didn’t feed me. That would have been awful.”
“Why are you ill? I didn’t hurt you, dammit!”
“I don’t know.”
Georges Cadoudal rose and dusted himself off. He leaned down, clasped her beneath her arms, and drew her upright. He frowned at her. “You’re a frowzy mess. You look like hell. I can’t abide a woman who looks like you do.”
Alexandra’s eyes narrowed. “And you look like a man who’s not been outside a brandy bottle in two nights. Ha! Telling me I looked awful!”
Georges Cadoudal laughed.
“Come along. I’m taking you back to the farmhouse.”
She had no choice but to follow him. When they reached the horse, the animal slewed its head around and gave her a ruminating look. “I can’t,” she said, pulling back. “I’ll throw up again.”
She turned to look up at him. “You wouldn’t be so cruel, would you? To make me get on that horse again?”
“I won’t throw you across the horse on your stomach. That’s what made you sick. If you promise to behave yourself, to just sit in front of me, we’ll go slowly.”
“All right.”
It took only a few moments to return to the farmhouse. Alexandra had felt as if she’d run at least one hundred miles if not more. The stitch in her side was only now easing. With a horse, it took only a few minutes. It wasn’t fair.
He dismounted first then lifted her down. “Go into the farmhouse. Drink some water. Sit down. If you so much as show your nose out the door or any of the windows, you will be very sorry.”
Had it been one of Douglas’s threats, Alexandra wouldn’t have paid any attention. However, Georges Cadoudal was an unknown. He was cruel and ruthless and he’d shown himself to be quite determined. It was possible that he planned to kill her. Of course he had given her water to drink. It didn’t quite fit together.
She went into the farmhouse, drank a little water, and sat down on one of the rickety chairs.
When he stepped through the door, kicking it closed behind him, she merely looked at him. He had washed his buckskins and the sick odor was no longer clinging to him.
She said, “Are you going to kill me?”
“No.”
“What are you going to do to me?”
He eyed her.
“Will you ransom me? Oh, no!” Her face, already pale, was now paper white. And he knew what she was thinking. He would send the Earl of Northcliffe a note and he would come and Georges would kill him. He had never before in his life seen such naked pain. He wouldn’t let it touch him. He had seen more death in his lifetime than this tender pullet would in a dozen lifetimes. He’d brought about more deaths than an English regiment.
She rushed into speech. “No, Douglas won’t come to me, he won’t, I swear it to you. He is in love with my sister, Melissande. He had to keep me, his cousin married me to him by proxy. It was all a horrible mistake. Douglas wants me gone, truly. Please, monsieur. Please, he won’t care.”
“I don’t suppose you can cook? I’ll just bet you are one of those utterly useless English ladies who never soiled her hands in her life.”
“I am not useless! I am a fine gardener, though.” She paused, then continued slowly, “I really can’t cook anything that would look toothsome. I am sorry but in truth, I’m not at all hungry.”
He grunted, then turned toward the small kitchen set back in the far corner of the room. He said over his shoulder, “Don’t move.”
She didn’t. She sat there staring at the door, at him in the small alcove, at the thick layer of dust on every surface in the room.
“Where are we?” she called out.
“Be quiet.”
“I know we’re in France.”
“How do you know that?”
She hadn’t been completely certain, and she was pleased to have her conclusion so easily verified. She had remembered smelling the sea; then deep inside her, she remembered the rocking of a boat.
Some minutes later, he came into the room carrying two plates. One held slices of thick bread, the other a stew of sorts, reeking of garlic. Alexandra nearly gagged.
He said only, “Eat a piece of bread. It will probably settle your guts.”
She chewed on the bread, trying to avoid looking at him downing the noxious stew.
The few bites stayed down. She looked toward the small crock of butter but was afraid to smear any on the bread. Georges continued to spoon down the stew.
When she couldn’t bear it any longer, she said, “What are you going to do to me?”
He raised his head and simply looked at her. “I’m going to strip off your clothes first and I’m going to bathe you. Then I’m going to rape you as your husband did to my Janine. I will keep you with me until you are pregnant. Then I will send you back to Douglas.”
She stared at him. Men were unaccounta
ble. “But,” she said, cocking her head to one side, “that doesn’t make any sense, does it?”
He flung his spoon against the wall, rising from his chair, and leaning toward her, his palms flat on the rough wooden surface. “You will cease your unexpected prattle! I don’t like it. It annoys me. Do you understand me?”
“No, I don’t. It seems vastly stupid and just plain dishonorable and ungentlemanly to even consider doing such a thing. To force me? To keep me a prisoner and humiliate me like that? No, it isn’t reasonable. Besides, Douglas says it can take a long time to create a babe. Will you keep me with you here for the next five years?”
He growled in fury, in frustration. “Damn you, beg me not to do it!”
She stared at him.
“Ah, be quiet!”
She was still quiet.
He said, “I am going to fetch you some bathwater now. I want you sweet-smelling when I take you.”
She couldn’t allow him to do that. She knew she wouldn’t allow him to do that. The only problem was how to stop him. He was the stronger; he had hit upon this revenge and she realized that he was a man, who, once committed to a goal, couldn’t be easily swerved from his set course. The thought of five years in her company didn’t even seem to deter him.
What to do?
* * *
The main street of Etaples was crammed with stalls with people hawking everything from potatoes to blackberries. Tony and Douglas dismounted, leading their horses, pressing always forward.
Douglas cursed. They should have skirted Etaples but no, he’d thought he’d take a good look around in case they needed to hide here. How could he have forgotten the utter confusion and madness of market day?
It took twenty minutes and by the end of it, Tony was chewing on an apple and Douglas was eating a carrot.
“Well, we did need to eat,” Tony said.
Douglas cursed again.
“Not long now. Er, Douglas, you’re certain she will be here at this farmhouse?”
“She will be there.”
Douglas dismounted and purchased apples from a farmer. He threw one to Tony. “Eat your fill, cousin.”
They continued on their way.
“You will take off those clothes or I will rip them off you.”
She didn’t disbelieve him, but neither could she imagine simply stripping down to her skin in front of him. He wasn’t Douglas. No one was Douglas.
The tub of water was behind her, steam rising because he’d heated the water. It had taken a good half-hour but she hadn’t managed to come up with a plan to escape him.
“Your face is filthy.”
“I landed on my nose when I wriggled out of that window.”
“Take off your damned clothes.”
She was mute; she just shook her head.
He actually sighed. He looked unhappy. He looked uncertain. Then, he was on her and she fought him, indeed she fought him, kicking his shin and making him grunt in pain, but in but a few minutes she was naked and trembling, her clothing shredded and strewn on the floor around her.
“There.” He lifted her under her arms and set her down into the tub of water. He handed her a cloth and a bar of soap. “Bathe. Do a good job of it.”
He seemed completely disinterested in her. She was so relieved, so surprised, she said nothing, merely stared at him. After all, hadn’t her mother assured her that once men saw a female form, they went berserk? Douglas had, but it had required several viewings before he had succumbed. Perhaps it took men time to get used to her before their animal urges consumed them. She prayed it would take Georges Cadoudal much, much longer. A decade perhaps.
“Wash your hair as well. It looks hellish. I don’t like red hair on a woman.”
Good, she thought and said, “All right.”
He looked at her, that brooding look that raised more questions in her mind than answered them, then left her, cursing under his breath.
Alexandra bathed.
Unfortunately she was so exhausted, she fell asleep. She awoke with a start when Georges Cadoudal said from above her, “Damn you, the water’s nearly cold. You fell asleep? That isn’t normal, by God. You should be scheming something, you should be terrified of me, you should be screaming, piercing screams for help. Are you finished?”
She shook her head and pressed herself deeper into the water.
He frowned down at her as one would to a child. He grabbed the wet cloth, soaped it thoroughly, flattened it against her face, and rubbed vigorously.
She tried to yell but only got soap in her mouth for her efforts. Then she felt his hands on her breasts and froze.
CHAPTER
23
“LO AND BEHOLD,” Georges said, staring down at her breasts. He shook his head even as she was trying to shrink away from his hands, but yet he was scowling. It was as if he were forcing himself to look at her. “You are well endowed. It is amazing. I should have remarked these breasts of yours before. I am disturbed that I didn’t, but I am too tired, too concerned with all my future plans, and you have been naught but a vexing burden, but still—” He shook his head, frowning at himself.
Then he appeared to get himself well in hand. He rose and tossed her the cloth.
“Finish bathing and don’t go to sleep again or it will be the worse for you.”
She did, quickly. It was as if he had been watching her even though she knew he was in the other room, for the moment she stepped out of the tub, he was there, and he tossed her a thin ragged towel. She quickly wrapped it around her.
“Your hair,” he said, and tossed her the other towel. “Did I tell you I didn’t like red hair on a woman?”
“Yes, you were most specific. Could you leave please, monsieur?”
“No. I must look my fill at you. It will excite me, or it should, and allow me to get this over with quickly.”
“I would prefer that you wouldn’t.”
He shrugged, an elaborate Gallic shrug that meant nothing and everything and she knew exactly what it meant.
She managed to get the towel firmly wrapped around herself, then took the other towel, more a rag really, to her hair.
He said, “Come into the other room. I’ve lit a fire. It is summer yet it is cold. I thought the fire would heat my blood as well as the room. I must try; it was my vow to myself.”
She followed him into the outer room, her eyes on the front door.
“Even if you managed to escape me,” he said dispassionately, “I can’t imagine you running down the road wearing only a towel, your feet bare.”
“You’re right,” she said and walked to stand in front of the fireplace. It was warm and it felt wonderful. She stood there, rubbing her hair, rubbing and rubbing until it hurt, wanting to put him off.
“Enough,” he said finally, but he didn’t sound or look like a man who wanted to ravish her. He sounded tired and angry and distracted.
She turned slowly and stared at him. He stared back, not yet moving. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He said something then in French and thrashed his fingers through his hair. “Well,” he said finally in English, “damn you. Why you? Douglas should have to pay, curse his foul hide, but I cannot, I—”
She wanted to defend her husband, but what came out of her mouth was a sharp cry of pain. She pressed her hands to her belly. The cramp hardened and twisted and made her stagger against a chair. She was panting when it released her, only to cry out when it struck again.
“What the devil is wrong with you? You can’t be ill. I don’t like it.”
Her face was white, her mouth twisted with pain.
“You shouldn’t have any more cramps, it’s ridiculous! You’re not on the horse. You ate only the bread I gave you. Stop it, do you hear me? I told you I don’t like this.”
The cramp eased and she felt hot sticky liquid between her legs. She looked down to see rivulets of blood running down her legs. She raised her head to look at him.
“What is wrong with me? What is happening?�
�� Then she cried out, falling to her knees to the floor. Tears were hot on her face; the blood was hot on her legs. The pain was building and building.
She fell back, drawing her legs up, hugging her belly, crying, trying to control the pain, but it was sharper and harder and she couldn’t do anything save lie there.
Georges was on the floor beside her. He tugged the towel open and saw the blood on her thighs, the deep red streaks on the white towel. He swallowed. He didn’t know what to do.
The door flew open to the farmhouse and Douglas came through, pistol in hand. “Get off her, you damned bastard! I’ll kill you, you filthy sod!”
Tony was right behind Douglas. He saw Alexandra’s white body, saw Cadoudal over her and felt himself raw with fury. Had the bastard already raped her? Oh God, she was bleeding, so much blood, too much blood. Had he brutalized her?
Georges Cadoudal whipped about, saw Douglas, and relief and hope flooded his face. But he had no time to say anything, for Douglas lunged across the room, jerked him away from Alexandra, and slammed his fist into his face. Georges yelled. Douglas struck him again, pummeling his ribs. Georges didn’t fight back; he only tried to protect himself.
“Douglas, hold!”
Douglas hit him again before Tony’s voice got through to him.
“Douglas, stop it now! Alexandra, she’s hurt!”
Douglas reared up, his right fist hovering over Georges’s nose, still straddling him, but looking at his wife. She was sprawled on her back and she was panting with pain and there was blood, so much blood.
His fist lowered and Georges quickly said, “No, no, don’t strike me again. I can’t remain defensive too much longer. I am a man, and cannot continue to allow this. Ah, but thank God it’s you, Douglas. Quickly, quickly! She is having a miscarriage. Dammit, I don’t know what to do. I don’t want her to die. Ah, mon Dieu! Help me!”
“She’s what?” Douglas’s fist was not six inches from Georges’s face.
Alexandra moaned and tried to draw her legs up.
“Look at her, Douglas. I didn’t rape her. I swear I wouldn’t have raped her in any case. Look, damn you! She is losing a child!”
Douglas took in the truth of the situation in that moment. He roared into action, rolled off Georges in an instant, and was on his knees beside his wife. “Georges, heat water and get clean clothes, immediately! Tony, go into the other room and fetch the mattress off the bed. We’ll keep her here in front of the fire.”
The Sherbrooke Bride Page 31