Ark of Fire ca-1

by C. M. Palov

  “I broke a nail.”

  Intuiting that she was in no mood to decipher the drawing, Caedmon moodily stared at the pine bench. In truth, he wasn’t at all surprised by her lack of enthusiasm, the day’s events having no doubt taken a heavy toll on her.

  “Will you be spending Christmas with your family?”

  Caedmon’s head jerked, caught off guard by Edie’s unexpected query. Although he knew she’d eventually inquire about his private life, he’d foolishly hoped it wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

  “My father died some years back. But even when he was alive, we were never big on the holidays, and Christmas fell by the wayside when I was a young lad. I suspect the lack of holiday cheer came about because there was no woman in the household. My mother died in childbirth,” he added, anticipating her next question.

  “This is the first you’ve made mention of your family.”

  “My father and I had what you might call a strained relationship. A strict taskmaster, he eschewed frivolities of any sort.” Such as “hanging the stockings by the chimney with care.”

  “He sounds like a real hard-ass.”

  “Actually, he was a solicitor.”

  Edie laughed aloud. “Sorry. It’s just the way it came out. It sounded . . .”

  “Absurd?” The old wounds not nearly as painful as they’d once been, he managed a half smile. “Yes, in retrospect there was a certain absurdity to our relationship.”

  “Absurdity aside, I bet your father was proud of you. Going to Oxford and everything.”

  At hearing that, Caedmon derisively snorted. “Hardly. When I left Oxford, the shame of it killed him.”

  “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a weensy bit?” With thumb and index finger, she indicated a “weensy” unit of measure.

  Shoving the pine bench aside, he rose to his feet. There being few places to roam, he walked over to the fireplace. The act of confession an uncomfortable one, he turned his back to her.

  “Within days of my Oxford debacle, I was summoned to St. Anselm’s Hospital, where my father was undergoing tests for an intestinal complaint.” Able to see the sterile white room in his mind’s eye, he frowned, the vividness of the recollection unnerving. “My father wore a light blue hospital gown; it was the first time I’d ever seen him in a garment that had not been properly pressed.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “A most dignified man, my father.”

  Although she made no reply, he could see that he had a captive audience; Edie was leaning forward in the chair.

  “The morning sun was shining through the window adjacent to my father’s hospital bed, casting upon him a soft light, making him appear as a kindly older gentleman. An aged putti, I irreverently thought at the time.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Something that was years in the making.” He turned and faced his confessor. “At this juncture I should mention that I spent the first thirteen years of my life fearing the bastard and the next thirteen loathing him because of that fear.”

  “Did he physically abuse you?”

  He tersely shook his head, disavowing her of the notion. “No. In fact he never laid a hand on me, not in anger nor affection. His was an emotional abuse, a systematic shunting that left little doubt he rued the day that I was born. On those few occasions when he did take notice of me, it was always with a critical eye.”

  “I’m guessing it all came to a head when you went to visit him in the hospital.”

  Caedmon nodded. “No sooner did I arrive than my father informed me of precisely how much it had cost to support my studies at Oxford. He then point-blank told me that he expected due recompense. With interest, I might add.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Her stunned expression was near comical.

  “I told the old bastard to bugger off. That said, I took my departure, perversely pleased with myself for finally standing up to him. Twelve hours later his doctor rang me up, notifying me that my father had unexpectedly died from an embolism.”

  “How did you feel about that?”

  The question was so typically American, their culture grounded in the visceral, that he should have anticipated it. Should have, but didn’t.

  “If you’re asking if I felt complicit in my father’s death, I did not. Although, admittedly, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time trying to understand my father’s motives.” He shrugged, indicating that it had been a futile endeavor. “All I know is that my father had a singular inability to love.”

  Good God! Did he really just say that?

  Horrified, he self-consciously cleared his throat, refusing to meet Edie’s disarmingly direct gaze.

  “Maybe he did love you; he just didn’t know how to express it.”

  “To know the man was to know better.”

  Getting up from her chair, Edie walked toward him. “I think your father was an idiot for wasting his life the way he did. It’s what Herman Melville referred to as the ‘horror of the half-lived life.’ So, what about the rest of your life? Have you ever been married? Do you have any kids?”

  Caedmon stared at the threadbare carpet, the conversation having veered into uncomfortable territory, his unsavory past about to rear its ugly head. The ghost of his murdered lover, Juliana Howe, lurked in the near vicinity. If he told her about Jules, he’d also have to tell her about his murderous rampage in the streets of Belfast.

  Arms crossed over his chest, he listened as the mantel clock relentlessly ticked off each passing second with an air of funerary gravitas.

  Edie placed a hand on his forearm. “Look, whatever it is that you’re afraid to tell me, I’ll understand. Really, I will.”

  Angry that he’d been shoved into a tight corner, he moved away from her. “You’ll understand? Correct me if I’m wrong, but you first made my acquaintance four days ago. Barely enough time to know how I take my tea, let alone understand me.” He snatched his anorak from the nearby wall hook. “There’s a curry house several blocks down the street. I’m going to get some takeaway.”

  CHAPTER 56

  Edie yanked the black turtleneck over her head, tossing it onto the wood toilet lid. Placing her hand into the claw-footed tub, she swirled the sudsy water, testing to make sure she had the right mix of hot and cold. Evidently, it had yet to occur to the Brits that a single faucet was a whole heck of a lot better than dueling hot and cold water taps. But as she was quickly learning, the Brits were a strange and curious lot.

  Unhooking her bra, she let it drop onto the linoleum floor. At seeing the small hickey next to her nipple, she smiled, remembering. Caedmon had surprised her with his passion, morphing into a lusty alpha male the moment he removed his wools and tweeds. A lot of things about Caedmon surprised her. The way he would dunk a cookie into his coffee cup then immediately apologize, as though he’d committed the gravest of sins. His almost boyish exuberance when it came to anything even remotely esoteric. His insistence on opening doors and preceding her down the steps. His sweetness. His tenderness. His unrelenting resolve when it came to the Ark.

  God, he could be a hard-ass. She suspected that he took after his father more than he realized.

  Yeah, she’d pushed him. But he’d pushed back even harder. Short of killing a man in cold blood, she’d understand whatever deep, dark secret he kept under lock and key. She was certainly no saint.

  What she needed to do was back off. Enforce a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. When he was ready, when he felt more comfortable with the relationship, he would open up.

  Clothes removed, she walked over and shut off the taps. Tentatively, she stuck a big toe into the tub. Then, a hand braced on either side of the claw-footed tub, she slowly sank into the frothy water, having found a half-used bottle of lemon-scented bubble bath.

  “Perfect,” she crooned, her tensed muscles finally relaxing. She stared at the pitched ceiling, the light from the adjoining room turning the surface a pretty shade of cotton-candy pink.

  She reached for the washcloth
she’d earlier draped over the curved lip of the tub.

  “‘Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la. ’”

  Belatedly realizing that it was one of those songs that wore better after a couple of glasses of eggnog, she switched gears, instead humming “The Little Drummer Boy” as she soaped up the washcloth.

  Raising her right leg out of the water, she washed it from toe to knee.

  Again, her thoughts turned to Caedmon. Christmas had to be a difficult time of year for him given that his father—

  “Getting all cleaned up to do the dirty, huh?”

  At hearing that deep-throated voice, Edie swung her head toward the open bathroom door.

  Oh, God. It was him.

  CHAPTER 57

  Stunned to find her Oxford assailant negligently leaning against the doorjamb, Edie thought her heart would explode.

  Overcome with fear, she helplessly gripped the sides of the tub.

  “And in case you got any notions about screaming or hollering or complaining to the management, you might want to reconsider,” the intruder drawled, slowly pulling a gun from the waistband of his military-style cargo pants. “The two of us are gonna do this nice and quiet.”

  Edie stared at the dark lump of steel clutched in his meaty hand. She didn’t know much about firearms. But she knew a silencer when she saw one. He could kill her in cold blood and no one in the guesthouse would be the wiser. Just like he’d killed Dr. Padgham at the museum. Just like he’d probably killed God knows how many people.

  Gun in hand, he strolled over and retrieved her bra from the floor. As he did, Edie noticed the surgical tape on the side of his head. Evidently, he’d had to have sutures after Caedmon hit him with the broken bottle. Like he wasn’t scary enough already; the little pieces of white tape made him look like a turbo-charged Frankenstein.

  Holding her bra up to his face, the behemoth read the inside tag. “Thirty-four C. Nice. They ought to fit my hands just perfect.”

  Hearing that, Edie wanted to puke.

  “H-how d-did you find me?” she nervously stammered, hoping that if she changed the subject, she could somehow change his intentions.

  Grinning, he dropped the bra. “Amazing how you can hunt down a person anywhere in the world with a microdot tracking device and a Palm Pilot. And the beauty of it? It doesn’t cost more than two hundred dollars. That’s the good thing about them chinks and how they mass-produce everything on God’s green planet. Keeps down the cost of running surveillance.”

  “That’s why you attacked me in Oxford, so you could plant a tracking device on me.”

  “Aren’t you the clever bitch?” He gaze slowly moved down her soap-covered body, stopping at her quivering breasts.

  Edie sank deeper into the mound of bubbles, her head being the only thing that remained above water. If she could have, she would have squeezed herself right down the drain.

  “He’s going to be back. Any minute now. So you better leave while you still have the chance.” She pointedly glanced at his sutured skull, hoping to drive home her point.

  “Ooh, I’m quaking in my boots. Besides, I’ve got my doubts about your redheaded honey returning any time soon. Last I saw him, he was sitting at the corner bar, downing a cold one. So, it looks like it’s gonna be just me and you, sweet tits. But after what I saw last night, I think you can handle it.” Lewdly grinning, he winked at her. “I got last night’s fuck fest on video. Hot. Real, real hot.” Reaching down, he cupped his crotch with his free hand, pursing his thick lips in an exaggerated air kiss.

  “I’m going to be sick,” Edie moaned, leaning over the side of the tub, gagging.

  “The fuck you are!”

  Charging forward, her would-be rapist grabbed her by the hair. Lemon-scented water splashed onto the floor as he yanked her up and out of the tub. Arms flailing, Edie reflexively slammed her balled fist into the bandaged wound on the side of his head.

  “Fucking shit!” he bellowed, instantly releasing his hold on her.

  Edie seized her chance, running into the other room.

  A weapon. She had to find a weapon.

  Her eyes quickly darted from the floor lamp to the bed to the lumpy chair.

  The metal nail file.

  Oblivious to the fact that she was stark naked, she lunged toward the fake Louis XIV chair. That was where she’d been sitting when she filed down her broken nail.

  From behind her, she heard the thud of heavy boots.

  Where the hell was the nail file?

  She shoved her hand alongside the seat cushion, her search coming to an abrupt end when a muscled arm snaked around her waist, yanking her away from the chair. Frantic, she tried to twist free, but it was as though she had a giant vise grip clamped around her midsection.

  “Think again, cunt,” her assailant snarled, lifting her bodily off the ground. Pivoting, he tossed her onto the bed, the iron frame noisily clanging against the wall. Edie immediately rolled to her right side, but anticipating the move, he grabbed her by the ankle, pulling her back to the middle of the bed.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered, pointing the gun at her heart. “Or there won’t be anything left of your left titty.”

  Not so much as twitching, Edie braced herself, certain a bullet would slam into her chest at any moment.

  When it didn’t happen, she released a pent-up breath, wordlessly watching as her would-be rapist clicked the safety on his weapon. That done, he placed it on the mantel. Completely out of reach.

  Cracking his knuckles, he walked toward the bed. “In case you’re wondering, I can kill you with my bare hands as easily as I can shoot you.”

  Edie didn’t doubt for one second that he spoke the truth.

  Intently staring at her, he placed a knee on the foot of the bed. In the next instant, he had her pinned beneath him. His harsh breath hit her full in the face. Edie figured he had a good hundred pounds on her.

  Unable to move, barely able to breathe, she mutely stared at her assailant.

  She had only two choices: submit or fight. Either way, when all was said and done, she figured she’d end up dead.

  At that thought, Edie heard a buzzing in her ears, the rapist-cum-murderer’s rough unshaven face blurring at the edges.

  Submit, a voice in her head ordered.

  Submit and you might live.

  If you live, you can snatch the gun on the mantel.

  And if you get the gun, you can blow him away.

  Her mind made up, Edie clenched her jaw and stared at the ceiling.

  Finagling his hand between their hips, the monster unbuttoned his pants. In the same instant his cell phone vibrated; Edie could feel the pulse against her bare hip.

  “Fucking shit.”

  Removing his hand from between their two bodies, he reached for the vibrating phone clipped to his waistband. “Not a word,” he warned, supporting himself on his elbows.

  Relieved to have some of his weight removed, Edie obediently nodded.

  “Braxton. Yes, sir, I got her.” He frowned, his brows drawing together in the middle. “No, sir, she’s all right . . . yes, sir . . . I’ll have her there in fifteen minutes.”

  Disconnecting the call, he snapped his cell phone shut and reclipped it on his waistband. Muttering some of the most foul-mouthed profanities she’d ever heard, he pushed himself to his knees, clamping a hand around her upper arm as he did so. With no explanation as to what he was doing, or why he was doing it, he pulled her off the bed.

  Edie had no idea who had been on the other end of the line. And she didn’t much care. She only knew that she’d been given a reprieve.

  His hand still wrapped around her upper arm, he dragged her over to the mantel, retrieving his gun. He then shoved her through the open bathroom door.

  “Get dressed,” he ordered, gesturing to the messy pile of clothes on the toilet seat.

  Bending at the waist, Edie picked up her discarded bra. “Can I at least dry off? I’m still wet.”
/>   “Bitch, do I look like I care?”

  CHAPTER 58

  Without a doubt, he’d been a pompous ass.

  Ashamed of his earlier actions, Caedmon hoped that a heartfelt apology would smooth the rough waters. If it didn’t, he would woo Edie with Parsi lamb and cardamom pudding.

  He glanced at the brown takeaway bag clutched in his hand, hoping the peace offering would lead to improved relations. And that improved relations led to something decidedly more intimate. More romantic.

  As he climbed the well-worn treads that led to their garret room, he wondered if the day would ever come when he could make a full confession. When he could freely and openly tell Edie about the pain of love lost, of vengeance sought and claimed, of the eventual emergence from an alcohol-induced fog. He thought that because of her own travails, she would understand. Maybe even forgive.

  “And a warm, fuzzy hug would be nice, too,” he said aloud, chortling.

  Still laughing as he reached the top of the stairs, the chuckle caught in his throat.

  The door to their room had been left ajar.

  Afraid of what he would find on the other side of the door, he slowly pushed it all the way open, entering the room. At a glance, he could see that a violent ruckus had taken place. Almost immediately his gaze landed on the large dark spot that stained the tousled coverlet. Setting the brown bag on the dresser, he walked over to the bed. His heart painfully thudding against his chest, he placed his hand on the wet spot, then breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t blood.

  Edie Miller was still alive.

  Not as well as she could be, but most definitely alive.

  And for that, God, I do indeed thank you.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the Virgin Air bag on the floor next to the bed, upended, emptied of its contents. He next surveyed the room, searching for a ransom note.

  There was none. He didn’t need a scrawled scrap of paper to know Edie had been kidnapped because they wanted him.

  Stunned by the well-executed abduction, he went into the bathroom, heading straight for the sink. Turning on the cold water tap, he rinsed his face.