by Jaycee Clark
The letter shook in her hand. Memories dark and oily slid through her, made her stomach churn. She could all but hear Theodore calmly asking her to repeat verses, all the while hitting her.
Please, God. Please let him be dead. Please.
Emily didn’t know what to do. Fear iced her veins, made her doubt all she’d built.
She didn’t want to think about it. At all. Calming her mind, going away, she drifted, pretending she was in the gardens at Ravenscrest.
* * * * *
He watched the curtains shift in the upper bedchamber. He knew which room his wife whored in. Knew it because he paid for the information and found out, not from the great and mighty marquis’ household, but the one next to it. A maid there was upset with one of the marquis’ grooms for not showing her enough attention.
Stupid wench.
He watched from under the trees as Rebeckah sat in the window. Too far to see exactly what she was doing, he hoped she knew he was here. Hoped she felt him near.
The time was coming. He’d watched for days the comings and goings and found out what he needed to know.
There was a girl child. One with dark hair and dark eyes—just like his.
She was his.
He shook his head.
No, not the same. Not the same. They were different, different. He nodded.
His head hurt. Rubbing it, he wondered how he was going to get Rebeckah out of that fortress. He watched a while longer and then like light from Heaven, he knew.
All those months with the savages had been for a reason. A divine reason to show him the way in his hour of need. He’d learned to move silently like these heathens. And silently he would move. Reach into that gilded cage and take what was his.
The fox to the bird.
Rebeckah was his. By God. By law. And what did it say about her if she knew, yet said nothing?
Perhaps the marquis in his anger would let her go? Kick her out? Beat her himself?
Theodore smiled. Childish giggles danced on the air and he turned to the sound.
The child.
Dark hair.
His. No.
Dark eyes.
His.
“Joy,” the woman with her called.
Joy. He blinked. Joy. Not Mary.
Pain pierced his head.
Sins. Whore. How dare she have children with another man?
Tomorrow he would send her another letter.
* * * * *
Yesterday Emily had placed the letter away in her desk drawer and tried to put it out of her mind as she was getting ready in the marchioness’ bedchamber. She usually dressed and bathed in here if both she and Jason were preparing for the evening at the same time.
Again, Coleen knocked and entered with a tray.
Sliding further into the tub, she asked, “What have you, Coleen?”
Apprehension skittered along her skin, chilling in its wake. Please, God, not another one. There hadn’t been one all day and she’d looked, waited, watched. But nothing arrived for her.
“Another missive, my lady. Flowers downstairs too from Lord and Lady Windbourne.”
“For?”
“Why to congratulate you, of course. Babies are meant to be celebrated and the Claymeres and Warrings are known to be family people.” Coleen set the tray on a little table and brought it over to the side of the tub. “You ready to get out?”
Looking at the letter, white envelope, black writing, same as before, she tried to control the panic fluttering in her chest. Handwriting she recognized, she took a deep shaky breath and said, “No, not just yet. Go on. I’ll ring when I’m ready for you.”
When Coleen left, Emily stood and quickly dried off. Wrapped in her robe, the color of Jason’s best wine, she grabbed the envelope off the tray and ripped it open, stopping to listen for sounds from next door.
She stared, for a moment at the portal between the two of them and knew she should tell Jason. He had a right to know. But she couldn’t, didn’t know how. How could she tell him she was not his wife? That he held no claim on her? That their child, dear God, their child she carried was a bastard?
And once she spoke the words, she’d awaken. Her dream would be at an end.
The words of the letter mocked her. She could all but hear Theodore’s well modulated voice.
To the supposed Marchioness of Ravensworth,
How are you, my lady? Are you wondering who I am? Or do you know? How is your grandmother by the way? Such an unsuspecting woman. I do wonder what could befall a woman of those years? Or even her husband?
Our time, Rebeckah, of meeting is drawing nearer. I find I am rather impatient, but I have a plan that must be carried out. A lesson that must be taught. A punishment that must be enforced. You do remember punishment, do you not? God has shown me the way and I cannot stray, no matter what the temptations.
Fear slick and real jerked her into dark memories. Punishments. Pain. Tears stung her eyes. No. No. She was stronger than this. Sniffing, she finished the damn letter.
Do you recall in Jeremiah where God compares Israel to the sins of an adulterous woman? Appropriate, is it not?
I rather think so. Remember and wait for me. Contemplate how many lashes these sins require in order to purge you of your evilness.
No matter how hard she tried, the panic sparked in her chest, knifed through her stomach. Bile gushed up the back of her throat. She ran to the chamber pot, heaving until there was nothing left in her stomach.
“Devil take it,” Jason’s voice filtered through the blood pounding against her ears.
His hands on her shoulders held her as she shook. A wet cloth wiped her face.
“I should never have listened to you about this dinner tonight.” His hand smoothed across her head. “You should be in bed resting.”
Carefully, she wadded the note up in her hand and slid it into the pocket of her robe.
She could hear Jason speaking, but she couldn’t make out the words. Dull pain throbbed against her temples, pounded against her eardrums, weakened her limbs.
Shaking, she didn’t push Jason away as he picked her up and laid her on the bed, brushing her hair off her forehead.
…how many lashes…purge you of your evilness…
Her eyes slid closed and she wished, wished this—right here with Jason—were real. But darkness threatened and she didn’t know how to stop it.
God, please, please stop it, she prayed. Else give me the strength to end it myself.
“Are you all right?” he asked, softly.
Emily nodded. Jason rose, poured her some water and handed her the glass. He was always so gentle, so kind. After taking a sip and knowing it would stay down, she handed the glass back to him. “Thank you.”
He set it aside and studied her. His gaze, that intense, serious blue he reserved for few times, as though he were trying to figure out the secrets of the world.
She’d been afraid she didn’t deserve him. Now, she didn’t care if she deserved him or not, she simply wanted him. Wanted him and didn’t care what price she had to pay. She could not, would not, go back to Theodore, to being Mrs. Smith. She would rather die.
How many times had Theodore told her he loved her, only to have to show her, to teach her how much? It was because of his love that he had wanted to save her soul.
Emily reached up and cupped Jason’s cheek, noting her hand still shook. Jason. Strong, solid Jason had never once raised his hand to her, nor had he told her of his love.
But she knew. For him, it wasn’t the things he did, but the things he didn’t do. He never railed at her, never hit her, never beat her.
“I love you,” she whispered, her voice catching.
His eyes widened, the blue darkening, his black brows arching.
“I’ve never told you that have I?” she asked.
One side of his mouth lifted. “Oh, I remember you mentioning it another time.” He laid his hand atop hers and kissed the inside of her wrist. “It’s I who have n
ever told you.”
She put her finger to his lips. “There’s no need. From you, I see it, know it, feel it. You’ve shown me what love truly is, and that is more than spoken words could ever have done.”
Chapter Eighteen
Theodore Smith sat in the room of the rundown inn. There were probably fleas in the bedding. At the apothecary, he’d bought some lye powder and washed his own sheets. He’d rather sleep on the floor than on sheets that had seen untold sins, filth and dirt.
Earlier, he’d sent messages to both sinners.
He wondered what the high and mighty marquis thought of him.
What she was thinking of him.
The thought made him frown. Whore. She was in that house, with another man, with the child.
A pretty little girl.
Who would undoubtedly grow up to be a harlot like her mother. Mayhap he would teach them both a lesson they would not soon forget. If he started the child’s instruction now, he might be able to save her from the demons.
He paced. The room’s rank scent mixed with the smell of burnt grease and rotten meat from below, filth from the street.
A woman’s high-pitched laughter pranced through the wall, followed by a man’s deep voice.
He slapped his hands over his ears and prayed, prayed for God to deliver him from this den of iniquity.
Pain throbbed in his head. Oh, the woman would pay for dragging him through this filth and slime of humanity. She would pay dearly.
It was almost time for another visit.
He straightened, looked around the room with its stained floor and scuffed, broken armoire and single chair. Theodore looked to the bag where his plan was held. He’d have her here soon. Soon and when he did…
For the first time in a long while, he smiled.
He stopped by the chair and picked up the two notes he’d written and sealed. And the other present he had for Rebeckah. It was time to remind her of her place and the trials he had to walk through in order to keep her pure. Picking up the long braided strip of leather, he walked out, whistling his favorite hymn.
* * * * *
Jason tapped his fingers on the top of his desk. What the hell was wrong with his wife?
She was withdrawn, edgy and he didn’t know why. She said it was just the baby, worry that she’d lose it.
Part of him believed her, a larger part of him did not. If he caught her unawares, she was tense, worried. Almost like when they first met.
And she’d been like that since the day, almost three weeks ago when she returned from her grandmother’s where she’d met the strange caller who had yet to be found.
Jason didn’t know who the man was, but the point the unknown person had not called here, to him—to Emily’s husband—was telling. Summerton had mentioned Emily had received two missives, but she hadn’t told him about them. Then again, he hadn’t asked, had he?
But he would.
Maybe he should take them back to Ravenscrest Abbey. Emily liked it there and Joy complained about who was feeding her pony daily.
After things smoothed out with The Ternary he would take his family home.
He checked the clock on the mantel, saw it was after ten. Nick and Rayne were coming by again tonight to work out details of their latest mission.
Jason still didn’t trust the whole setup, but the other two knew what they were doing. He knew he would have to take more a back seat now that he had a family. It would have to be Rayne and Nick that actually did the dirty work. Not that he liked it one damn bit, but things changed.
In a few days, Nick was leaving on one of their ships to cross the Channel, and then perhaps the West Indies, depending on where their sources led them. Rumors were already claiming Napoleon had support across the ocean. Whatever support the little demigod had, needed to be nipped in the bud. Thus the meeting he didn’t like.
Emily was in bed where he left her. She went to sleep earlier these days, the doctor said that should pass. He wished to hell the sickness would. She’d lost weight and on her slight frame it seemed even more prominent.
He stood and paced to the shelves, dusted a finger along the books and turned. Joy stood silent in the doorway.
“Poppet?” He motioned her forward and squatted down, his Hessians groaning. “What’s the matter?”
She twisted the sleeve of her gown, the eyelet bunching with her movements. “Canna sweep.”
Jason picked her up, smelled the lavender from her bath water and smiled. “But if you don’t sleep, then how will the sun come up in the morning? Come on, back to bed with you.”
She shook her head and burrowed against him. “Da man will get me.”
He frowned. “Man? What man?”
“Da man in my woom, Papa.”
Jason stopped and pulled back, looking at her in the soft light of the candle. Her eyes were big and worried. He rubbed her head.
“I bet you were dreaming,” he lowered his voice and walked out the room and up the stairs.
She shook her head. “I wanna sweep wit Mama.”
Of course she did. He shook his head. “Mama is very tired, she needs her rest. You have your own bed.”
“Da man will get me,” she whispered.
Jason, wanting to calm her fears, said, “Tell me about him. Was he a nice man? What was he doing in your room?” Hoping to lighten her mood, he added. “Maybe he was there to tell you a story.”
She shook her head.
“Well, then what did the man want?” He turned and went down the hallway, past his and Emily’s room, the marchioness’ rooms, the guests’ rooms and up the other stairs to the nursery.
“Doan know.”
“Perhaps he came from the moon and wanted to tell you what it was like to live there,” he tried.
She shook her head. “He wasna like the moon. He was mean.”
Jason had no idea what to say to that. How, he wondered, was one like the moon?
At the nursery door, he eased it opened, looked through the adjoining room and saw Franny was asleep. He might have to see about a new nanny. One that awoke when his daughter did.
He turned and stopped. The French doors were open out to the balcony. They were to be locked at all times.
Gently, he sat Joy on her bed. “Did you open the doors, Joy?”
She shook her head. “Da man did.”
The back of his neck prickled. He straightened. “Franny, wake up.” He lit a taper and studied the door. There were scratches just on the lock. Damn. He looked at the carpet in front of the door, noting it wasn’t damp nor was there any dirt or leaves on it. On the balcony, he studied everything, realizing the trellis and vines could easily be scaled from the ground three stories below. Why in the hell hadn’t he noticed that before?
The night and shadows offered him nothing.
His daughter sat on the bed, her knees drawn up. “The man was here?” he asked.
She nodded then pointed to her door that led to the hallway and the house beyond.
Apprehension slid through him. “The man went out the door?”
“Yes, my lord?” Franny asked, coming to stand behind him.
“Sit here with my daughter and do not move until I return.” He added a hard glare to the young woman.
He lit the candelabrum on the table and left without a candle.
Silent, Jason hurried unaided through the darkness downstairs to their room. Without warning, he opened his door. Shadows danced in the room from the dying fire. Emily lay on her stomach, the counterpane bunched and pulled around her as it always was. Carefully, he scanned the room, noted everything was as it should be. The carpets hushed his footsteps as he walked to the windows. All were shut and locked. He took a deep breath and shuffled the heavy curtains.
Everything was fine.
At the bed, he reached out and brushed his finger down her cheek. Emily sighed and settled deeper into the pillow.
Relief slid through him. Perhaps Franny had opened the door. He hadn’t even thought
to ask her. Joy could have been dreaming.
Apprehension rippled under his skin.
* * * * *
From the behind the adjoining door, Theodore listened for the sound of the marquis. He had heard his footfalls in the hallway and barely had time to get this door shut before he knew the man was in the other room.
His hands slicked with perspiration. He’d hidden downstairs in an alcove and waited for the man to leave his study. Theodore thought the little girl had seen him when she stopped and looked down the hallway before going through the door. He’d heard the man speak to her.
The little girl with dark hair and eyes.
His daughter.
No, the other man’s daughter.
His.
Theodore shook his head and listened.
The doorknob turned ever so slowly. Two could play this game. He darted to the hallway door.
* * * * *
Jason opened the adjoining door between his and Emily’s rooms.
He kept telling himself that everything was fine, but warnings crawled across the back of his neck and he could feel it.
Something was wrong.
Moonlight slanted through the windows painting the room in contrasting pales and darkness.
Nothing moved. Nothing stirred.
He closed his eyes and took a deep, unhurried breath.
Waiting.
There, something smelled different.
Tobacco. He could smell tobacco.
Or could he?
He took another deep breath. Whatever it had been faded. Opening his eyes he scanned the room again, nothing.
On a muttered oath, he stalked to the curtains, flicked them. No one. He checked under the bed, and opened her armoire.
Paranoia was not a healthy thing. Too long in the shadows made them darken the perfect sunlit day.
Shaking his head, he strode to the doorway. He started to close the door, but turned back one last time and checked behind the door.
Nothing.
Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he eased the door shut and walked back to his wife, leaning down to kiss her cheek.