Riverrun

by Andrews, Felicia

  There would be no pleading; she would not give them the satisfaction.

  “Damn it, ’Arry, get a move on,” the man on her chest grunted.

  “Yes, Harry,” said a strange voice, one that froze them all in a grotesque tableau. “Please, get a move on.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The only light in the shabby room came from a tiny lantern bolted to a ledge just to the left of the open door. It flickered once and died, but not before Cass was able to see a familiar figure cross the threshold and snatch up the knife from the floor where it had fallen in the struggle. A moment later the two men had scrambled off her and had backed into the far corner, trying to muster a show of courage.

  “Are you all right, Miss Bowsmith?” asked Gerald Forrester.

  She could not answer. Instead, she moved to sit on the edge of the bed until the uncontrollable trembling faded from her limbs. Slowly, she passed a hand over her face, her, aching chest, her thighs stinging where fingernails had gouged at them to keep them open. Suddenly, before she could call out a warning, one of the men lunged forward, with the other directly behind him. Forrester only stood there, backlit by the lanterns on the first floor, a towering shadow-figure whose arms lashed out with the speed of a striking snake. The first man took a blow full on the chest and was thrown back against the wall, where he grunted, sagged, collapsed to the floor. The second was caught by the throat, lifted off his feet as though he were a rag doll and tossed aside. When he fell, he lay still. A hand touched her head then, and her arm, and she rose, telling herself this was only an interlude in a nightmare over which she had no control.

  “I have a carriage,” Forrester said; and she left the room stumbling. She could not negotiate the stairs and was grateful when his arm slid around her waist and held her. It could not have been more than a few seconds before they were outside, but it seemed an eternity to Cass—the upturned faces with gaping mouths, Salty holding a pistol in his hand and lowering it quickly when Forrester only glanced at it, the women cowering behind one of the roof posts, and the faint sounds of retching behind and above her. It was all as if seen through a deep amber glass, and she could not believe in any of it until she felt the carriage lurching beneath her, heard the hooves of two massive black horses clattering against stone.

  She was sitting in one corner, her head back, her mouth open to gulp for air. She felt rather than saw Forrester opposite her, watching patiently. “How? . . I don’t understand how …” She shook her head slowly, waiting for the gray fog of confusion to sweep itself away.

  “I was on, shall we say, business. I overheard one rather unsavory character talking about a gentlewoman he had taken down to the ships, and had left when his part was done. I was curious. And around here, my dear Miss Bowsmith, a gentlewoman, someone such as yourself, does not go unnoticed.”

  She kept silent for a moment, not trusting herself to speak. That she was grateful for his timely interference was what Agatha would have called a crowning understatement; yet this was the same man who had beaten her once before and had delivered threats to a house of mourning. It was a paradox. But she was alive. And since the moment, at least for now, was more important than the past, she allowed him a smile, and was startled to see him smile in return.

  “You are wondering why,” he said then, bracing himself as the carriage turned a corner sharply. “No, don’t bother to talk. Though I’ve never been in the same situation myself, I can understand how you feel.”

  Cass pressed deeper into the corner, frowning, wondering at the solicitude and the slight wry humor in his words.

  “Well, the answer,” he said, “is simple. When we met earlier, I was on business. Now I am on my own time, and I do not take kindly to anyone who mishandles anyone else, man or woman, when the odds are not to my satisfaction.”

  “I can take care of myself,” she said.

  “Oh, I saw that, Miss Bowsmith. I saw how well you took care of yourself.”

  Once more she kept her silence. Gerald Forrester was a decidedly strange man, one who was unequivocally her enemy; and yet he had rescued her from the all-too predictable consequences of an unthinking, foolish act. And as her mind drifted back to the room, the smells, the foul touch of those men—the woods, the lanterns, the sly grins, Josh, Cal, Bobbie while the South was dying—she felt the muscles of her legs ache into mild cramps, her spine run with icy perspiration. Her teeth began to chatter as she scolded herself for allowing weakness to overcome her, but she did not protest when Forrester shifted to sit beside her, draped his arm over her shoulder, and rocked her gently. He said nothing. The city outside was tombstone-quiet. And Eric was still missing. He had left her without a word, and she did not want to believe it had been deliberate.

  She knew she hadn’t fainted, but she was surprised when next she permitted herself a look at the world, to find herself seated in front of a fire with a glass of brandy in her hands. She was home, and she looked up quickly to see Forrester on the divan opposite her, his legs crossed, his hands loosely folded on his knee. He was, she saw, not an unattractive man. His features were delicate, made more so by the faint webbing of lines that creased the edges of his eyes and the corners of his mouth. His hair was dark and tinged with specks of gray, and his cheeks were shadowed by the need of a razor.

  Again she saw the room at The Tide, the smells, the— “Oh, my God,” she whispered, and drained the glass quickly, the fire slithering to her stomach to quench the acid that still roiled there, threatening to fill her mouth. She sat back, unprotesting when he poured her another, and a third when the second followed as swiftly as the first. Her headache eased and she drew her breath slowly. The room became warm and she wished, for a moment, that Forrester would leave so she could take off her clothes and lie down. Your enemy, she told herself; but she would not dismiss him. Her gaze kept shifting to the windows, thinking that those men would soon recover their courage and fire it with anger, would easily enough follow the route of the carriage and—

  “Mr. Forrester,” she said, “why does Geoffrey hate me?”

  “I don’t know that he does, really,” the man said, his voice surprisingly clouded with a tone of sympathy.

  “We met—well, where we met is of no consequence, Miss Bowsmith. Suffice it to say we met. And shortly afterward, he described to me what had happened to him, both on the field at Gettysburg and at your farm. I think the battle, though I’m no expert, did most of the damage.”

  And she remembered, suddenly, Geoffrey lying in her brother’s room, the way he spoke, the look on his face, and she had thought then that something had happened to change him, the carnage infecting him as venomously as any disease.

  “He spent several days trapped in that cellar, I believe,” Forrester continued, “in total darkness, befriended and supported only by rats and insects. I can imagine his feelings when he heard your neighbors digging away nearby, finding the body of your mother and going no farther. They had no reason to continue the search since they did not know of Captain Hawkins’s presence. And he was weak, too weak and overcome by the heat and the smoke and the lack of food and water to call out. So he was trapped. And in being trapped, I think—” He shrugged and placed a forefinger knowingly to his temple. “He is a very single-minded person, Miss Bowsmith. Very single-minded. He believes that you kept him down there deliberately, as you well know, and he is bound to take his revenge.”

  Cass sipped at her brandy, trying to rein in her thoughts. It was horrid. She had to talk to him, to tell him—that she loved him still? No. She did not think so, but she felt a wave of tears course into her eyes when she imagined him as young David had described him. Blinded. One hand gone. And the way he had been—gentle, handsome, loving … oh, God, how he could love her!

  “And you,” she said in a flush of anger, “knowing what you do, and the way … he is … I don’t understand it. I don’t know how you could work for him.”

  His smile was tolerant, almost condescending. Cass quickly refilled he
r glass, knowing what she was doing to herself and knowing, too, that this way, this once, she could handle things no other way. It was better to numb herself, to hide now until she could sort matters out—Geoffrey, Eric, and now this curious man who seemed so gentle, and so cold. Her vision blurred and she passed a hand over her eyes, felt it become weighted and drop heavily into her lap. Slowly, she lowered her glass to the table between them and, in leaning forward, was acutely aware that Forrester had done the same.

  “I have a profession, Miss Bowsmith,” he said. “New Orleans, St. Louis, New York, wherever someone needs my services. And has the money to back it up.”

  “But Geoffrey was in the army! He had no funds, nothing to speak of.”

  “You didn’t know him very well, Miss Bowsmith. His commission was purchased by his father, who enjoys digging holes in the ground in Pennsylvania and watching black gold surge to the top. Do not underestimate him, no matter how his mind works. He can buy and sell half the people in this city.”

  “You must be very lonely,” she said, and was startled by the sudden cloud that sped across his face, so quickly that she was almost convinced she had imagined it.

  “It is, as I said, my employment. I’m not a farmer, Miss Bowsmith, nor a tracker nor a hunter. I stay away from things, like this incredible war, that do not suit me. The highest bidder, my dear lady, is what attracts me the most.”

  He rose stiffly and held out his hand. She took it, blinking rapidly to clear the fog that had begun to blur her vision again. The floor swayed. She heard him murmuring, felt herself nod and was led to the foyer, to the stairs and up. He remained behind her, one hand lightly at the small of her back to keep her from falling. An idiot, that’s what she was, drinking too much and accepting humiliating favors from a man in the employ of a man she had once loved. What she wanted was sleep, the thankful oblivion of darkness, to allow herself an opportunity to gather herself together again. At the landing she turned, a crooked smile on her face, and she gave him her hand. He bowed over it, his lips barely brushing her knuckles.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his tone amused.

  “I … am,” she said with a quick nod, and immediately regretted it. The fog thickened, the floor’s swaying increased and she felt herself pitching forward until strong hands gripped her waist and her feet became suddenly weightless. Startled, she looked about her wildly, realized that Forrester was taking her into the bedroom. She wanted to struggle, but her limbs, her mind, even her voice would not obey her. And when he set her down, she looked up to thank him, saw nothing but the thin line of his lips that hovered near her own.

  He kissed her, lightly, his hands slowly kneading her shoulders.

  Instantly, she thrust him away, reached out blindly and caught one of the bedposts, clinging to it grimly. It was insane, and she shook her head to clear her thoughts; the man was … a thought, then, at the back of her mind: take him and he will be bound to you, Cass, however tenuously. The relationship will not be the same. Her stomach lurched at the notion, and she waved it away with an impatient gesture, freezing when her fingers swept across flesh. She thought, he’ll think I’ve tried to slap him. She winced, and tried to duck her head, expecting retaliation. When there was none, however, she chanced a look at him and gasped. His coat had been placed carefully over the back of the vanity chair, his waistcoat and shirt on top of that. It was his chest she had touched, the hard muscles of his stomach.

  “I wasn’t raped once,” she said, aware that her words were slightly slurred. “I won’t be … no, that doesn’t make sense.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you, Miss Bowsmith,” Forrester said. He was standing by the door, almost as she had seen him back in the tavern; a light from outside shone dimly through the window and gave him added height, added breadth. His eyes vanished into pools of black, his smile was starkly white. He took a long stride forward and his fingers clasped around her left arm, drew her to him and encircled her. She set her palms to his chest and pushed. He did not move. She refused to lift her face and he contented himself patiently with kisses to her hair, her brow.

  “Leave me alone,” she said. “For God’s sake—”

  “For your sake, Miss Bowsmith.”

  It was the brandy, she thought; it had robbed her of all the strength she’d had. It had to be. Otherwise, how could she possibly consider—

  His fingers splayed over her back, pressing her close to him. Her breasts met his chest, flattened, ached pleasantly. Not at all like the animal pawing she had received in the tavern. And the smell of him—masculine, without the colognes and lavender water so many men used these days to mask the fact that they had not yet been caught in the French habit of continual bathing. Yet she would still not lift her face, instead closed her eyes tightly and fought against the dizziness that made her breath short. A breeze. A coolness. He had unfastened the ties at the back of her dress and the room’s air brushed over her spine. Her shoulders.

  Her arms dropped, heavy again, and the dress slipped from them, the underskirt and pinnings following, while he murmured, and touched her with the tips of his fingers.

  Eric.

  Her eyes snapped open. For all the fine words she had run through her mind, the lurking suspicion that Eric had betrayed her continued to haunt her; and look at you now, she demanded of herself, look at you, damn it!

  “Get … away,” she muttered, pushing at air, stumbling back from Forrester’s reach. “Get out of my house.” She shivered, her flesh reacting to its exposure to the cool air. Immediately, she crossed her arms over her chest, shaking her head weakly as Forrester smiled. He was naked now, and she could do nothing but stare into his eyes lest she be drawn to the power he had. “Out,” she said, and clenched her hands into fists as he approached her, ran a finger down the length of one arm, up again and across the tops of her breasts. “Leave me … alone.” The finger drew itself under her chin, up, over, traced the outline of her mouth and fell away to her cheek, her ear, burrowed into her hair.

  Her throat became dry.

  Kick him, she ordered herself; but her legs would not move.

  His lips touched her brow again, moved down over the bridge of her nose to her lips and clung there. Patiently. Waiting. While she groaned in frustration at the stupidity of her drinking; and knowing that she could not blame all of this on the brandy. It was him; it was Forrester, working on her primal emotions with a cool detachment that fascinated and repelled her. Her lips moved. She knew she was not made of wood. Her teeth opened to admit his probing tongue. He was a man. A serpent of a man who entrapped her with his gaze and rendered her helpless, and there was no sense in struggling or the cold side of him that conducted his “business” would lash out and hurt her. Destroy her. Murder her.

  She dropped her arms and his lips moved to her breasts while his hands slid down her sides to hold her waist. She tilted her head back against the wall and felt a quivering begin that traveled from her weakened knees to the muscles of her stomach. A spark grew, born of the liquor and the touch of his tongue, grew and flared and she felt herself grow hot, grow cold, felt the press of the coverlet against her back. as he moved her from the wall and laid her on the bed.

  She opened her eyes once, and saw him smiling, and would have cried out if the fire had not engulfed her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cass did not awaken until just before noon; and when she did, her eyes flashed open, her hand reached out to the bed beside her—she was alone, and the house was quiet. The press of his lips, the explosions within her. She wanted suddenly to weep—not for the aching that lurked beneath her skull nor for the sand that seemed embedded in her mouth—but for what she had done, what she had allowed to be done to her. She felt sullied, raped as surely as if those men at The Tide had done the deed themselves. She spat dryly and flung aside the sheet and coverlet, groaned loudly and padded over to the basin on a small walnut table beside the dresser. Slowly, one hand to her forehead, she poured cold water f
rom the flowered porcelain pitcher and dipped a cloth into it, sponging herself as best she could, the tears finally breaking their hold on her eyes and spilling down over her cheeks as she washed.

  My God, she thought; what have I done?

  She moved sideways to stand in front of the vanity mirror. Her reflection showed no marks from Forrester’s lovemaking, only those bruises and scratches she had received at the tavern. There was nothing to show her what had happened; it was as though he had never been. She was cold. No better than a drunken whore, she told herself; like a bitch in heat, a mongrel who can’t think of anything more than rutting. The farm is where you belong, Cassandra Bowsmith, with the rest of the animals.

  She dressed slowly—in a dark blue garment edged at the neck and bodice in pearly gray lace, its high neck almost a penance—and moved downstairs to the kitchen where she forced herself to eat a light breakfast despite the protestations of a rebellious stomach.

  And as she ate she scolded herself, rationalized, then realized that what had been done had been done, and she would be wasting valuable time attempting to pardon a besotted sin. Forrester would no doubt believe he’d mastered her; let him, then. For all the perverse twists of her downward plunging luck, this particular event could well turn out to be a double-edged sword. One she might be able to use to her advantage.

  In the meantime there was still Eric.

  She recoiled instantly from the notion that he might be dead, or that he had betrayed her with another woman. There was an explanation—there had to be—and to believe anything else would mean she’d nothing to live for, no need to continue.

  No. She was wrong. It could not be. If her entire life depended upon Eric Martingale, and he was either gone or had betrayed her … no! She could not yet prove betrayal. There were other things, too: Lambert, Bobbie, Cal, Josh. She added a fifth to the list—Gerald Forrester. Hadn’t she told the Briton she wouldn’t rest until she’d exacted payment for the destruction of her family, her way of life? That, she reminded herself angrily, was the fight she was engaged in, not a struggle to lash Martingale to her side. There had to be priorities, then, though not necessarily what she would have them be. Cass, she told herself, her eyes narrowing in self-accusation, you’re slipping again. Are you so damned conceited that you can’t consider the possibility he might have changed his mind altogether—that he had paid the good captain to lie to you, that he did in fact sail?