by Jackie Ivie
“All right. You’ve had your fun, Miss.”
He probably fortified himself with another swallow for another look at her face. She waited until he was finished before pushing the veil aside and turning to him again.
“I’m sorry, Lord Tremayne, but I’m no miss. I’m your wife, you lucky man, you.”
He flinched at hearing her use Helen’s voice.
“Stop saying that and stop using her voice! I hate it when she uses it, damn it!”
“She uses it, damn it!” Brandy parroted him perfectly and almost enjoyed the flush that rose up his neck.
“You’re not my wife, and I’ve tired of looking at you. You’re getting off at the nearest posting house.”
“For shame, Lord Tremayne. Tsk. Tsk. Sending your wife straight to the gossips in less than twelve hours. Helen may never live it down.”
“You admit you’re not Helen!” He pointed an accusing finger at her, and she pointed right back.
“Not Helen!” She used his voice that time, making him blanch.
“What in God’s name are you?”
She almost giggled, but that would cause her ribs to join the agony parading within her. As it was, she was taking small breaths to save herself more pain. Damn that mutton-chopped fool of a guard at the sanatorium! He didn’t have to hurt her so badly. He could have repaid her in kind for the slap she’d given him, but no, he’d had to fling her against the wall hard enough to break fragile bones.
Brandy sighed softly. What was she still lamenting for? The guard, Regis, had done his filthy deed three weeks earlier. She’d had plenty of time to live with, and accept, the pain. “I already told you,” she said. “I’m...your wife.”
“Blast it all, I heard the vows! I married Helen Margaret Bingham in front of three hundred bloody witnesses! You, Madame, are a complete loon!”
“A complete loon,” she agreed.
“Well...obviously Helen can get you to do something other than repeat everything. If anything, you’ve met the girl.”
“Met the girl.” She nodded.
He leaned toward her, and she froze, sending numbness to every part of her he could reach. That was the only way she could withstand a blow from one like him. She could do it, although she was already in pain, and he was one of the largest men she ever saw. She’d done it for years, for the same reason. She owed Sherry that much.
When he parted the veil and pushed it from her head, Brandy looked away. She didn’t know what it meant, but she didn’t want any kindness, and she didn’t want to see his reaction, either.
“Good God. I really do believe you’re from the sanatorium.”
“The sanatorium,” she mimicked.
“You’re very good at that, you know,” he replied.
Brandy glanced at him. He was smiling! If she detested anything, it was that. The act slipped and with it the numbness.
“What...do you...want to know?” she whispered, spacing her words through the agony.
His smile widened and she had to look away, catching a glimpse of herself in the carriage window. The sight almost made her cry out. Hair stuck up and out everywhere, and it looked to be a filthy gray color and matted in clumps. She looked worse than a banshee - more like a nightmare come to life.
“Did you escape?” he asked, in a gentle tone.
“Yes.”
“That was brave of you.”
Rivulets of shivers raced her limbs, unpleasantly reminding her of emotions that didn’t belong to her. Brandy swallowed to make them back down.
“Brave? No. It...was cowardly,” she replied, finally.
“Why do you insist you’re my wife?” he asked. “You must know it’s not legal.”
“Oh, but it is, My Lord. I’m Helen’s cousin, Helene Marguerite Bingham, which...as you know...is the French form of—”
“Helen Margaret.”
He finished it for her. She tried to nod but all that happened was the creature in the window shuddered with it.
“How did...? Why did Helen get you? And why in the blazes did you agree?”
The pitiful creature reflected in the window tried to lift its shoulders to shrug in reply, but Brandy’s eyes narrowed at the attempt. The pain was so bad, there wasn’t much time left before she might toss up what dinner Helen had given her.
“Why did I...agree? I don’t rightly know. I—I was having such a wonderful time at the sanatorium. I was...truly.” She wheezed the words, and the creature dribbled down its face as she did. “Then, what do you know, but I’m visited by my dearest, beloved...long-lost...cousin....”
“Don’t bother finishing. I see you find my predicament amusing. I’d ask you to keep it to yourself, but that appears to be too much to ask a creature from the bowels of hell, at present.”
“Thank you, kind sir, for the compliment.”
Her attempt at sarcasm ended in a wheeze as a spasm hit her neck, sending agony worse than any fire through her entire left side. She curled her fist against it, and pushed her feet into the bottom of Helen’s borrowed boots to be able to live through it without giving a clue. She cursed Regis once again for not just back-handing her, like all the other times.
“How much do you want?” Gil asked without one inflection in his voice.
“Why—why would I want...anything?” She watched the disgusting reflection dribble more bloody spittle onto the lace confection that was Helen’s wedding gown.
“How much?” He was speaking through clenched teeth if the tone was any indication.
“A...guinea would be nice.” Her voice shook, causing her to lose her light tone. Damn him, she thought. Damn all men with their ceaseless tormenting.
“A guinea? Jesus, Woman! I’m not talking the time of day here. I’m asking how much you want to get the hell out of my life!”
Oh, he’s a fine one, he is, she thought, full of his own pomp and circumstance. She longed to laugh in his face, if her body would cooperate long enough. It would serve him right to be saddled with a banshee for life. If he was stupid enough to fall for Helen Bingham’s lies, it would be Brandy’s pleasure to make him miserable in her stead.
She gathered a shallow breath, so she could get all the words out. “Why, Gil, you naughty, naughty boy. I’d never even consider such a thing.”
He probably didn’t understand all the words, because they were filled with the shuddering she couldn’t control, but he caught the main part of them.
“Cease your laughter, and face me, you devil-spawned woman! I’ve had a horrendous day, and I’m not taking any more of your God-forsaken company!”
She let his words settle around her as if she had a say in the matter, but she felt faintness closing in, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Dots claimed the ugly image still staring from vacant eyes at her through the glass. She hadn’t had a mirror or even window glass to see for herself in her cell, and damn, but it had been cold in the winter. Actually, it had felt cold every day she’d been there.
“...I’ll take you right back to the Bingham’s. That’s what I’m going to do. That will certainly solve—”
“Ten pounds!” Brandy ignored the pain wracking every pore of her body to turn and face him, pulling the lazy side of her body with her right one. She watched him flinch at the motion. She didn’t care that he saw. He was threatening her with going back to Gerard, and it was because of Gerard that she’d just spent thirteen months in that hell-hole. “Ten pounds, Guv! You set me anywhere...with ten pounds, and I swear you’ll never see Brandy....”
Why does he have to look so blasted handsome? she wondered. Even with an expression of mixed disgust and disbelief on those features, he’s stunning. She longed to curse God for making that her last conscious thought.
“Ready a bed in the servant’s hall, Thompson,” Gil said, “and be quick about it.”
He picked Helene from the floor of the carriage, knowing now he’d need to have everything she touched cleaned and bleached. The chit weighed exactly six stone,
if he was any judge, and Gil liked to think he was.
Eighty pounds, give or take, and yet she filled out Helen’s wedding gown as if it were made for her.
“And call for Mrs. Wright and her maids,” he added. “I’m going to need their help. Damn it, anyway. I’ve been cursed more than any man alive.”
Helene whimpered as he lay her on one of the iron-edged beds in the third story wing. Although everyone always referred to this as Grandmama’s hunting cottage, it was a misnomer. The place was nearly the size of Tremayne Hall. The stupid girl had used him to gain her freedom, and while he couldn’t entirely fault her for that, he would certainly make her pay—then, maybe, he’d give her the ten pounds.
CHAPTER THREE
“Oh,God!”
Brandy tried to roll onto her back, immediately aware of the danger, but found her limbs pinned again. That cursed Regis had his revenge already, hadn’t he? What further torment might the bastard be planning for her? Throbs of returning feeling made her long to moan, and she bit her tongue until it bled to silence the cries. She wasn’t giving away one thing that would alert anyone to anything.
“Awake finally? Lord, what a heavy sleeper you are.”
She couldn’t turn her head to see him, not from the position in which she was tied, so she sighed into the pillow. “Very heavy,” she whispered.
“That can be changed, too, can’t it, my dear?”
Where the blazes is he? And why must he talk in such an iron-hard whisper? Brandy thought she’d heard every male whisper in the world, but this man’s sent chills down her spine.
“Speaking of changes...I, for one, am tired of that ridiculous wedding gown, and all it stands for. Perhaps you’ll agree, my love, when I mention a peculiar odor about that dress?”
Brandy’s lips twisted. He must be referring to Madelaine’s perfume. It must’ve worn off, and she wasn’t tied down. Her fingers found no rope. So, instead of answering, she gritted her teeth and flung herself over.
Cor, but he seemed to have every lamp at his disposal lit around her bed. The light hurt almost as much as her shoulder. No, that was a stupid comparison. Nothing could hurt this badly and not be the death of someone. She didn’t let any of her thoughts show on her face. Brandy never let anyone see her suffering. When she and Sherry had nothing more than a one-bed room called a crib in Paris, the only thing that kept all the others from falling on one of them like a pack of wolves, was the ability to hide weakness.
How well she must have learned it! She watched the Lord of Tremayne’s face grimace as he looked at her, but there was no pity on that handsome face.
“I’m having a bath prepared, Helene,” he informed her.
“Helene—”
“I’m not listening to any more of your stupid acting, my dear. Pray don’t strain my patience with it.”
“My...name is Brandy.” She choked out the words, wishing she could choke him instead. Of all the people she had fooled over the years, why did it have to be Helen Bingham’s intended that saw through her?
“Brandy? Helene.... Yes, l believe l see the connection. It’s obvious. They rhyme.”
She giggled and instantly regretted it. Pain coursed her entire body. She found breathing was available only in gasps. Tears filled her eyes, and she banished them, concentrating on one of the lamps as the tears slowly abated, unshed.
“How do you do that? It’s truly an interesting feat.”
She didn’t like the sly tone behind his question and would have stiffened, except it felt as if every part of her was already in that state. “How do I do what?” she whispered.
“Mrs. Wright has seen to having a big bath prepared. I’d very much like it if you’d avail yourself of the opportunity.”
“Never,” she hissed. Cleanliness meant—. She wouldn’t think about it.
“I don’t like forcing recalcitrant females to bathe. Let me rephrase that. I don’t like forcing females to do anything, Brandy. Brandy...hmm...I rather like the name.”
Despite her best efforts, she flinched, showing she listened.
“However, I will force you to bathe the fleas, lice, and assorted vermin from yourself before we spend another moment together. You may appreciate the company, but I won’t have my home overrun by such. And if you think I’m an ogre, wait until I introduce you to Mrs. Wright.”
She choked on her reply, and even that hurt.
“No crass words of reply? No acting? No mimicking? Thank the fates. I wouldn’t have hesitated turning you over to the Bingham Manor and the lap of your loving family if that were the case.”
She tried to gather breath for her banshee wail, but her shoulder, neck, and damn it, even her face hurt too much for the effort. It was just as well. He had the upper hand. And she’d given it to him. She’d been stupid, naive, and foolish to reveal her fear of Gerard, but she couldn’t fault him for using it. She would have, too.
“No fight? This is much easier than I expected, but you don’t fight fair, do you, Brandy, love?”
Tears filled her eyes again, brought on by the pain. They certainly didn’t come from the way he leaned toward her, then pulled away as if repelled. She was grateful for his reaction. She wanted it that way. She calmly watched the wall and silently counted, as her tears dried again. She’d learned how to do it so long in the past, it was reflex. No tears. Ever.
“Mrs. Wright will help you with your bath.”
“No help,” she croaked, wheezing with stifling the moan.
“If our wedding is legal, you’re the lady of the manor now, Brandy. As such, Mrs. Wright’s place is to serve. Besides, you couldn’t possibly get that dress off by yourself, anyway, now could you?”
“No...help!”
She whistled the words through the working side of her jaw, but knew she was losing. She didn’t have the strength to fight off Mrs. Wright or any other henchmen Gil might use.
“I look forward to your company, my dear. That is, when my eyes don’t water by being in it.”
He chuckled at his joke. Brandy didn’t bother to bristle. She wanted it that way, because it kept her safe, alone, and unmolested. Now, he intended to change it?
She was going to have to pay him back for that, too.
“See here, Madame, well have you up and about in—” A new female voice broke off suddenly. “Good Lord! What’s that stench?*
Mrs. Wright had a goodly face, probably the kindest one Brandy had seen in years. It made her eye sting with unshed tears again as the woman held her nose and leaned over her.
“Just...get the damned dress undone...and get out!”
Brandy put every ounce of anger she had in her command. She still sounded like an alley kitten. The effort of talking caused sweat droplets at her hairline. She had to let the emotion go. She was going to have to conserve what little strength she had. She wasn’t up to fighting Gil or Mrs. Wright. She’d just have to admit it, live through it, and survive.
“If you’ll roll over, Madame, I’ll see what I can do,” Mrs. Wright replied. “Will that suit you well enough?”
Brandy nodded and then did it. God alone knew what that cost her. The bedstead was rattling beneath her when she finished. She felt the woman’s fingers deftly undoing the hooks Helen’s maidservant had fastened, while Brandy wondered how she’d get it all off.
“You’ve...you’ve got on a mountain of gowns. It’s going to take me a spell, Madame,” Mrs. Wright said. “Forgive me. I’m afraid I’ll have to go get the salts, after all.”
Brandy listened to the woman’s retching through her words and tried to find her ready, banshee smile as Mrs. Wright stumbled away, probably looking for the nearest chamber pot. Brandy told herself she didn’t care. She had the privacy she craved and a hot bath waiting. God help her, but she knew it would feel wonderful, too.
***
“My Lord? A word?”
Gil looked up from the fire. “Witherspoon, isn’t it? Give me your word and go, Man.”
“It’s not mine, ac
tually, My Lord, and I’d never presume to disturb your lordship—”
“Get on with it, Man!”
Gil watched the butler stiffen. He hadn’t meant to be so rough with the fellow, but he was still reeling from the aftermath of his wedding and knowing that creature shared his name. No amount of brandy snifters seemed to cure the situation, either.
“It isn’t Mr. Witherspoon that wishes a word, My Lord, it’s me,” a woman said.
“Why, Mrs. Wright. I should’ve known.” Gil lifted his feet down from the footstool and prepared to stand. “I suppose I’ve no choice but to attend her. And here I thought I had her cowed enough.”
“Cowed? Oh, no, Your Lordship! Begging Your Lordship’s pardon, but the poor puss has—. She has—. Oh, Lord, but I’ve never seen the like!”
Gil and the butler watched in amazement as Mrs. Wright dabbed her eyes with her apron and took a deep breath. “That poor child hasn’t a speck of flesh that hasn’t been whipped, beaten, or burned, Your Lordship, and I—. The good Lord help me, but I couldn’t even stay and help the poor mite bathe. I’ll need more help, My Lord. I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Wright ended her speech by breaking into sobs. Gil, who’d never seen such abandonment by the housekeeper, looked to Witherspoon for assistance. He got a surprised expression that probably matched his. It was probably his fault. He should’ve prepared Mrs. Wright for what she was about to see. Of course the chit had marks on her. She probably deserved them. Sanatoriums weren’t known for being luxurious, soft environments. What Mrs. Wright had observed was probably a combination of Brandy’s acting ability, combined with an inherent talent for gathering smells and filth about her.
“Handle Mrs. Wright, will you, Witherspoon?”
Gil’s mouth tipped a bit as Witherspoon looked at him as if he’d just been asked to manage Buckingham Palace. Gil forced down emotion as he walked toward the servant’s quarters. He told himself he wasn’t angry,
Yet.
***
“Mama, give me strength. Please, give me strength.”
Brandy managed to push the dress from her by using her working arm, cursing out the rest of her body. While she was at it, she damned that Madelaine, too, for fastening so many damn nightgowns about her. Brandy hadn’t cared that they were Madelaine’s. They might not be fine lawn, but the cotton was far softer than her rags and that horrible straitjacket.