HOLY POISON: Boxed Set: The Complete Series 1-6

by Margaret Brazear

  She was a pretty little thing, dark auburn hair falling to her waist, big velvet brown eyes which could stab at him when she was angry. He found himself smiling at the recollection and quickly pushed the thought away, concentrated on drifting off to sleep, but her elfin like face followed him into his dreams.

  Antonia awoke after a restless night when she heard the key turn in the lock. She had not slept well, her mind was too full of plans and ideas, ways she could escape and run away. She made a mental list of all her own jewellery which she hoped to sell and her guardian had kept a secret supply of coins in a cupboard which was little used. She wondered if the Viscount had discovered it yet, if he knew about it since he was the man's son, although nobody would suspect it from the way he was behaving.

  She sat up in the bed and narrowed her eyes at the door as she watched the door knob turn, watched the door slowly open, bringing forth Frederick with a tray of bread and cheese for her breakfast, and some milk which she always preferred in the mornings.

  "Mistress," he greeted her. "Viscount Robert asked me to bring your breakfast. He also told me to lock you in after and I wanted you to know that I do so unwillingly."

  "I know that, Frederick," she replied with a smile. "There is no need to explain. I suppose I should be thankful he is still willing to feed me."

  Frederick laid the tray down on the table beside the bed and looked at her thoughtfully for a moment; he made no attempt to leave. This old servant had been like a fond uncle to Antonia since she arrived at Roxham Hall. The old Earl had practically ignored her and she would have mourned the loss of her parents alone were it not for Frederick. He was the one who had soothed her tears, assured her that her mother and father were in heaven with the Lord, as the Protestant church taught, not some mythical purgatory to atone for unnamed sins.

  His words on the subject had been the ones to really convert her to Protestant beliefs, and although her guardian was a secret Catholic, he did not care enough about her to contradict or even to notice.

  Now she thought perhaps Frederick no longer thought himself a servant, at least not where she was concerned, and was about to take his elevated position just a little too far. She was right.

  "Was there something else?" She asked.

  "Forgive me," he said. "It is not my place to interfere, but I could not help but overhear your argument last night with His Lordship. I have to wonder if you realise how harsh the world is for a woman alone. You should marry him, if that is the only way to secure your future."

  Antonia stared at the servant, her mouth half open.

  "You are right, Frederick," she said. "It is not your place. Thank you."

  When he had gone she thought about his words and it occurred to her that if she managed to escape and leave the Hall, she would be in his position in some wealthy household, knowing her place, afraid to speak out of turn. She shuddered at the idea, then shuddered again at the alternative.

  When she finished eating she lay back down in the bed for a moment, watching the snow falling outside and quite pleased she would not after all be going out in it. She was still tired, having got very little sleep last night, and she dozed until she heard the key turning in the lock once more. She pushed herself up in the bed, but this time the visitor was not so welcome.

  "May I come in?" Robert asked.

  "For what purpose?"

  He turned and locked the door, put the key in his pocket and walked slowly toward the bed. She was wearing only her shift and she pulled the fur covers up over her shoulders.

  "I have come to apologise," he said as he reached the bed and stood gazing down at her. "I was angry and I took it out on you. Will you forgive me?"

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously but she nodded.

  "I suppose so," she replied. "Does this mean you are going to let me out of this chamber?"

  "That is entirely up to you," he said. "We are to be married. Give me your word that you accept that and will not try to leave, and I will consider it."

  She pushed herself up in the bed, and gave him that harsh stare, the memory of which had so intrigued him as he lie in his bed last night, trying to sleep.

  "Sorry, My Lord," she retorted, "you will not have my word on that. I have no intention of marrying you and you can keep me locked up here till doomsday, I will never change my mind. You are arrogant, conceited and self important, and I have a strong suspicion you need me far more than I need you."

  She watched his face flush with anger and, perversely, felt pleased about it.

  "Do you have no sense of duty, Mistress?" He demanded. "My father took you in when you had nothing. I presume he clothed and fed you, kept a roof over your head. You depended on him and now my inheritance, my birthright depends on you, although it gives me no pleasure to admit it. I am very sorry I did not take the trouble to flatter you, to swell your vanity, but you are right. I need you and I intend to have you, one way or another."

  She folded her arms and glared at him defiantly.

  "You go on and arrange the wedding, My Lord," she said obstinately. "When we get to the church, I will tell the priest I am being forced to wed against my will. He will not marry us if I do not consent; that is the law."

  He felt his patience leaving him, his anger rising. beginning to consume him. All his adult life he had anticipated his future as Earl of Roxham, as Lord of this manor and now it was being snatched away by this obstinate child who would not simply accept what was best for her. It was intolerable!

  "You will be happy then to spend your life as little more than a servant?" He asked through gritted teeth. "You will never marry, never have a family of your own. That suits you does it?"

  That aspect had not occurred to her before yet what he said was true. She might marry, but with no dowry and no sponsor, it would be a poor match. She might end as a farmer's wife, or maybe the wife of the local blacksmith, but she could find someone, hopefully someone with more respect for her than this man had.

  "I may meet someone," she replied. "Who knows? I am not too hideous and I am a virgin of good birth. Someone might think me worthy of their attention."

  She knew at once she had said too much. His mouth turned down, his cheeks flushed, his jaw clenched furiously and he leaned over her and pulled the covers off, exposing her body in its thin, silk shift. She made a grab for them, but he was too quick and he caught the covers and held on to them while he stared down at her threateningly. She felt a little shiver of fear at his murderous expression.

  "Virgin are you?" He shouted. "Well, at least I can do something about that."

  Her eyes widened fearfully. His intention was clear and it terrified her. It was bad enough contemplating the marriage bed with this man, but what he proposed was an abomination. She tried to roll over, to squirm away, but he grabbed her arm roughly and threw her onto her back.

  He climbed onto the bed and sat astride her, his weight heavy on her hips so she could not move. She bunched her small hands into fists and punched his chest as hard as she could, but it was completely ineffectual and he only laughed, enjoying her helplessness. He ignored her punches as though they were nothing harsher than a fly landing on his chest.

  He gripped the neck of her shift and ripped it, exposing her breasts to his gaze, humiliating her as his eyes wandered over them. She screamed and crossed her arms to cover herself, but he gripped both her wrists in his strong hands and held on to them, held them away from her body and took in every detail of those still budding breasts. She squirmed and turned her face away, feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  "Let's see what manner of man will want you when I am finished with you!" He yelled.

  His face was crimson with rage now and she felt her own helplessness, knew she was about to suffer a violent attack and could do nothing to prevent it. Screaming for help would be a futile use of her breath and her strength. From this chamber, so far away from the rest of the house, no one would hear her.

  She would not beg; that was not her way
and she doubted it would stop him anyway, so pointless to humiliate herself. She could make it harder for him, though; she tried to struggle, but his weight on the lower half of her body kept her pinned firmly to the mattress. He moved one of her wrists to join the other, held them both in his huge hand. Despite her efforts to keep hold of her dignity, she began to sob and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, hoped it would not hurt, knew it would, knew it would be the most painful and humiliating experience of her life.

  And she felt bereft. The precious gift her mother taught her was special, for her to give freely and willingly to the man she would love, was now to be torn away from her in the most painful manner.

  But she had not given in yet and as he lifted himself to push up her shift, she managed to free one leg and kick out at him, aiming for the one place that would not be ineffectual. She heard the breath leaving him as her foot sank sharply into his genitals. His cry of pain pleased her but at the same time filled her with terror, for that was when he raised his hand to strike her.

  She flinched in fear, and let out an involuntary and pitiful cry of “please”.

  He closed his hand and stopped; it was as though her reaction had frightened him and she saw that fear in his eyes before he closed them for a few seconds as he took a deep breath.

  "No," he murmured. "I am not my father."

  He released his grip on her wrists and leaned toward her but she flinched away again. He raised both hands in a gesture of surrender then reached out and gently drew together the tattered halves of her shift. He climbed off and sat on the edge of the bed for a few moments. She could not avoid noticing the red blotches on his cheeks, nor the way his eyes dropped to his knees. He was ashamed, and she was glad he was ashamed.

  "Forgive me," he said in a voice that shook. "That was inexcusable and no way to begin a marriage."

  She did not argue, only stared up at him fearfully, watched as he fought to calm his temper and said a quick, silent prayer of thanks for her lucky escape.

  "Will you go now," she murmured. "Please."

  He sent for the dressmaker, despite his earlier words. She was to be his bride, his countess, and as such she should be well dressed and adorned for their wedding, whether she liked it or not. He would choose the fabrics himself if he had to and hold her down while the seamstress took her measurements.

  He would make quite sure she went through with the marriage, even if it meant bribing the priest, as he had no choice in the matter. She did have a choice and while he intended to find some way to deprive her of that choice, he found the fact of it both galling and fascinating at the same time. He had been raised to believe all females to be inferior, needing the protection and guidance of the male to survive and now he found himself having to admit that he could not survive without her, without a child he hardly knew. For child she was, just fifteen years old, but with more courage and solid character than all the fine ladies he had ever known. He smiled at the notion, then forced it away. It was not an admission in which to find amusement, yet he found himself giving way to that little smile every time he thought of her.

  He wished he had kept his temper, but his temper was a part of him and she would have to learn to live with it. That did not excuse his threat, though, did it? He was half way to carrying out that threat, as well, when her harrowing entreaty dragged him back to a time when he would hear that plea from the bedchamber next door. His memory showed him a frightened little boy, trying desperately to comfort his mother, trying to kiss away her bruises.

  What he had threatened her with was both savage and obscene, not something he would ever tolerate should another man do it, so why? What was it about this pixie faced little girl that made him so angry, while making him laugh at the same time? He could never imagine threatening Camilla with such a thing, or of losing his temper with her, yet she surely deserved such treatment more than Antonia did.

  Antonia allowed herself to be measured by the seamstress for her wedding clothes. Frederick unlocked the door and showed the woman into her bedchamber prison, followed by a maid of about twelve years old who brought with her many samples of pale blue material, no other colours. Antonia would have chosen scarlet, made Viscount Robert think that perhaps his bride was not so pure after all, but she would never fool him now, not after her display of terror at his hands.

  She stood on a low stool and pointed indifferently at a heavy brocade fabric, then stood staring at the snow which continued to fall outside the window. Perhaps it would be so deep they would be trapped in the house and unable to get to the village church for their wedding. The idea brought a little hope, but at the same time she was grateful to be inside in the warm and not out there getting soaked and begging for work like any peasant.

  She said nothing, only listened to the excited babble of the seamstress, who was making so much fuss one would have thought it was her wedding.

  "You have chosen well, Mistress," the woman was saying. "You will look enchanting in this fabric, simply enchanting. His Lordship will not be able to resist you, you will see."

  Antonia merely stared at her. She was not sure she wanted to be irresistible to His Lordship; the memory of their last intimate encounter was too raw.

  "There is no need to be frightened," the seamstress was saying. "Every bride is nervous on her wedding night, but you will soon discover it is all natural and part of life."

  She raised her eyes from measuring Antonia's hemline to be met with one of those stabbing stares which had so intrigued Viscount Robert. She said no more, but at last she finished, gathered up her materials and her measurements, called to her little maid and left, promising the gown would be ready in plenty of time for the wedding. As if Antonia cared. She was still wondering how she was going to escape.

  As the woman left, Robert entered. She stared at him from where she still stood on the stool, which lifted her up high enough for the seamstress to take her measurements. She made no move to get down and he strode toward her and held out his hand to help her. She did not want to take it, but she did. She could not afford to stumble and fall and look foolish before him, so it was best to take the offered help, unwelcome though it was.

  Once she had two feet on the floor, he did not release her hand but kept hold of it and for some reason it felt good, comforting and warm. Their eyes met for a few seconds before she pulled her hand away and went to sit in the chair beside the window, where she picked up the book she had been reading and tried to give it her full attention.

  "Antonia," he began, moving no closer but folding his arms and standing straight, like her father used to when about to give one of his well known lectures. "I know this is hard for you as well as me, but I would rather we went into this venture with at least a modicum of civility. We do not know each other, we have had no chance to know each other and I would like to change that."

  She closed her book and put it down on the table beside her, looked up at him and felt a sharp stab of resentment which showed in her eyes.

  "And you think threatening me with rape and violence is a good way to go about it, do you?" She demanded.

  His eyes closed for a few seconds and he took a deep breath.

  "I already apologised for that, and I am truly sorry. It is not how I usually behave, I promise. I have been very angry about this Will of my father's, very suspicious as well."

  "Suspicious?" She replied. "You really thought I had arranged this with your father? You really believe I am that desperate?"

  He crossed the room and sat down in the chair beside her, while she watched him warily, ready to run should this prove to be some devious scheme to win her consent to the marriage. When she refused, he would no doubt lose that volatile temper again.

  "Not now, no," he said. "I did believe it, but now I am quite convinced that you would rather go and get work teaching some brats of the nobility than be married to me."

  "I would," she replied without hesitation.

  He felt that involuntary smile again and wondered why he fo
und her so amusing. She was forcing him to laugh at himself and that was not something he had any experience of. All the women he had ever known had flattered and flirted with him, had inflated his ego, while this one had no intention of speaking other than the truth.

  "Such a blow to my vanity," he said, still smiling. "But one I will have to suffer."

  She was surprised to see his smile of amusement. It had not been her intention to make him laugh, rather to make him think twice about forcing this marriage on her.

  "What is so funny, My Lord?" She asked.

  "You. I suspected you and I intended to dislike you, but I find myself admiring you."

  He got to his feet and walked toward the door, while she watched him go, that smile of amusement still twitching about his mouth, and waited to hear the key turn in the lock. It did not happen and she thought about taking the chance to gather some things together and leave. He had forgotten to lock the door; it might be the only chance she had. But she glanced at the window and saw the snow falling even thicker than before and thought about what he had said.

  He was trying to make friendly advances, so perhaps a marriage to him would not be so bad after all. And he was right that she owed something to him or at least to his father. If only he had not already shown her his temper and obduracy, she might have been more amenable to accepting her fate.

  She watched the snowflakes and saw in them the blue brocade, the cloth of silver, imagined staying in this house which she had come to love, living in it, being mistress of it, being secure and warm and comfortable and in a position to do something for the peasants when they needed it. Then she imagined walking about in the thickening snow, knocking on the doors of the great houses, correct and formal servants looking down at her as she begged for work. Gradually, the prospect of Viscount Robert did not seem so intolerable after all, especially if he kept up with his amicable persona.