“You are so lovely,” he breathed as his hand found her buttock and squeezed.
Quinn managed to wedge her hands between herself and the man, pushing him away. She knew he’d make a play for her, but she hadn’t expected it to happen that quickly. Most people took a little time to gauge their prospects and allow the sexual tension to build before making their move. Robert Chatham clearly didn’t play by those rules. He just assumed that Quinn was game, and didn’t seem like the type of man to take no for an answer. Given what he’d done to Sylvia, she should have expected that, no matter how many years had passed. Once a predator, always a predator.
“I need a moment,” she whispered and fled toward the loo the second his hold on her slackened. Quinn rushed to the bathroom and locked the door behind her. Her breathing was ragged, and she found that she was shaking as she leaned against the cool tiles of the wall. Robert Chatham was big and strong, and aggressive. She had miscalculated. There would be no flirting over a glass of wine or an opportunity to say no. He meant to get down to business as soon as she emerged from the bathroom, so she had to take what she could and get out before the situation got out of hand.
Quinn looked around the bathroom. It was spotless. There was nothing out of place, not a hair on the sink or the floor, or a used tissue in the rubbish bin. The room must have been cleaned after Chatham showered that morning, the cleaner taking away anything that might prove useful. Quinn found Chatham’s razor and turned it over. The blade appeared to be brand new, not a single bit of stubble stuck behind it. She looked around in dismay. There had to be something she could use. Not even his dressing gown, which hung on a hook behind the door, had any hair on it.
Quinn grabbed the rubbish bin and looked inside. It was empty, but on the very bottom, stuck to the trash bag, was a used plaster. She pulled a pair of tweezers out of her bag and carefully removed the plaster. It had a bit of dried blood and several hair follicles stuck to it. Robert Chatham must have nicked himself while shaving, which would explain the new razor. He must have disposed of the old one. Quinn bagged the plaster and hid the evidence in her bag before taking a deep breath and exiting the bathroom. She had to get out of this room, and fast.
“I am sorry, but I must go,” Quinn said, smiling apologetically. “Duty calls.”
“And what duty might that be?” Robert asked, smiling at her like a cat who was about to devour the canary.
“My husband is expecting me,” Quinn lied.
“Is that so? You weren’t in too much of a rush before.”
“I quite forgot,” Quinn said, shrugging in a nonchalant manner.
“Forgot you have a husband, or that he’s expecting you? I would hate for a woman to forget about me,” he drawled, moving closer to Quinn until she was forced to take a step backward.
“No woman would dare forget about you,” Quinn replied inching slowly toward the door.
“No, she wouldn’t. And neither will you, if I have anything to say about it.”
Quinn gasped as Robert Chatham pushed her roughly against the wall and kissed her hard, pinning her with his body and making it impossible to escape. His tongue invaded her mouth just as his hand invaded her body. He slid his hand up her skirt, pushing his fingers against the silk crotch of her knickers and rubbing urgently to arouse her. Quinn tried to press her legs together, but Chatham wedged his thigh between her own, preventing her from doing anything to stop him.
Quinn tried to break the kiss, but he grabbed her head with his free hand to keep her in place, kissing her hungrily. She felt as if she were being devoured. Chatham’s erection pressed into her pelvis, making her cringe with disgust. She had to get away, and there was only one way she could do so now. Quinn gathered all her strength and pushed him away. His eyes were glazed with desire, and his trousers bulged, his intentions clear. He blocked the door, leering at her.
“Aren’t you the little cock-tease?” he said, advancing toward her again.
“Will Samsung remain in business with you if you’re accused of assault?” she spat out. “It wouldn’t be the first time for you, would it?”
That had the desired effect. Her words hit Robert Chatham like a bucket of cold water. He yanked open the door and held it open. “Get out, you bitch. I will destroy you if you say a word against me. You hear?”
Quinn didn’t bother to answer. She rushed out of the room and toward the lift, which thankfully came very quickly. Quinn rested her forehead against the cold metal wall of the lift. Her legs shook, and her breath came hard and fast as her brain finally accepted how close she’d come to getting hurt. She’d led him on, that was true, but that didn’t give him the right to force himself on her if she said no.
Quinn let out a shaky laugh. He’d done it before, when he was hardly more than a boy, and he’d likely done it since. Few women reported an assault, especially when their story could be torn apart by a clever lawyer, as hers would be if she filed a complaint, had Chatham actually managed to rape her. She would be made to look like a total slag; a woman who flirted with a man, went up to his room, and allowed him to touch her and kiss her before suddenly changing her mind and calling the man’s amorous advances an assault. No one would believe her, as no one believed the countless women who’d been raped and were told that it was all their fault and they had it coming. Quinn suddenly understood why Sylvia, being only seventeen, never filed a report. Bringing her attackers to justice wouldn’t undo what had been done, but she’d have been dragged through the mud, probed, examined, and humiliated, and that’s even before the trial began. Quinn managed to calm herself by the time the lift reached the lobby. She collected her coat, settled into a taxi, and closed her eyes, grateful beyond words to be going home to Gabe.
Chapter 21
The room was dark when Quinn let herself in. Gabe must have fallen asleep, which was just as well, since she was in no mood to discuss the night’s events. She kicked off her shoes, then took off the dress and threw it on a chair. She didn’t think she’d want to wear it ever again. It felt tainted, stained with deceit and shame. Perhaps she’d give it to Jill and ask her to sell it in her vintage clothing shop. Someone else might enjoy it, not knowing its brief, but unpleasant history. Quinn pulled on Gabe’s t-shirt and inhaled its comforting smell. It smelled of Gabe’s aftershave and his own unique scent and felt warm and soft against her skin. Gabe’s arm instantly encircled her when she climbed into bed, his lips brushing her temple in the darkness.
“Go back to sleep,” Quinn said, but Gabe was suddenly wide awake, his eyes blazing with anger as he rolled her onto her back and loomed above her, his face bone-white in the moonlight streaming through the net curtains.
“What’s the matter?” Quinn asked, alarmed. She instinctively pressed her hands against Gabe’s chest to push him off, realizing that this was the second time that night that she felt physically threatened by a man, and hating the feeling of helplessness. She knew Gabe wouldn’t hurt her, but there was something in his eyes that scared her nonetheless.
“You reek of another man,” Gabe spat out. Quinn could see the fury building within him. He was jealous.
“Stop carrying on like some primal Alpha Male,” Quinn retorted. “Chatham tried to kiss me. I pushed him away.”
“Really?” Gabe growled as he pulled down the t-shirt and lowered his head to her breasts. Quinn felt a twinge of panic, realizing that Chatham’s aftershave lingered on her skin. He’d been all over her, and she was as tainted as the dress she longed to be rid of.
Gabe looked up at her. His expression was one of incredulity and shock. Quinn opened her mouth to say something, but the pain in his eyes shut her up. He didn’t believe her. Quinn knew she should be angry, but she could hardly blame him. The physical evidence spoke for itself.
“Gabe, nothing happened. I couldn’t get a sample from him at the party, so I went up to his room to see if I could find something in the bathroom. He tried to get it on, but I pushed him off and left before things could get out of
hand.”
“And he just allowed you to walk away?” Gabe asked. His eyes were narrowed in speculation. He doubted her explanation, and with good reason.
“Not exactly. I had to threaten him,” Quinn confessed.
“With what?” Gabe spat out.
“With the truth. I implied that I knew what he’d done to Sylvia, and that it wouldn’t go well for him if I leveled an accusation of assault against him. I threatened to expose him in front of his business associates.”
Gabe looked stunned. He got out of bed, pulled on his jeans, shirt, and shoes and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him. Quinn felt as if he’d slammed the door in her face. She hadn’t betrayed him in any way. She explained what happened. Why was he so angry? Quinn threw off the blanket and stormed into the bathroom. She needed to wash the stink of Robert Chatham off her body. She hoped the hot shower would help her calm down and get to sleep. She just wanted this day to end.
Two hours later, Quinn was still wide awake and alone. She’d hoped that Gabe would go outside, walk until his anger cooled, and come back feeling penitent, but Gabe hadn’t returned. She’d called him, but his mobile began to vibrate on the bedside table, rendering him unreachable. Quinn turned on the bedside lamp and padded over to the closet. Gabe’s keys were still in his coat pocket, so he couldn’t have gone far, not on foot, and not without a coat.
“It’s two in the morning, Gabe. Where are you?” Quinn moaned miserably as she attempted to beat her pillow into submission. “Come back.”
Quinn reached over to the nightstand and took Petra’s cross out of the plastic bag. Perhaps focusing on someone else’s troubles would make her own seem less significant. It was a callous thought, but Quinn was past caring.
Chapter 22
February 1347
Dunwich, Suffolk
Petra nearly dropped the bowl of buttered peas when she heard the sound of the iron knocker. She took a deep breath, set the bowl on the table, and nodded to Nan to go and open the door. She thought she could do this, but suddenly, her knees turned to jelly, and she felt as if she were breathing, but the air wasn’t quite reaching her lungs.
Get a hold of yourself, Petra thought savagely as she smoothed down her skirts and checked that her headdress was on straight. She walked out of the kitchen, looking as serene as she could manage while her heart hammered painfully in her chest. She tried to focus on trivial domestic tasks to distract herself from her impending meeting with Avery. The vile smell had been aired out, the meal was nearly ready, and Lady Blythe was asleep, having somewhat recovered from her bilious attack. Petra had swept away the old rushes and replaced them with new, sweet-smelling ones at the last minute. She hoped that her employer would not reprimand her for being wasteful, since the old rushes might have lasted another fortnight or so, but the scent of sweet flag mixed with herbs was pleasant and comforting.
Father Avery was in the parlor, his back to her as he warmed his hands by the fire. His shoulders were slightly stooped, and he looked thinner than the last time Petra had seen him. Her heart contracted with affection for him, and she felt a tell-tale blush creeping up her cheeks despite all her efforts at remaining aloof.
“Good day to you, Father,” Petra said. Her voice shook, but Father Avery didn’t seem to notice. He whirled about at the sound of her voice and stared, open-mouthed, for just a moment before composing himself. He seemed to recognize her, but Petra couldn’t be sure.
“Good day. I was invited by Lady Blythe. Are you her companion?” he asked as he drew closer. Petra was about to reply when she heard Nan coming up behind her and reconsidered her answer. Nan was a good girl, but fond of idle gossip and lurid tales. It was best to pretend that Petra and Avery had never met, at least until later.
“Yes, Father. Mistress Ordell is the name,” Petra replied, bowing respectfully to the priest. “I’m afraid Lady Blythe has been taken ill, but she bid me to welcome you and join you for dinner.”
“I do hope it’s nothing serious,” Father Avery said, looking concerned.
“A bilious attack. She’s on the mend, but still weak. Won’t you join me in the dining hall?” Petra asked, giving Nan a stern look. The girl was too nosy for her own good. She should have been in the kitchen, instead she was standing behind Petra, gawking at Father Avery like a love-stricken tavern wench.
Father Avery followed Petra into the room, which was dominated by a long, wooden table made of dark wood. Twenty hardback chairs stood at attention, waiting to receive guests, but only two places were set. There was a time when Lady Blythe’s husband held lavish dinners for his friends and associates, but it’d been a long while since the dining hall had been used for its original purpose. Petra and Father Avery took their seats and made polite small-talk while Nan set food on the table and departed with a modest curtsy.
Petra kept her head bowed while Father Avery said grace, but her thoughts were not on God’s bounty. Thankfully, Avery was brief and to the point. Petra waited until he finished, then poured him a cup of ale. Avery nodded thanks and took a sip, his long fingers holding the cup gracefully. She’d forgotten what beautiful hands he had. Avery opened his mouth to say something, but Nan bustled in again, bringing the pie and setting it on the table. The heavenly aroma filled the air, and Petra suddenly realized that despite her nervousness she was hungry.
“That looks wonderful,” Avery said as she helped himself to a slice. “The monks at Greyfriars don’t dine on such fine fare. It’s all boiled mutton and stewed fish. I must admit that I crave a bit of variety from time to time. One gets spoiled in Oxford,” he added with a small smile. Avery glanced at the door, and satisfied that Nan seemed to be nowhere in sight, turned his gaze to Petra.
“Petra, how wonderful it is to see you,” he said, his voice low and silky. “I heard you’ve been widowed. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Don’t be. My husband was a brute, who’d sooner hit than talk,” Petra replied honestly. Looking at Avery’s beloved face, she couldn’t bring herself to speak to him as she would to a priest. The years melted away, erasing Avery’s clerical robes and filling in the tonsure, the young man she’d known sitting across from her.
“Why did you marry him?” Avery asked gently.
“Because I didn’t have much choice. Time was of the essence,” Petra replied meaningfully, watching as Avery’s eyes widened in understanding. She hadn’t meant to tell him so abruptly, but she couldn’t keep this from him. She might never get another chance to speak to him privately, and he needed to know that he had a son. It was a sin for a man of God to have a child, but Avery had fathered Edwin before he went off to the seminary, so perhaps it wasn’t quite as bad.
“Tell me,” he begged, his composure shattered.
“We have a son. His name is Edwin. He’s nearly twelve.”
“A son,” Avery whispered, his eyes misting over. “Please, tell me about him.”
“He is a lovely boy, Avery; good and kind. He’s been a great help to me since Cyril died.”
“Did your husband know?” Avery asked. “Is that why he abused you?”
“No, he believed Edwin was his, but he was never kind or loving to him. He berated him cruelly and beat him often.”
Avery shook his head in disgust. “I’m so sorry that you both had to endure that. I would have never left you had I known,” he breathed. “I loved you so much, Petra. Not a day went by at the seminary that I didn’t think of you and prayed that you were well. I had no idea,” he said, shaking his head. “My father wrote to me and told me that you married. I was pleased for you, but heartbroken that you had forgotten me so quickly.”
“Forgotten you?” Petra echoed. “You thought I loved my husband?” she asked. She hadn’t meant to sound bitter, but she couldn’t keep the derision out of her voice. How naïve men were sometimes, how blind. She’d suffered for twelve years because she’d given herself to a young man she loved, and all this time he thought that she’d been enjoying a marriage where she
was cared for and treated kindly. She supposed he had no reason to believe otherwise, but how could he think that she’d cut him from her heart so completely? Hadn’t he known how she adored him?
“Can I offer you another slice of pie?” Petra asked, needing the momentary diversion to compose herself. What was the use of talking about the past? What was done, was done. Cyril was safely in his grave and couldn’t hurt her or Edwin anymore, but there were other pressing concerns which needed to be addressed, and this was as good a time as any.
“Avery, I need to ask something of you, and this might be my only chance,” Petra whispered, glancing at the door. Nan could come back at any moment. They had no need of her, but she was too nosey to stay away for long.
“Please ask,” Avery invited. “I will do anything I can to help you.”
“Edwin is a fine boy. He’s smart and capable, but he has an affliction. He’s had fits since he was hardly more than a babe. I think they’re brought on by fear and anxiety, but sometimes they happen for no reason.”
Avery stilled and looked at Petra with concern. “Does anyone know? Has anyone outside the family witnessed these fits?”
“I’ve managed to keep it a secret thus far, but Edwin is getting older. He needs a way to support himself, Avery. He needs to learn a trade.”
Avery nodded, acknowledging the truth of this. “Do you require funds for an apprenticeship?”
“I haven’t had him apprenticed for fear that he will hurt himself or others and bring the wrath of his master upon him, or worse, the attention of the Church. You of all people know what that could mean. I had something else in mind.”
“Such as?” Avery asked. He’d stopped eating, the food getting cold on his plate as he grappled with his feelings.
The Forgotten (Echoes from the Past Book 2) Page 11