Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  "He's what now—ten?"

  The vicar nodded. “He'll be eleven come December."

  "Well, he's young yet, Elliot. He could change directions half a dozen times before he's grown."

  "I don't think he will, though, Colin. You can tell me what you think when he comes home for the summer. He misses you, you know. You can expect a visit the minute he arrives."

  Colin sighed. The last thing he wanted to think about then was Ted Marshall paying a visit at Cragmoor.

  The trap was tearing over the highway and the dust had begun to rise around them like a gloomy fog. Colin arched his brow and glowered, covering a cough with his hand. “Christ, man, are you trying to choke me to death?” he wheezed. “For Christ's sake slow down, will you?"

  "That's a flaw coming,” the vicar shouted over the noise of the horse's hoofs and the moaning of the wind. “I'm trying to get you home without a soaking."

  Colin continued to cough helplessly. “To what bloody purpose if I've stopped breathing? Damn you, Elliot, I think you're enjoying this."

  The vicar laughed again. “Your humor is just as foul as the weather. What's caused it this time?"

  "Christ, I was on my way to the White Stag Inn when this blasted storm came up."

  "Afoot?” cried the vicar. “Colin, that inn is halfway to the village."

  "Afoot. I know how far it is."

  "Has something happened to Exchequer?"

  "No,” said Colin, setting an impatient jaw, “I can think better afoot. What the devil does it matter? If I choose to walk, I shall walk. Jesus."

  "Is something wrong at the house?"

  "Christ, Elliot, will you let me alone? Can't a man walk his own land without an inquest?"

  "Take an ease,” cried the vicar. “I don't know you like this. You shut me out at every pass. Don't try and deny it, you aren't even civil anymore—you haven't been since the Bradshaw thing. I knew you'd do this the minute you found out I had health problems. Don't you realize that when you keep me in the dark I imagine the worst? What do you suppose that's doing to my heart—or don't you care? That aside, just look at yourself—you can't relax. You're as tight as a drum and if you don't loosen up a bit soon something's going to snap."

  "Something's going to snap, all right,” shouted Colin over the howling wind, “and it's going to be my bloody spine if you don't slow this goddamn trap down."

  They had nearly reached the hill that crawled up to Cragmoor from the south approach, and the vicar reined in slowing Ely's pace. He sighed. “Colin, you are the most ungrateful wretch I have ever known. Why are you doing this to us?"

  "I don't know what in hell you're talking about, Elliot."

  "Yes, you do."

  Colin loosed an angry growl. “I've got a lot on my mind of late,” he said. “I'm not fit company for anyone these days."

  "I could help you if you'd let me. It's Malcolm, isn't it? What's wrong? For the love of mercy, why won't you tell me?"

  Colin hadn't heard him. His attention was focused on the cliff, where Malcolm stood talking with Elspeth. His eyes narrowed watching the dark youth close beside her, and his jaw stiffened, throbbing a steady rhythm. He watched the sharp gusts billow the girl's skirt, moving it like a scudding gray cloud sweeping the tall grass. Her long flaxen hair streamed out behind her in a filmy curtain obscuring her graceful young body, but not from him. The image of what lay beneath that gossamer veil was permanently etched on his memory.

  The vicar had turned into the drive. Overhead the heavens opened and hail began to pelt the trap as it rolled to a creaking halt before the stable. As the first icy pellets came down, Elspeth turned and ran toward the house. And Colin's eyes followed her until she'd slipped around the corner of the servants’ wing and disappeared.

  The vicar studied his frown. “Colin?” he murmured. “You haven't heard one word I've said have you? What's wrong?"

  Colin's eyes flashed toward him looking confusion. “What?” he snapped.

  "Nothing. Never mind,” said the vicar, edging Ely through the stable doors out of the hail and driving rain. Looking up he, too, caught sight of Malcolm on the cliff. Colin's eyes were trained in the direction of the servants’ wing again and the vicar's hand on his arm recaptured his attention. “Look there, Colin,” he said, pointing to the dark youth pacing excitedly on the edge of the cliff. “What is he doing out there in this?"

  "How the devil should I know? The bastard feeds upon dirty weather. Christ knows there's enough of it."

  "But—look at him, Colin!"

  "To hell with him. With a little luck the bloody cliff will give there and he'll topple over the edge and break his bloody neck."

  "I told you one day he was going to grow up, Colin. That there—it's frightening!"

  "To you perhaps, but I'm not afraid of him, Elliot. I am going to kill him you know—I'm going to have to."

  "You're serious aren't you? My God, you actually mean that. You can't, and you know it."

  Colin ground out a straight-lipped chuckle. “Don't waste your pains worrying over me,” he said, crooking his thumb in the direction of the cliff. “If you want to take on a challenge, try saving that soul there, why don't you?"

  "I don't believe he has a soul. Just look at that! Why, it's . . . it's . . ."

  "'Obscene’ is the word you're groping for, Elliot,” Colin interrupted him, climbing down from the trap. “At the very least we might pray for pneumonia."

  The vicar didn't seem to hear him, and he brought the flat of his palm down hard on the side of the trap turning his attention with a start. “Are you coming inside, or do you plan to stay out here and keep him company?” he wondered.

  Elliot began to climb down, handing the reins to Harris, who had come forward from the back of the stable to greet him. While he waited, Colin stepped under the stable roof. Hail grazed him bouncing off the overhang, and his sharp eyes narrowed straining through it toward the cliff.

  Malcolm's white face was tilted upward into a shower of hailstones driving hard out of the southwest wind. The slate-colored sky bore down on the sea beneath. It had become impossible to define the place where one met the other. Mesmerized, Malcolm continued to pace, passion driving his long, sturdy legs, and he didn't even notice their presence.

  "We'll have to make a run for it. This isn't showing signs of stopping any time soon,” said the vicar, turning Colin's attention with a lurch again. Elliot gave a start himself. “My God, you're awfully jumpy today,” he breathed.

  "Don't pick at me, Elliot—don't probe."

  The vicar wasted no more words. Taking the initiative, he sprinted off toward the house. After a moment Colin gave an exasperated grunt and followed after him.

  There was no relief from the fury of the storm inside, however. The sound of the wind and the ocean's heavy breathing moaned through the cold, damp corridors, and the hail tapped nervously on the glass ceiling in the conservatory and spat against the lower panes of the walls as it bounced off the ground, making a furious din. The fire had died in the hearth, and Colin chucked several logs into the grate and kindled them with rough hands.

  "He didn't even see us out there,” murmured the vicar still aghast from what he'd seen. “How long has this sort of thing been going on?"

  "I told you about this years ago, Elliot. He's been having some kind of salacious affair with the elements since he could crawl out there, snake that he is. Let him. If he's of a mind to kill himself and save me the trouble, I certainly won't stand in his way.” He strolled to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy.

  The vicar scowled. “You can't be serious?"

  Colin spun toward him. His cold eyes were deadly. “Trust me, Elliot—the last thing you want me to be right now is serious."

  He downed the liquor in angry gulps and poured himself another. Looking on, the vicar started to speak, hesitated a moment, and began again, his voice becoming soft. “This constant talk of killing frightens me,” he said. “Tell me something?"

&nbs
p; "What?” snapped Colin guardedly.

  "Do you believe in God, Colin? Oh, I know you curse Him—and deny His existence, but . . ."

  "Ohhhhh, no, you aren't going to draw me into a theological debate, my friend. Save all that drivel for the poor devils that plod to church on Sunday. Don't waste your breath upon me."

  "You do don't you?” the vicar realized. “You do and you're even afraid to trust yourself to that!"

  Colin flushed more liquor down and smiled, the liquor glistening on his lips in the fire glow. “I'll tell you what I believe in, Elliot,” he said, “there's a ripe little wench at the White Stag Inn. She has hair like polished copper, and her breasts are the color of fresh cream; they have the feel of satin about them. Her waist is so slender that if I hold my fingers—so, they fit around it perfectly, and she smells of citrus and heather. She's waiting for me there this very minute—like a bitch in heat, and but for you and this wretched hail, I'd be lying there in her arms right now."

  The vicar turned away, and Colin slapped his glass down on the table. “But as it is,” he continued, “I've got to try and scrub this blasted mud off me and settle for Megan or Kathleen, who, so I'm told, have both taken a fancy to Malcolm."

  Elliot spun toward him mouth agape.

  "Yes, my friend, Malcolm,” Colin pronounced, answering the look in the vicar's eyes as part of the conversation. “Now how are you going to help me with that, Elliot, eh? It's enough to prompt a man to cut off his member outright. But I have a much better solution in mind. You wanted my confidence? Well, that's all you'll have today. For the life of me, I can't see how my sharing it is going to benefit your heart, but then I expect you know best. Go home, Elliot."

  * * * *

  At dusk, once the table had been set for dinner and the maids were occupied in the kitchen helping Cook prepare it for serving, Malcolm entered the dining hall and sauntered toward the carver's chair, a wine bottle dangling from his hand. A bottle of Burgundy already stood beside Colin's place at the table. Smiling his half smile, Malcolm deftly exchanged it for the one he'd brought, and slipped away unseen.

  Half an hour later he lay naked on his bed watching the door in anticipation. After a time it opened without a sound, and his cold eyes narrowed upon Elspeth slipping inside on hesitant feet. His familiar stare undressed her through the frock and long fall of flaxen hair that hid her delicate young curves, and he licked his lips in anticipation.

  Sight of him reclining so casually there naked had drained her color. Her lips quivered, and the hand that closed the door behind her came away sticky and damp.

  "Well?” purred the half smiling mouth. “Come on, then. You were anxious enough a while ago. Do you not find me handsome?"

  Looking toward his milky skin overspread with coarse dark hair, Elspeth began to quake with chills.

  Laughing, Malcolm raised himself with a sinuous motion. He strolled toward the door, slapped the bolt shut, and pulled her toward him roughly. His crooked fingers unfastened her dress and stripped it away, meanwhile plucking familiarly at the soft, quivering body beneath her undergarments as he removed them as well.

  Reclaiming the gauzy frock, she tried to cover herself with it, but his quick hand tossed it well out of her reach. “What is it, love?” he crooned. “You weren't ashamed to bare yourself before Uncle, yet you shrink from me. Why is that—I'm curious?"

  "I . . . I'm frightened of it!” Elspeth groaned through hopelessly trembling lips.

  Malcolm laughed again. “He wouldn't have you would he, little virgin? I know your game—and his—far better than either of you do. But no matter, his stupidity and your childish fantasies are my gain. Shall we have it done, then?"

  Scooping her up in careless arms, he carried her to the bed and seized her in a smothering embrace. Frantically she struggled against the anxious body bearing down upon her so ferociously, but she couldn't escape it.

  "'Tis cold!” she screamed, as Malcolm thrust his hardness between the legs he'd forced apart and held her down until it tore her. She screamed again as he penetrated her cruelly, but his hand clamped over her mouth cut it short.

  "Be still,” he spat, close in her ear. “Uncle's only drugged, not dead. You've got what you wanted. Now I shall have mine!"

  But Elspeth didn't hear. She lay sobbing—barely conscious in his arms while he devoured her innocence and fed upon her body like a carrion bird, until dawn. Helpless against his strength and the motive that fueled his frenzy, of which she wasn't even aware, she lay brutally used and wracked with pain, until at last he rolled off her and flung her to the floor. Anxious for sleep, having slaked his lust, the dark youth hissed and coiled like a snake, turning away in a gesture of dismissal.

  Crawling over the cold, damp floorboards, Elspeth collected her frock and underthings and slipped them on over her savaged flesh. Drained weak and shivering with fright and shock, she crept out into the corridor without making a sound and stole to the servants’ wing below, but no one saw. Sobbing softly, she crept along the hallway gulping the musty air in spastic breaths, but no one heard. Only the bleak gray dawn cast wakeful eyes upon her horror and her shame.

  * * * *

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  Chapter Twenty-six

  * * * *

  Elspeth stayed close to her chamber for several weeks after her rendezvous with Malcolm, in mortal terror that he would want her to share his bed again. She feigned a spring chill complete with bogus cough and complaints of sour stomach, eager to swallow Amy's foul-tasting nostrums in exchange for safety within the confines of her neat little cell cater-corner from the kitchen.

  One night after dinner during the last week in May, she was startled by a commotion in the corridor outside. Frightened by the noise, she opened her door a crack and peered through. Across the hall she could see Harris’ animated shape standing in the kitchen arch with Amy. The lamplight showed her his anger. He was waving wild arms in the air as he spoke, spreading the musky stable smell that clung about him, and paying no mind to Amy's pleas that he lower his voice, or risk waking the entire household.

  "Christ,” barked the stabler, “I have to tell the master. Jesus, woman, are you deaf? The bastard's took Exchequer. I seen him goin’ over the south road at a deadly clip when I come back from havin’ my dinner just now. No wonder he never come in for his—he was waitin’ outa the way so's he could make off with that horse. He's gone to the village more'n likely. The last time he pulled that off he took Vulcan—that was bad enough, but Exchequer! Jesus Christ, the master'll kill him for fair and strip my bloody hide clean off my back when he hears the bastard's come within a mile of his precious horse."

  "I hear you, I hear you,” snapped Amy, “but you'll tell naught ta the master t'night. I went up ta ask him when he'd be wantin’ his dinner, since he never come down for it, and he's sound asleep up there—bloody, blind drunk in his bed, he is—and has been since tea, mind you. You can talk all night ta the likes o’ that and get no answers, and you know it."

  Harris sighed. Lifting his cap, he scratched his head, deliberating. “I dunno'—I dunno’ what to do with it."

  "There's nothin’ you can do,” said Amy, “not ‘til mornin'. You know what he's like when he gets like this. We're all better off waitin’ ‘til he sobers up before givin’ him this kind o’ news I'm tellin’ you."

  The stabler gave a reluctant nod. “Aye, ‘tis best, I suppose,” he said. “I've no fondness for havin’ it out with him on a full stomach, neither, if you want the truth of it. Let's just pray the young devil brings that horse back all-of-a-piece. If he don't there's goin’ to be some kinda’ hell to pay over it here in the mornin'."

  "Go on inta the servants’ hall,” soothed Amy. “Cook and me was just fixin’ ta have a spot o’ tea. I'll fetch you a pint o’ ale."

  "Aye,” said Harris, shaking his grizzled head, “I'll take you up on that, Amy. We'd best all have a snort with what's doubtless comin'."

  Elspeth closed her door without a sou
nd. Listening with her ear pressed close to it, she heard the stabler's heavy footfalls pass her chamber. Her father had joined him, anxious to take advantage of the offered ale. She knew that once he'd had a pint or two he'd take himself off to his own chamber at the far end of the hall and sleep soundly until dawn. Scarcely breathing, she leaned there waiting until she heard Cook and Amy shuffle past gossiping over this latest development. Once the servants’ hall door closed behind them, she cracked her own door again and leaned her flaxen head into the corridor, scanning it cautiously. It was deserted. Confident they would all be closeted there in the servants’ hall late into the night, she slipped out into the damp stillness and closed her door without a sound.

  Running on feet that scarcely touched the floor, she flew through the gallery and up the stairs to Colin's chamber. She knocked lightly, but there was no answer. After a moment she knocked again, but still no answer came. Turning the knob with a trembling hand, she found the door unlocked and crept inside closing it behind her.

  The room was in darkness. She could hear Colin's tremulous breathing reverberating in the stale air, and she followed the sound to where he lay sleeping in the brass bed, an empty brandy bottle on the nightstand beside him. The moon had begun to cast its rays through the terrace doors now and then, when the dense cloud cover allowed it. In the stingy light it spared her, she could see the deep rise and fall of his naked breast against the bed sheet. She stole closer, opened her nightgown, and let it fall to the floor. Then lifting the sheet she lay down in the bed beside him, resting her head on his chest.

  Colin stirred, pulling her closer in his arms without waking. She didn't close her eyes, but lay pressed against his warm body, cradled gently in the powerful arms that bound her to him, her heart pounding wildly against his own. And there she waited, listening to the heavy sounds of his breathing, intoxicated by the scent of spice drifting from his moist skin.