Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  Just before daybreak he stirred again, and she felt the gentle caress of his hands, fondling. Slowly he moaned awake, still dazed from the brandy. In the dim light, his eyes focused on the smooth surface of her oval face and the shower of white-gold hair entwined about his arms, and he gave a start. “Elspeth . . .? What are you doing, child?” he breathed, shaking his head in a desperate attempt to shed the last veils of his stuporous sleep.

  "'Tis all right, sir,” she murmured, “'tis all right now. I'm not a virgin anymore."

  "O . . . oh, Jesus,” moaned Colin

  "Please, sir,” the girl begged. “Please have me!"

  Colin looked into the bottomless hazel eyes that devoured him wondering if she was real or just another dream come coaxed by the brandy to torment him?

  "'Tis all right—truly, sir,” she persisted.

  The mingled scent of primrose and honeysuckle rose in his nostrils and he was undone. Murmuring her name, he pulled her into a tender embrace. The soft pressure of her body so close against his own unraveled what reason he'd mustered, and he found her lips with a trembling mouth. Spellbound, he gathered her slender frame closer and took her eagerly, with a passion that left him weak in her arms.

  Still bewildered afterward, he lay caressing her tenderly, but the quiet murmur of her sobs sobered him and his muscles tightened against her. Tilting her wet face toward him, he brushed back her flaxen waves and searched the brimming eyes beneath.

  "Elspeth? What is it? Have I hurt you, child?” he murmured.

  "Oh, no, sir,” she sobbed, “you was so gentle and good ta me. Just like I knew you'd be. It wasn't like it was with Master Malcolm. He hurt me, sir. He hurt me so terrible bad."

  Colin paled. His lips began to tremble and his bleary eyes came open wide. “Malcolm?” he spat, springing upright. Fury drove rigid arms and he shook her. “It was Malcolm? You let Malcolm spoil you? Answer me, Elspeth."

  "Only so you'd have me, sir,” she wailed.

  "Ahhhh, my God,” he moaned, gathering her close again. “When, Elspeth? Tell me, girl?"

  "After I come ta you out on the moor. ‘Twas the same night, sir."

  "Ahhh, lass, how could you do such a thing with the bastard? Christ!"

  "'Twas only so you'd have me, sir. He hurt me so. ‘Twas dreadful. I wanted ta die with the pain of it, I did."

  Colin moaned. Leaning over the edge of the bed, he retched helplessly, spewing vomit over the floorboards. Quaking with chills bred of shock and rage, he groaned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then jumping out of the bed, he wasted no time locating his drawers, but grabbed his trousers instead and tugged them on roughly.

  "Go back to your chamber, lass,” he charged. “Go now—at once, before the rest of the house is up and about."

  "Oh, sir, don't be angry with me,” she begged him. “I never would have let him but for want of you."

  "I'm not angry with you, child,” said Colin in a voice that paralyzed her senses. He thrust her nightgown toward her. “Just do as I say—put this on and go quickly."

  In terror of him suddenly, she obeyed and fled the room sobbing.

  Colin pulled on his boots and blouse, and stalked into the hall. Taking giant strides he went to Malcolm's chamber and threw the door open with a vicious swing that drove the brass knob through the wall inside staving it in—laying the beams bare in a shower of paint and plaster. But the room was empty, and Malcolm's bed hadn't been slept in.

  Raking his hair with both hands as if to keep his brain from bursting, Colin ran back into the corridor, down the staircase, and through the gallery to the servants’ wing. Amy had just risen. She was leaning stooped over the range feeding coal to the fire she'd started in the grate, and her gray head snapped toward him as he burst into the room.

  "Where's the bastard?” he demanded, breathing hard.

  "Why, I . . . I dunno, sir,” she stammered, the coal shovel suspended in her hand.

  "Don't you dare lie to me,” he threatened. “By Christ, if you do know, woman, and you don't tell me, I'll skin you alive with my bare hands. I swear it!"

  "I . . . I haven't seen him since yesterday,” she whined.

  Colin looked her hard in the eyes. What emanated from them was deadly. “Christ!” he thundered, springing back into the corridor and out through the servants’ entrance, leaving the door flung wide behind him.

  Running over the dewy heath steeped in mist, he burst into the stable. His wild eyes flashed toward Exchequer's empty stall, and he loosed a roar that set the rest of the horses in motion. “Harris,” he bellowed.

  The stabler poked his head over the edge of the loft above, his hooded eyes still dazed with sleep.

  "Get down out of there at once!"

  Harris pulled his trousers on with his red suspenders hanging and scrambled down the loft ladder, stumbling over the bottom rung as he staggered off it in his haste.

  "Where in hell is Exchequer?” Colin thundered. “Where, man? Goddamn your soul, where's the horse?"

  "The bastard made off with him last night while I was havin’ my dinner, sir,” said Harris. “I come back up to the house to tell you, but you was asleep."

  "Christ Almighty, where did he go, Harris—where?” Colin raged, with a raised fist working. “Answer me, or by heaven I'll split that empty head of yours wide open."

  Harris set his jaw, ignoring the wild clenched fist in his face. “I dunno', sir,” he said. “I seen him go tearin’ off over the south road—'twas about seven or so."

  "Why in hell didn't you go after him, you useless dolt?"

  "Just hold on now,” barked the stabler, “there ain't nothin’ in here that'll catch that black devil stallion and you know it, sir."

  "Indeed? Well, if anything happens to that black devil stallion, it'll come out of your hide before you're sacked—you can count upon it. The bastard's already killed one of my horses. Hereafter, you're to keep Exchequer's stall locked. Am I plain?” He popped a fiendish chuckle. “No—wait, I rescind that—the bastard dies today, unless there really is a God, and He has a spare miracle to waste upon kin of the devil!"

  He started through the doors only to stop in his tracks at sight of Malcolm coming up the south road astride Exchequer. The horse shivered and snorted, bobbing his head, the sounds of his exhaustion being carried up the drive on the dawn breeze.

  Colin stepped quickly back inside the stable and flattened himself against the exposed beams behind the door. He flashed a fatal glance in the wide-eyed stabler's direction. “One bloody word of warning out of that fucking mouth of yours, Harris, and you will share in this justice—I swear it,” he promised.

  Harris’ sharp eyes trembled toward the stable doors flung wide to the morning mist as he listened to the sound of Exchequer's weary hoofs plodding closer. His heart had begun to skip its rhythm, but he held his breath and stood his ground, concentrating on the misty doorway.

  As Malcolm rode the horse in toward him, Colin loosed a savage cry and sprang, clamping one massive hand around the horse's bit, while the other grabbed the dark youth's collar. Exchequer reared, and Malcolm dove, thrusting his full weight against Colin below, driving him down on the hay-strewn floor.

  The stabler leaped out of the way as they landed at his feet in a cloud of dust, grappling with each other as they rolled over the floorboards. Colin clawed at Malcolm's blouse front until he'd ripped the cloth to tatters and torn his traveling cloak away. Then, jerking his fist back sharply, he delivered a shattering blow full in his face, drawing blood. Yanking the dark youth to his feet, he landed another blow that sent him sprawling against the end stall snapping one of the boards.

  Exchequer reared again bolting out into the mist. Shrieking, he shied and pranced, trotting well out of the way of the terminal sounds within.

  Snatching a pitchfork from the hay nearby, Malcolm lunged, catching the sleeve of Colin's blouse and some of the skin beneath. He turned and lunged again, aiming the steel prongs at Colin's middle, but Colin parri
ed with a quick sidestep that gave him the advantage, and his powerful hands arrested the weapon as Malcolm reeled past him. Locked there, they wrestled with it between them.

  Harris snatched up an axe handle from the corner and hovered, ready.

  "Stay out of this,” spat Colin, still struggling for the pitchfork. “I mean it, Harris—keep back!"

  A quick knee to the pit of Malcolm's stomach won Colin the fork and, with a wild cry on his lips, he raised his knee again, split the handle in two over it, and flung both halves high into the loft above.

  With his uncle off guard, Malcolm swung and blindsided him effectively. “Blast,” hissed Colin as the blow interfered with his balance for a moment. Enraged beyond reason he scarcely felt it. Shaking his head to clear his vision, he tackled Malcolm again. “You've spoiled your last virgin—'tis finally worth hanging for,” he snarled, driving the dark youth into the side of Exchequer's stall with a quick right fist.

  Malcolm groaned attempting to raise himself, but the sharp, deadly toe of Colin's boot thrust full-force in his groin doubled him over and he moaned, his body contorted in pain. Colin kicked him again with all the strength he could muster and fell down upon him, pounding both fists relentlessly into the swollen distortion he'd made of his face until blood ran from his split lip and oozed from his nose.

  Harris dropped the axe handle and came running. “Give it over, sir,” he cried, taking hold of Colin's arm, “he's half killed."

  "Get...away,” snarled Colin through clenched teeth, his fists splaying Malcolm's head from side to side in total aberration.

  The stabler tugged at his rock-hard shoulders with fingers that made no dent. “Stop it, sir. Christ, you're killin’ him. Stop I tell you!” he pleaded, tugging at Colin's sinewy biceps.

  "'Tis time,” thundered Colin, deranged.

  Harris scrambled for the axe handle again and lowered it hard, without hesitation, to the back of Colin's head with a fierce swing of his burly arm.

  Colin groaned, fell forward, and lay still over Malcolm's bloodied face.

  "Holy Christ!” murmured the stabler. Rolling Colin to the side, he pulled Malcolm clear.

  Fetching a bucket of water from the rear of the stable, he emptied it full in the dark youth's face and slapped his bruised cheeks. “Wake up, you heathen son of Satan,” he barked, shaking him. “Jesus Christ, I think he has killed you!” Leaning close to Malcolm's nose, he felt the damp, feeble puffs of breath coming from it and pulled back sharply. “Cold as your evil, black heart, you bloody cur,” he snarled, spitting in the dark youth's face. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “'Tis a waste of good spit, that,” he said, “and if I've hurt him bad for savin’ the likes of you, I'll finish what he started, you can count upon it."

  Malcolm groaned and drew up his knees, clawing at the pain in his groin.

  "'Tis good for you, bastard,” said Harris, staggering to his feet. “Let's hope he's made a woman of you. ‘Twould be justice, goin’ by what I've been seein’ hereabouts lately.” He kicked him hard on the side. “Get up."

  Malcolm moaned, hissing through swollen lips, and crawled toward the stable doors clutching his genitals.

  "That's right, crawl off like the bloody snake you are,” said Harris. “You'll think twice before you touch the master's horse again now, won't you? You better had, because I won't be liftin’ so much as a finger to save the bloody likes of you no more, I can promise you that."

  Malcolm hissed again slithering through the doors and out into the dense morning fog, his swollen eyes narrowed to slits on the stabler.

  Harris followed after him snatching the gelding pincers off the wall. Standing in the doorway he hitched up his trousers and finally snapped his forgotten suspenders in place. “I don't know what virgin it is you've spoiled,” he said, brandishing the pincers, “but let's just hope he's fixed your urges for you, because if he hasn't, and I get wind of anything like that again, I'll do it myself."

  But Malcolm had disappeared in the mist toward the cliff, and Harris breathed a deep sigh slapping the pincers back on their rusty nail.

  He picked up the bucket and carried it out to the well where he filled it and grabbed Exchequer's reins as he passed him grazing nearby. Taking both back into the stable, he set the bucket down next to Colin and put Exchequer in his stall. The horse needed attention, but that would have to wait. Colin needed it more.

  Swaggering back to the bucket, he lifted it aiming to pour. But he thought better of that, hesitated a moment, and set it back down again wearily, sloshing some of the water over the rim.

  "Not yet,” he decided. “Noooo, not yet. You just rest easy there, you bloody lunatic. I've no stomach for your surly tongue just yet.” He sank down on the bottom rung of the loft ladder and raked his graying hair back from a sweaty brow. “And what have I saved?” he wondered. “You'll only have at it again. But for the vicar, I'd have turned my bloody back and let the pair of you kill one another, someday—sure as I'm sittin’ here—that's how it's goin’ to have to be."

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  Chapter Twenty-seven

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  George Howard wasn't summoned to Cragmoor. Aside from a split lip, a fine assortment of bruises and splinters, and an aching lump on the back of his head raised by the stabler's axe handle, Colin had come through the death struggle relatively unscathed.

  It was quite a different story with Malcolm. Having taken the brunt of Colin's full-fledged rage, the dark youth—but for Harris’ burly arm—would have drawn his last breath on the musky stable floor. His handsome face swollen beyond recognition, he stared dazed through a concussion while he nursed the angry swelling and lacerations over his belly and groin alone on the foggy cliff where he'd crawled to lick his wounds like a dog and plot his dark vengeance.

  He lay out there all of the day and night that followed, and it wasn't until the evening of the second day when all in the house were fast asleep that he made his way back inside on steady legs. They carried him straight to Elspeth's chamber where the vengeance was begun, and the bleak gray haze of yet another day had dawned before he dragged himself upstairs and sank into the quilts of his own soft bed, exhausted.

  The vicar came that morning and had a full account of the grisly ordeal from Harris. But Colin was absent. He was closeted at the white Stag Inn with the willing, red-haired serving maid, and there he remained for nearly a week. When he finally did return to Cragmoor, it was to lock himself in the study where access to the well-stocked liquor cabinet made life bearable in Malcolm's shadow.

  It was nearly a month before Elspeth crept to Colin's chamber again. Captivated by the ravishing young beauty's passionate embrace, he took the offering with eager arms and anxious body, always to lie afterward enmeshed in a net of self-loathing. He didn't love the girl, but her youth and pure-hearted innocence embracing him so totally dissolved principle and sanity along with it, and he found himself drawn hopelessly into a web of his own weaving.

  Elspeth held her peace concerning Malcolm. Considering Colin's last reaction to the mention of the dark youth, she wasn't about to divulge that he, too, claimed his copulatory rights more often than she cared to dwell upon. Her lovely face became pale and shadow-stained from sleepless nights filled with nightmare visions of Malcolm's cold body and cruel hands. All in all she began to wear a gaunt look, and her slim body grew slimmer still in the face of worry, abuse, and fear.

  All in residence, with the exception of her father, knew that she slept with Colin, and all save Harris were convinced the master of Cragmoor had finally stooped to deflower a virgin in the sordid progress of his degeneration. But Johathan Harris wasn't one to accept things at face value. As appalled as he was at the thought of the fair, young Elspeth—hardly more than a child as he saw it—in Colin's bed, the stabler was certain he'd not done that of which he was silently and unanimously accused. It hadn't taken him long to surmise that the deadly fight that had nearly put an end to the d
ark youth and a rope around Colin's neck, was hardly over the state and condition of a lathered horse. He was convinced that the virgin made mention of in the struggle was none other than Elspeth Wythe. And so he held his peace and listened, but he watched as well, and what he watched was Malcolm until he saw that his suspicions were correct. Malcolm was forcing the girl. That became chillingly plain one morning during the last week in July when he eavesdropped outside the closed stable doors after pretending to have work to do in the house, and from the conversation he overheard he knew that Colin wasn't aware of it.

  What to do with the information he'd gathered was quite another predicament. Not knowing how to handle it, he stopped at the vicarage on his way to the village that morning. It was a reluctant visit. Well aware of the vicar's heart condition, he scarcely wanted to alarm him, but there was nowhere else for him to seek counsel, and one look at the fear in Elliot's eyes when Rina showed him into the study made him heartily sorry he'd come.

  Ted was home on holiday until the end of August. He'd grown into a strapping youth, tall for eleven, with the promise of his father's handsome, muscular build, and sharp, Celtic features crowned with a crop of honey-colored hair, the only thing about him that resembled his mother. Sitting in the study with his father, the boy jumped to his feet beaming when Harris entered.

  "'Tis so good to see you, Mr. Harris,” he said, extending his hand.

  Harris stooped over and took it, gripping it tight in both of his own. “You remember old Harris, do you, lad?” he said.

  "Oh, yes, sir,” said the boy, smiling. “I shall never forget the day you took Uncle Colin and I to the village to arrange for the coach to take me to school. ‘Twas a fine ride, sir."

  Harris chuckled, squeezing the firm, young hand in his weathered paws.

  Looking on, the vicar drew on his pipe nervously. “All right, Ted,"—he forced, his attention focused on the stabler's unreadable face—"run along, then, and let me tend to business. There's a good lad."

  "Very well, Father,” the boy submitted, turning back toward the stabler. “Perhaps I shall see you again before I go back to school, Mr. Harris,” he said.