Colin paid her no attention. He swung, hitting Malcolm squarely on the jaw, and drove him down sprawled on his back leaking blood from the corner of his mouth. Winding his fist in the front of the dark youth's traveling cloak, he lifted him off the floor and swung again, propelling him into the artist's table, scattering paint and brushes helter-skelter despite the vicar's hands grappling to restrain him.
Malcolm groaned, sliding down the table leg. The table toppled over with his weight forced against it, and Colin sprang again, but the vicar darted between them, clamping firm hands fast to Colin's shoulders. “Don't, Colin,” he panted, shaking him.
Insane with rage, Colin stared toward the vicar's strained face. He searched the quivering amber eyes set deep in shadows, and studied the shock of chestnut hair spilling over his furrowed brow. It faded to broad ribbons of gray at the temples now above the side-whiskers that framed his tilted chin. He scarcely heard his voice. “Look what you've done, Colin,” he breathed. “Look at that girl there. Are you mad?"
Colin's eyes flashed toward her lying collapsed in the artist's arms. The color had drained from her face, and soft moans leaked from her parted lips. Stanley knelt fanning her with a wrinkled handkerchief, too horrified to utter an intelligible sound.
Colin twisted free of the vicar's grip and strolled toward the girl.
Below, Malcolm laughed flexing his jaw while he righted himself on one elbow, and the vicar spun toward the chilling sound.
"Just like old times, eh, good vicar?” said Malcolm, glowering. “Uncle always was the better man in a fight, but I am the better strategist, and you are still my savior so it seems, for all that you would have it otherwise. How's your heart these days by the way?"
"You'd best leave this house now, Malcolm, while you still can,” warned Elliot, ignoring the last.
"Or what?"
"Or call your savior up from hell. I am your consort here no longer."
Colin had reached Jean. He shoved the artist aside and yanked her to her feet, pulling her close to the seething eyes that devoured her tears.
"Please . . . you're hurting me,” she groaned.
Colin gave a crisp nod. “Indeed—a thing you've earned, madam,” he spat close in her face. “Your association with that there has won it for you.” He jerked his head toward Malcolm behind. “And if you know what you're about, you'll see your precious husband out of here, because if he stays you have my solemn oath that I will make a widow of you."
Malcolm had gotten to his feet and Colin thrust her toward him. “Here, bastard, take your baggage and get out,” he commanded.
"O . . . oh, God,” moaned the girl, colliding with her husband.
Malcolm pulled her into his arms. “It's all right, Jean,” he crooned, “I told you he was a bounder."
Colin hovered nearby, well shackled by the vicar's strong hands again. “Get out,” he thundered, his broad chest heaving with rage.
"I'm not going anywhere, Uncle,” said Malcolm. “Perhaps I deserved some of that just now, but my wife did not. This is the only home I have until I've bought one of my own. Why, some of my things are still here, thanks to Amy Croft's incompetence. We've had a long, hard journey. Jean is exhausted. We shall occupy my old chamber until I can find lodgings suitable for us elsewhere. I don't know why I should bother to appeal to you after the display I've just witnessed here, but regardless of your differences with me, you might consider Jean—if there is any shred of gentility left in you that is; I rather doubt it.
"Now then, I am taking my wife up to my chamber. We shall join you this evening for dinner—in the dining hall, Uncle. I don't eat in kitchens with servants any longer. I do hope your boorish foul temper will have improved by then, or at the very least become tempered somewhat with alcohol. Now if you will excuse us, gentlemen?” Wiping fresh blood from the corner of his mouth with his handkerchief, he steered the girl out through the arch and disappeared.
On his knees, the artist worked frantically collecting his scattered equipment. He'd righted the overturned table and begun heaping paints and brushes on top of it.
The vicar's posture collapsed and his hands fell away from Colin's arms. Drained weak, he made his way to the lounge and sank down on it trying to cure his vertigo with his head bent low.
Colin stared after him raking a wild hand through his hair, and marched to the sideboard where he yanked the bell pull to summon Amy and poured two snifters of brandy. Striding back to the sofa, he thrust one toward Elliot and downed half of his own in one careless swallow. “Well, it was a nice try, Elliot,” he said. “I told you he'd be back."
The vicar couldn't speak. He sipped his brandy trying to tame the runaway heart with deep, tremulous breaths.
Colin frowned watching him. “Are you all right, Elliot?” he murmured.
The vicar nodded, his head still lowered, and Colin squared his shoulders and turned toward the artist. “Well, Mr. Stanley,” he said, “I'm afraid there'll be no more pleasant thoughts today. I'd take it as a kindness if you would pick up the rest of that mess there and leave us, sir."
"Y-yes, yes, of course, Mr. Chapin.” Ira searched the floor for any overlooked brushes and paint.
Colin turned back to the vicar. “Well, Elliot, are you staying to dinner, as if I need ask?"
"Yes, Colin, if you wouldn't mind."
Colin laughed. “If I wouldn't mind, indeed. Wild horses couldn't drag you from this house tonight whether I mind or not. Christ!"
The artist got to his feet, spread a cloth over the untidy arrangement on his worktable, and turned toward them, clearing his voice to attract their attention. “W-well, gentlemen, since I'm put off, I-I'll just freshen up a bit myself before dinner myself."
Colin offered a dramatic bow. “By all means, Mr. Stanley,” he pronounced, sweeping his arm wide.
The little man darted past with a grunt of relief and left them.
Colin yanked the bell pull again. “Where the devil is that woman?” he snarled. “Bigod, those doors out there have been locked since the day he left to everyone's inconvenience. A lot of good it's done. If Amy let him slip back in here with that key . . ."
"You can't lay the blame upon Mrs. Croft, or any of the other servants, either, Colin,” the vicar interrupted. “You insist upon running this house with next to no help at all, what the devil do you expect?"
"I expect you to mind your own affairs. Don't interfere, Elliot. If you hadn't four years ago the bastard would be dead, and we wouldn't be having all this here now would we?"
"What are you going to do?"
Colin raked his hair back and began to pace. “Well, there's not a hell of a lot I can do now is there,” he growled, “what with your precious Ira Stanley underfoot? I can hardly kill the bastard before witnesses after swearing to do it in front of Howard four years ago. But for you and that twittering buffoon up my nose, I'd have pitched the pair of them out on the heath straightaway. As it stands now I can hardly do that, can I? Malcolm's got colossal nerve, I'll give him that."
"He's changed, Colin—he could be dangerous."
"He hasn't changed, he's simply honed his skills, but not enough to stand up to me. He looks quite prosperous don't you think? Perhaps he's married money—no doubt she's pregnant."
"He seems devoted to the girl,” said the vicar. All at once his focus shifted. “And you,” he scorned. “My God, I never thought I'd live to see the day that Colin Chapin would deliberately abuse a woman. You hurt that girl, Colin. She was terrified of you. My God. And I shouldn't wonder. You threw her down. That's a slate floor—she could have been seriously hurt."
"Good,” flashed Colin. “Perhaps if she's been hurt enough she'll convince that bastard to leave . . . this . . . house.” He punctuated the last with a heavy fist buffeting the Tudor table.
"Have you sunk to this? Have you succumbed to brutalizing ladies now, Colin?"
"I saw no lady. Malcolm's bitch earns no respect from me. What could she be but a whore—an extension of wha
t he is—Jesus!"
"You don't know that. How could you know that? She scarcely spoke—hardly a word."
Colin laughed. “That was one blessing at least.” He strolled back to the sideboard and refilled his glass. “Well,” he continued, turning back, “since you're so concerned over it, perhaps she'll entertain you more satisfactorily at dinner.” He raised the snifter in salute. “Cheers,” he said, swallowing hard.
The vicar wagged his head in defeat getting up from the sofa, but Colin scarcely noticed. “Oh, he's a clever devil,” he said, thinking out loud, “using a woman for a shield. Married! I wonder if she knows why he was packed off from here four years ago?"
"You're up to something. What are you planning?"
"I don't know just yet. You know I'm no good at quick decisions. That worked in his favor just now, too, goddammit. But . . . perhaps she ought to be told about Elspeth. If I can cause dissension between them, I might have a clearer shot at the bastard."
"I don't know, Colin . . ."
"You found the girl, Elliot. It cost you a seizure coming upon her hanging out in that stable—Christ. You don't think he ought to be called to account for that? If he's told that wife of his anything he's doubtless said that the child Elspeth was carrying was mine. He probably doesn't even know she's dead."
Only half listening, the vicar came closer. “Never mind Ira or the girl, Colin,” he said, his voice become worried and strained. “Don't let him stay. Put him out now. I'll help you . . . before he unpacks . . . before he settles in."
Colin slapped his glass down on the sideboard sloshing brandy over the rim. “I wish it were all that simple,” he said, storming past him through the arch.
* * * *
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Thirty-one
* * * *
Once Malcolm fastened his bedchamber door latch, the trembling girl wrenched free of his arm. “You are despicable,” she hissed.
"Ha,” he chuckled coarsely. “He knocks you on your beautiful behind, and you call me despicable. I admire your spirit, though it does tend to grate on my patience, Jean. Mind you curb it soon."
He moved closer.
"Don't you come near me,” she warned. “It sickens me to touch you."
Reaching her in two strides, he grabbed her wrist. “Damn you for an insolent bitch,” he spat. “You'll touch me, and you'll even pretend to enjoy it if you value that pretty neck of yours.” He flung her away and stripped off his cloak, tossing it over the largest of the three trunks he'd had the coachman haul upstairs while they'd kept Colin occupied.
"Whatever you're up to, Malcolm, I think you've met your match,” she snapped. “It won't matter long what I do in this. That horrible uncle of yours seems more than able to deal with the likes of you."
Malcolm flashed her a caustic smile. “Don't count on that, Jean,” he said. “Don't delude yourself with first impressions. His weaknesses by far outrank his strengths I'm afraid. You'll see. All in due time, my dear, all in due time."
"What are you doing here, Malcolm—what do you want?"
"I've told you,” he said, “I've come home to pay a few debts. You'd like me to tell you all about that wouldn't you, Jean? Why—so you can run to him? He'd swallow you whole before you had half a chance to open your mouth. But then, you've gathered that, haven't you?” He began to laugh, strolling to and fro across the bare floor. “Even if you did know and were brave enough, it would be useless. He'd never trust anyone who'd formed an alliance with me. I think he made that plain enough downstairs just now."
"What does it matter, then, whether you tell me or not?"
"Patience, Jean,” he drawled, “you'll know in time—my time, and then it will be too late, my dear, and you'll rue the day you ever asked."
She backed away and clutched the bedpost. “I won't be part of this, Malcolm—whatever it is, you shan't make me—I swear it."
"You already are, my dear,” he said. “It's far too late for exemptions now I'm afraid. Just be a good little girl and do as I say."
Suddenly realizing what she clung to for support, Jean backed away from the bed. “I will not sleep in that with you, Malcolm,” she cried, pointing.
"You'll sleep in it all right,” he assured her. “Oh, don't worry, I won't force you to your wifely duties—not unless you fail to follow my instructions exactly.” He laughed again. “I could, you know, at any time it pleases me, so don't tempt me. I'm tiring of this game I warn you. Don't forget, Jean, legally you are my wife, and I do have my rights after all."
"I am not your wife, Malcolm."
"Lower your voice, bitch,” he snarled, making a quick move toward her.
Dodging his advance, she skirted the bed wide and backed toward the window.
Malcolm glowered. “I warn you, I'm at the end of my patience with that acid mouth—you'd best take care to keep it shut."
He knocked his cloak off the trunk and began foraging inside.
"God knows how you forced Father to sell me like a...a common cow—what sordid extortion you threatened him with to this end, but it was more than just the gambling debts—it had to be. And he didn't kill himself—you killed him, Malcolm. Oh, he fired the pistol all right, but you put it in his hand. You'll not find me so cooperative. We may be married, but I'll never be your wife—I'd sooner be dead."
"That, too, can be arranged, my dear,” said Malcolm, still probing the trunk's contents. “As to your rather unfortunate circumstances, I've told you, I won you in a game of chance. I've always had phenomenal luck with cards. Your father, poor man, wasn't able to boast of the same good fortune. He was, in fact, a very careless gambler."
"Liar,” she shrilled.
Malcolm sprang toward her raising a riding crop he'd unearthed from the trunk. “I told you to lower your voice,” he snarled, lunging at her with the weapon held high.
"No, Malcolm. I'll scream—I swear it."
Grabbing her wrist he yanked her close brandishing the crop in her face. “With your last breath—go on, let me hear it."
Sobbing now, she cowered from him and he shoved her down on the bed. “Since you must flirt with death, I think I'll keep this close at hand,” he decided, flaunting the crop. He stood in silence listening to her sobs for a moment, and then his quick hand struck it against the dressing chest nearby. She flinched, crying aloud at the sound it made, and Malcolm chuckled. “Uncle taught me the advantages of a good riding crop,” he said. “He nearly broke one in half on my back when I was six. I still carry the stripes. You've seen them. That should give you some idea of what he is."
Jean shuddered. “I'll run, Malcolm,” she sobbed. “So help me God, the first chance I get I'll run!"
Malcolm's lips curled in their wry smile. “And where will you run to, Jean?” he wondered. “You tried that once on your own ground, for all the good it did you. How far did you get?” His complacent grin expanded. “You haven't a halfpenny to your name, and the nearest village is miles from here. You'd never make it, my dear—not over this terrain."
"I'm sure the vicar would help me if he knew,” she snapped defiantly. “His church can't be all that far."
Malcolm's sneer darkened and his eyes glowed like coals. “Too far for you to go I'm afraid,” he said. “You'd never find your way alone in the fogs that cover that heath out there.” He brandished the crop again. “And even if you did, I'd only have you back to face this—and worse, to say nothing of what he'd suffer if you ever even attempted to act upon such a notion. I've an old score to settle with the good vicar. I'm anxious to have at him, so you go right ahead and hurry it along if you like.” He worked the crop in his hands. “I'm half hoping you'll try. I'm itching to use this on you again."
He tossed the crop on the mantle and chucked several logs into the hearth from the wood box alongside. Stooping over, he ignited them, fanning the flames to life with the bellows. “This wood is green with mold,” he said. “It's doubtless been here since I left. I do hope you're paying at
tention. You'll have no personal maid here, love, and this is the last fire I intend to light."
"Please, Malcolm—please let me go."
"That's better, that tact is much more sensible. I'll tolerate whining and begging far longer than brazen displays of foul temper. As a matter of fact it stimulates me. Take care not to overdo or you might find me quite hard to handle—if you follow my meaning?"
"I despise you,” she breathed.
"I dare say,” he chuckled. “You know, it might have been different between us once, that is, if you were willing. I was almost tempted to alter my plans at one point back in the States, but now I'm delighted I didn't."
"I believe you are insane."
"Hardly, my love. What I am, if you knew it, might surprise you, but that's better left alone I think. You've enough to cope with digesting our little bargain."
Her head snapped toward him. “'I've made no bargain with you, Malcolm,” she said. “I'd sooner consort with the devil."
Malcolm erupted with laughter. “Oh, Jean,” he said, “if you only knew how terribly funny that is. We've got a bargain all right. Shall I spell it out for you again? Now then, my dear, you shall speak only when you are spoken to and do just exactly as I say in this house, and you shall remain . . . intact. Is that plain enough for you or shall I elaborate?” He was stooping over her and she nodded quickly. “Very well then,” he said. “Your safety is entirely up to you. The rules are quite simple—see that you abide by them.” He yanked her up from the bed and shoved her toward the trunks. “Now get up from there and unpack your frocks. You'll have to dress for dinner."
"I'll go to dinner as I am,” she snapped, wrenching free. “I will not undress in front of you, Malcolm."
"Ohhh, yes you will,” he promised, the smile on his lips waning cold. “Take off that costume or I'll remove it myself.” He sprang toward her. “Have you forgotten what happened the last time you defied me? Weren't you paying attention to me at all just now?"
"All right—all right, Malcolm,” she murmured, digging into the trunk. “Please don't touch me."
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