"It would be worth it."
"You are a cur."
"Quite. I've never denied that. And what are you, bastard?"
"Colin, please,” implored the vicar.
Malcolm set his fork down. “Well, thank God that I, at least . . ."
"What would you know about God?” Colin challenged.
"An expression, Uncle—merely that. I use it quite often. But I do know a good deal about theology, since you've brought it up. It comes under the heading of ‘know thy enemy'—a thing you might take time to ponder."
"Well, I hope you took your studies to heart, because you've got more than one of those at this table, bastard."
Malcolm got to his feet. “You know, Uncle, I'm actually glad you sent me abroad,” he sniffed. “Elsewise, I would have had to learn manners from you, and then where would we be? As I was saying, thank God that I at least possess enough sensibility to spare your guest here any more embarrassment. I see no need to air our dirty linen in front of Mr. Stanley—the vicar doesn't count, of course, since his is as dirty as ours. But since you're so determined, I'll let you have a go alone.” He tossed his napkin down roughly. “This kind of display is quite beneath me as a gentleman—good night."
Colin watched him stalk out without comment.
Jumping to his feet, Ira fidgeted with his cravat. “Excuse me, sir. I . . . I do want a word with your nephew before he retires . . . about the portrait, of course . . . yes, of course. I-I'll just see if I can catch him."
Enraged beyond incredulous, Colin stared toward the nervous little man.
"Yes, well, ex...excuse me, sir, eh...Elliot,” Ira stuttered, fleeing toward the arch, his scratchy voice hollering after Malcolm as he hurried out into the gallery.
Colin continued to stare for a moment, his jaw flexing a stiff rhythm. Finally he sank back into the carver's chair and brought his fist down hard on the table again. “Christ!” he thundered. “The unmitigated gall of that twittering dolt. How dare he convert my house into his own personal studio?” He raked his hair roughly and glanced toward the vicar, who had eased himself into Ira's chair beside him. “Well, Elliot, are you staying the night, then?” he snapped.
"I'm going in a moment, Colin. I've had quite enough of you for one day."
Colin gave a crisp nod and went to the sideboard where he grabbed the decanter and brandy snifter resting there and carried them back to the table. Filling the snifter with one hand, he swept the dishes aside with a wild sweep of the other clearing a space before him and set the decanter down with a crack.
"You're playing right into his hands you know,” said the vicar. “He wants to provoke you."
"He's done a good job of it—I am provoked, and we both know what such as that will lead to don't we?"
"What have you got against that girl, Colin? Surely she's done nothing to offend you. Why are you frightening her? Are you doing it apurpose, or can it possibly be that you don't really know how you looked just now?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh, yes you do. You looked as though you had in mind to reach out and strangle her, Colin, and don't you dare deny it."
Colin breathed a nasal sigh. “I hardly think I directed all that at her. Don't dramatize. And don't carp at me."
The vicar ignored him. “What is it, then?” he persisted.
"How the devil can I tell you what it is when I haven't the slightest notion what you're talking about? For the love of God, Elliot, don't probe me. Just leave me alone, can't you?"
"Not just yet, my friend. You're wrong about that girl. She obviously is a lady you know, Colin, and I suppose you aren't used to dealing with that, but despite the sordid way you conduct your life, I'd never have believed you capable of such an affrontive display."
Colin slapped his glass down spilling brandy over the rim. “And just what the devil are you accusing me of now?” he demanded.
"Why, you didn't even have the decency to get up from the table when she came into the room—or when she excused herself for that matter. Have you sunk so low that common courtesies are beyond you now?"
"I told you,” flashed Colin, “wedding the bastard entitles her to no courtesies from me. And besides, I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction."
He toyed with the decanter, lifting the stopper up and down in order to avoid eye contact.
The vicar nodded angrily. “Well, apparently he's had more satisfaction from the direction you took, and you hurt that poor girl in the bargain."
Colin slammed the crystal stopper back into the decanter. “Oh, I don't think that I have, Elliot,” he snarled. “She was so wrapped up in Malcolm, I doubt she even noticed."
"Oh, yes she did—everyone noticed. She would never have tipped over her wine, but for your surly mouth. I'm ashamed, Colin. She has nothing to do with what's between Malcolm and us here. She's a frightened young girl in a strange country. She's going to think all Englishmen are barbarians."
"I don't give a bloody damn what she thinks. I think all Americans are savages.” He flashed a lascivious smile. “Besides, I think you're going to find out you're mistaken about that little chippie."
"In what respect?"
"You credit her with much too much I fear. She's a whore I tell you. Think about it, Elliot. To begin with, what sort but a whore would get herself involved with the likes of Malcolm? And that gown alone should tell you something. It was a bit much wouldn't you say—the bruise on her neck notwithstanding? A decent woman would have chosen something slightly less provocative I should think, and covered the ravages of her lust."
"What would you know of decent women—you the whoremaster of all Cornwall? You heard Malcolm say he insisted she wear that costume. You're a fool if you can't perceive why. A blithering idiot could see that she was embarrassed. Nooo, Colin, you'd like to think she's a tart, wouldn't you? It would make it all the easier for you to crawl off and lick your jealous wounds, but it won't wash."
Colin vaulted to his feet, and the vicar followed suit coming closer. “Yes, jealous, Colin,” he thundered. “You don't like to hear that do you? No, I know you don't, my friend, because it's true, and that truth strikes just a little too close to home for comfort doesn't it? You won't have happiness for yourself will you? But you resent seeing others enjoying it—particularly Malcolm. Well, I despise him just as much as you do, but that's got nothing to do with the issue here. All these years you could have had any decent woman in the kingdom, but no, you prefer to lay about with sluts, bedding the servants and half the female population of the village—married or otherwise. That's the real issue isn't it? She isn't a whore, Colin. That's the thing that's stuck in your craw. My God, I'm sorry for you, indeed. You are a fool."
Colin stared, his broad chest heaving with rage, his lips so rigid they barely spat out the words, “Have you quite finished?"
The vicar offered no answer.
Colin waged another assault on the table with a vicious swing that scattered food and dishes with it. “One of these days, saint sticky-beak, you're going to meddle just once too often.” He flicked the vicar's neck cloth roughly. “This collar does not give you license to run my life. I've been telling you that for twenty years. Now get the hell out of here, damn you, Elliot, before you make me say something we'll both regret."
The vicar's posture collapsed and he nodded wearily, but he wasn't ready to surrender. “Over the years you've said it all, my friend, but that doesn't matter,” he said. “Have you ever stopped to wonder why I bother, Colin? Sometimes I hardly know myself. No, that isn't true. I knew a boy once, he was warm-hearted, compassionate, and more of a gentleman in his youth than many a man twice his age. You were a human being once, Colin, with no shred of example to follow save your own instincts, and whether you like it or not, I won't leave you alone until you become one again."
With no more said the vicar stalked off. Colin stared after him listening to his angry footfalls echoing from the terrazzo gallery floor beyond, and he scow
led flinching at the thunderous crack of the double doors slamming shut as he drained the snifter in his white-knuckled grip in one rough swallow.
* * * *
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Thirty-two
* * * *
Upstairs Jean lay across the bed still wearing the opulent gown. Listless and drained of body and spirit, she scarcely felt the comforting warmth of the hearth or the mobile fingers of a draft that the fire wasn't bold enough to chase. Strong gusts rattled the windowpanes, and she could hear the roaring thunder of the waves below beating hard about the cliff's icy brow in the darkness. Ordinarily that would have seized her attention, but nothing mattered then—nothing save that Colin had called her a whore.
'Why in God's name should I care?’ But her weary brain offered no answer—at least not one she was prepared to face, much less accept. She tried not to dwell upon it, but a curious pain that stabbed her at the thought of those words on his lips gave her no peace, and tears welled in her eyes.
Through the horror of the voyage, she had prayed that Malcolm's uncle would be the sort of gentleman she could appeal to, inasmuch as they shared a common bond in their hatred of the dark youth, but that was definitely not to be. Colin was younger than she'd expected and more handsome, but he was also more violent than anything she'd dreamed of and a crawling chill came over her reliving the cruelty of his rough hands and cold stare. She'd searched deeply into those eyes, seen the haunted shadow of despair in them, and the rage—blind, vicious passion. It terrified her. She feared that hatred far more than she did the calculating sort Malcolm emitted, because it was savage and mercurial in essence. She would find no salvation there, nor would she seek it.
The artist seemed afraid of Colin, too, but not the vicar. She'd been quick to notice the bond between them, and she wondered about it. The vicar had been kind. She detected his dislike—or more distaste—for Malcolm from the moment he brought her through the conservatory arch that afternoon. But she also detected Malcolm's unvarnished loathing for him in return, and she shuddered afresh. What did they all know that she didn't? Unless it were to be the vicar, there would be none among them to speak it to her, nor in her terror was she ready to hear it.
She had no idea what Malcolm planned, but she did know the crux of the plan was the ultimate downfall of Colin Chapin from the cryptic innuendoes Malcolm continually dangled before her. She was also aware that others were slated to share in the macabre event, the vicar among them. What part she was to play in the ruse evaded her.
Malcolm had married her and dragged her to England—a virgin bride, a circumstance that boggled her mind, though she thanked God every waking moment that he'd not exercised his connubial rights. Meanwhile she lived in mortal terror of the night he would attempt to do so. In all her life she had never felt so lonely. In all her twenty-three years she had never been so lost in desolation. The only certainty in her existence was stark terror. It gave her no peace and mounted with each passing hour as each nuance of her situation drove her through the maze of her nightmare with no sanctuary save yet another corridor, oblique in shadow and paved with despair.
The bedchamber door opened suddenly and she sprang erect, wiping tears from her eyes as Malcolm sauntered toward her.
"That little scene won't bear repeating I warn you, my dear,” he spat, bending close. “You don't value that precious honor of yours very highly do you?"
"You are inhuman,” she breathed, shrinking from him. “That was no scene downstairs, Malcolm. It was just what you'll get as long as you maul me in front of them. I despise you."
"Bitch,” he snarled. “Try such as that again and you will force me to end this little farce a little earlier than I'd planned. You won't like the outcome, Jean. I swear to you."
"Please, Malcolm,” she sobbed, “please let me go. Do whatever you like here, but please . . . just let me go."
Malcolm laughed. Strolling to the trunk he pulled out his riding boots and sat down on the edge of the bed unfastening his shoes. “You'd like that wouldn't you, love?” he chuckled, tugging the boots on.
"Malcolm, please!"
"I'm sorry, my dear, you're my wife, remember? A wife's place is at her husband's side."
She watched him get up from the bed and toss his traveling cloak over his shoulders. “Where are you going?” she wondered.
"To the village, and you are to remain in this room,” he charged, collecting his riding crop from the mantle. He stood scrutinizing her for a thoughtful moment and smiled. “Can I trust you to do as you're told, or must I lock you in?” he said, brandishing the key.
"If you're so concerned over it, why don't you take me with you?” she snapped.
Malcolm's smile broadened. “I can hardly take you to a brothel, my dear, now can I?"
She gasped. “You are base. No wonder your uncle hates you so."
"I'm sure he wouldn't thank you for your sympathy, Jean,” he drawled, working the crop in his hands. “Uncle never really was one to hide behind a woman's skirts—more likely under them I'm afraid.” He strolled closer. “Ahhh, but there is another alternative to my little jaunt tonight if the thought of it disturbs you so. I could stay right here with you in my own warm bed, wife, now couldn't I?"
Shrinking from his closeness, Jean edged to the foot of the four-poster. “Just go, Malcolm,” she snapped, “go to all the brothels you like or straight to hell itself if it pleases you. Just leave me alone."
Malcolm tossed the key in his hand for several moments before cramming it into his pocket. He moved closer and tilted her chin up with the riding crop. “All right, my dear, we'll have a little test. I'll trust you and see if you've been paying attention. For your sake I hope that you have. You see there's no risk actually. The good vicar has gone back to his church, and our artist has long since retired. The only one abroad in this house tonight, my dear, is Uncle, and you are no masochist.” His half smile broadened. “Lastly, don't take too much comfort from my little...outing this evening. It shan't offer you an advantage should the need arise for me to keep my promise to you...in case you were counting upon it."
She jerked her head away from the pinching crop. “Just go, Malcolm."
"Yes, you have spirit,” he observed, strolling toward the door. “I do admire that given your situation, but you're frightened aren't you? Yes, and yet you use that tongue of yours like a knife blade. You like to tempt fate, Jean. I'd take care if I were you not to awaken yours from its slumber.” He laughed aloud. “Go to bed, my dear, I'm afraid that's the only place you can go."
He was still laughing as he stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him, and Jean ran to the dressing chest, blew out the lamp, and went to the window. Her heart was thumping in her breast. She could hear the deafening sound of it over the angry sea's choler below. With her eyes trained on the stable, she watched there until she saw Malcolm ride off. Once he was out of sight, she sagged against the cold, damp pane and let the draft seeping in fan the fever in her skin.
Turning back toward the bed again, she began to tremble. Malcolm had left the room, but his chilling presence lingered after him. The air was thick with the vibrations of his laughter. Half hoping that he was wrong, and that the vicar was still in the house, she snatched a shawl from the trunk, flung the door wide, and flew down the corridor over the stairs and through the gallery below toward the conservatory, the only room save the dining hall and their chamber that she knew, but the downstairs halls were deserted.
Walking at a slower pace along the narrow north wing corridor, her breath came easier. The conservatory arch loomed wide before her and she entered it taking cautious steps. The room was in semi-darkness. Except for a candle flickering in its stand before the portrait on the easel, there was no light, and she didn't see Colin lounging on the sofa stretched out full length beside the feeble remains of a dwindling fire in the hearth. But Colin saw her and he watched in the darkness, his piercing teal eyes monitoring her every move as she pulled
the shawl close about her and floated over the cold slate floor toward the painting.
The windows all around and above shuddered in the wind, and drafts seeped in as though seeking refuge from the blustery night. She scarcely felt them. She was captivated by the image on the canvas. Something more akin to agony than anger shivered in his haunted stare. The look in those terrible eyes wounded her. She'd seen it in her own.
She marveled at the artist's expertise in capturing the windblown hair waving across his gently furrowed brow and curling about his earlobes, given that the funny little man had just begun to paint them. A mere suggestion of the gray stains that touched his temples was all that had been worked, yet it was perfect. She followed the line of his sidewhiskers down to the strong chin with its shadowy cleft. It was so real—like looking at the man himself, and she wished she could deal with the portrait instead.
Silently, Colin got to his feet and struck a match to the wick in the kerosene lamp on the mantle.
With a cry upon trembling lips, Jean spun toward the light and the man standing beside the hearth.
He'd discarded his jacket and his soft ecru blouse of cambric cloth was open at the throat baring part of the mat of amber hair spread over his broad chest beneath. His sleeves were rolled back, and his forearms shone with a nimbus of coppery lights where the fire glow played upon them bouncing off the half empty snifter in his hand. Folding his arms across his chest, he shifted his weight to one sturdy leg, waiting.
Jean gasped. “Forgive me, I didn't mean to intrude."
He continued to stare, his cold eyes sparkling in the lamp's tortured flame.
Jean lowered her head and hurried toward the arch, but his loud voice boomed through the quiet. “That's not necessary,” he thundered. The sound echoed, glancing off the glass walls and struck her a blow that stopped her dead in her tracks. “The room is spacious enough to accommodate both of us I should think,” he continued, “unless, of course, you're foolish enough to get in the way again."
Rape of the Soul Page 41