"I'd really rather leave, thank you."
Colin shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He lifted his glass in salute before swallowing from it.
She had almost reached the arch when his heartstopping voice spoke again. “Where's your husband?"
She turned back. “He's gone to the vil . . . he's gone out,” she stammered.
Colin cocked his head and studied her through hooded eyes. “Has he now?” he mused. “And wherever would the bridegroom be off to on his first night home?"
"R . . . riding I think."
"Riding? At this hour? Don't tell me you two have been spatting?” Raking her with familiar eyes, he noted the sudden rush of crimson to her cheeks, and her trembling, wide-eyed stare. “No, you haven't,” he decided. “The look on that face is far too mellow to have come fresh from a tiff, considering your all-consuming devotion, that is."
Something volatile rumbled in the last, and fright turned her quickly toward the arch again. “Excuse me,” she murmured.
"One moment,” snapped Colin, turning her around again with a lurch. “I don't know what tales Malcolm's carried, but I imagine he's done a proper job. Whatever sordid reports he's given you, I dare say they doubtless rest close to the truth, but I am hardly a fiend. I assure you that you are quite safe here alone in my presence—you needn't run."
Fear and anger moved unsteady legs, and she took a brave step closer. “I'm not afraid of you, sir. I'm appalled."
Taken aback, he gave a start.
She met his eyes, though the look in them turned her knees to water. “You are a vulgar, ill-mannered boor, sir,” she breathed, “and as much a gentleman as I am the whore you accuse."
He nodded. “Ahhhh, you heard that, then. I suppose you expect an apology?"
"From the likes of you? Hardly. Your shoddy opinions do not affect me. I consider the source you see. I need not labor to prove I am not a whore to a cur who hasn't the capacity to distinguish between a trollop and a lady."
Colin laughed. “Well, that's twice tonight I've been called a cur—must be so, then, mustn't it?"
She glowered at him nodding.
"Well, madam, keeping in character as such, I'm obliged to tell you that I can be expected to do naught but judge you by the company you keep."
"You can be expected to do naught at all,” she informed him. “You neither have the right nor the qualifications to judge me in any respect, sir."
"You've a sharp tongue, madam,” he observed. Though he smiled, his scathing eyes seared her with blades of cold fire as he came closer.
"When I've need of one,” she retorted. “I did not ask to come here, sir."
Colin snatched up a decanter from the sideboard and refilled his glass. “No, probably not,” he said wryly, “but you are here nonetheless aren't you? Oh, but that's not courteous of me is it? I've already been reprimanded quite sharply for my shocking bad manners toward you, Mrs. Chapin. Please do forgive me, madam.” Clicking his heels, he offered a sarcastic bow, but the affectation quickly dissolved. “Under the circumstances, I'm afraid I'm in no humor for pleasantries.” He lifted his glass toward her. “Will you join me?"
"Certainly not."
He shrugged and took a sip studying her again. “I thought you were closeted with some indisposition or other—exhaustion—the dampness—some such debilitating affliction, was it not?"
"The climate here takes getting used to. I seem to have taken a chill; nothing more."
"Hmmmmm,” he growled. “Tell me, are all American women so fragile that they become prostrate at a change in the climate?"
"As fragile as all Englishmen are insensitive, sir,” she served.
Colin bowed again. “Touche,” he awarded. “You've a sharp wit for one indisposed. But for that flushed complexion I'd swear you're as healthy as I am.” He thought for a moment and took an audible breath laced with discovery. “Or could it be you are—er, how shall I put it—in a family way?"
Again she gasped. “How dare you?"
"Oh, I dare, madam. I have to dare,” he snarled, destroying the smile as he spat out the words.
"I've told you, it's only a chill, and my health is not your concern."
Colin rekindled the smile and lifted his glass again. “Perhaps you should have some of this then—best thing in the world for a chill so they say."
"No, thank you."
"'Tisn't poisoned you know—I'm drinking it, unless, of course, Malcolm's slipped something into the decanter again. He's prone to that sort of thing you know. You'd best be warned, though I can't think why. Somehow I rather doubt that he's tampered with it this time, however. Malcolm would hardly settle for such a commonplace method in delivering himself of me now I'm sure. He does have a flare for the flamboyant."
"You are quite drunk, sir,” she breathed.
"You think so do you? Well, madam, you've just proven yourself unqualified to judge me. I assure you, if I were drunk I'd have had you by now, and if I don't get drunk I'll kill that precious husband of yours. Not a pretty prospect either way, eh?"
"Why do you hate Malcolm so?” she wondered, chilled to the bone.
He moved closer still hovering over her, his breast heaving with rage in check. Frozen, she stood looking up into the cold teal eyes smoldering toward her own, drugged by the scent of spice drifting from his moist skin.
"Why don't you ask Malcolm?” he snarled.
"It honestly isn't that important."
He loomed over her there a moment probing her expression, looking deep into the eyes so like his own that suddenly filled with tears. After a moment he moved back, drained his glass, and poured himself another. “I see,” he said, strolling back to the hearth. “Why did you come down here tonight?"
Relieved at the distance he'd put between them she drew an easier breath glancing around at all the sparkling glass and mirror-bright reflections winking from the panes. “I like this room,” she murmured. “I've never seen anything quite like it before. It puts me in mind of a greenhouse we had at home."
But Colin's deep voice shattered her reverie and snapped her head toward him again. “Did Malcolm know you were planning to come down here?"
She stiffened. “No."
Colin flashed a wry smile. “I take it you don't want me to tell him do you?"
"Please! Please don't tell him."
Colin ground out a triumphant laugh. “Ahhh, that's blunted the edge of that razor you use for a tongue has it? Oh, yes, indeed—I thought as much. I should imagine it's the last thing he'd want to hear. Can it be that he's all that insecure I wonder? One certainly wouldn't guess if from the look of him—or you either, for that matter."
"Please, sir, I beg you."
"Don't whine at me, bitch, you've made your bed. I've no pity for you."
He turned toward the hearth studying the dying embers, and she stared at his broad back—at the muscles straining his blouse taut, and her heart sank as she read his expanded posture. She longed to go down on her knees then and there on the hard slate floor beseeching him: help me! My God, he means to destroy us all. But fear closed her throat over the words and, “Please . . .” was all that escaped.
Colin took a careless swallow from the snifter and spun toward her. “Has Malcolm ever told you why he was packed off to the States?” he wondered.
Jean stared, and he answered the confused look in her eyes with a knowing nod. “You should ask him sometime,” he growled turning away, this time in dismissal.
Jean began to tremble watching his cold eyes staring into the remains of the fire, and the tears she'd fought back spilled down over her hot cheeks until he was no more than a blur through them. The conversation was ended and there was no mistaking the emptiness that remained behind. Unable to bear it, a cry escaped her lips and she ran from the room swallowing her sobs.
Colin spun toward the sound, but she was gone. He stared toward the arch and the echo of her footfalls receding along the corridor and hurled the snifter to the hearthstone at his feet.
The sound it made reached her in flight, as did the angry howl that accompanied it. Chilled to the marrow, she ran on through the gallery and up the stairs, and she didn't stop until she'd shut herself back inside Malcolm's chamber.
* * * *
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Thirty-three
* * * *
After the sitting the following afternoon, Colin set out over the frosty heath toward the south moors despite a fine misty drizzle leaking from the clouds. From the conservatory window, Jean watched his tall, angry shape recede into the rain that had painted the late day sky a deeper shade of gray.
Malcolm had brought her there and left her with the artist to work his sketch while he went to the stable set for a confrontation with Harris over the horse he'd purchased. It had been delivered shortly after their arrival, and Colin had promptly ordered the stabler not to lift a finger toward tending it.
Turning midway over the course he'd chosen, Colin saw the dark youth enter the stable, and he doubled back and flattened himself under the eaves, listening.
Harris was grooming Exchequer in his stall when Malcolm entered, and his head snapped toward the scowling youth's rage-bitten stare focused on his own mount, still saddled as he'd left him the night before. “Harris, what is this here?” he demanded, pointing a crooked finger.
"'Tis a horse, near as I can tell,” said Harris, without breaking his steady rhythm as he brushed Exchequer's sleek, black coat.
"And who told you to saddle him, stabler?"
"Nobody."
"Then, why is he saddled, man?"
"Because you didn't take the saddle offa’ him when you come back last night—or was it this mornin'?"
Malcolm stalked toward him. “You insolent old halfwit,” he snarled, “how dare you leave Lord Faar saddled all of the bloody night? Answer me, damn your useless hide."
"Hold there, my fine black bastard. Don't come no closer—my pistol's cocked,” the stabler warned, raising the barrel over the edge of Exchequer's stall.
Malcolm pulled up short at sight of it. “You old fool,” he spat.
"I told you I'd have naught to do with you or your beast,” said Harris. If ‘tis beneath you to tend your own horse you'll have to teach him to tend himself. I'll not be lendin’ a hand toward his care nohow, and I'm not goin’ to tell you that again."
"You're paid stabler on this estate, and you will tend my horse."
"The master pays my wages,” growled Harris. “I do his biddin', none of yours. When he tells me to tend the great Lord Faar I'll consider it—not before."
"We'll see about that, stabler."
"Will we now?"
"What if I were to pay you for your time? I'm well able you know. Name your price; every man has one."
"You won't pay my price, bastard, ‘tis your bloody black head on a skewer, and the devil himself come to collect your remains. I know what you are. You need put on no airs before me. I saw you writhin’ on your belly in the church—frothin’ at the mouth and shriekin’ like a banshee."
"So you did, stabler,” snapped Malcolm. “Put that damned iron away, man. I'm hardly about to risk life and limb over a piece of horseflesh."
Harris grinned. Shifting the gun to a deadlier aim, he squinted down the barrel. “Frightens you, does it? And well you ought to be worried. Get outa’ my stable, you're soilin’ the dung underfoot."
Malcolm's cold eyes narrowed to slits, and his rigid jaw pulsated stiffly. “I'll make you an offer for tending my horse—I'll pay you—"
"You'll pay me naught,” the stabler interrupted, his gruff voice raised. “I want none of your blood money, ‘tisn't come by honest I'm certain of that—nor would I take it if it was. I want no truck with you—or your horse, bastard, I can't say it no plainer. He can stay here in the stable out of the weather, but you'll tend him yourself or he don't get tended. There's a bucket there. He could use some water. You can give it to him on your way out—now. Before my finger gets tired and it should happen to slip and blow you outa’ here."
"All right, Harris,” Malcolm hissed, “you enjoy your little game while you can. Do make the best of it. It shan't be for long."
Spinning on his heels, he stormed out into the misty drizzle leaving the horse as he was, and darted off toward the house. In his rage he didn't notice Colin pressed up against the corner of the building. Once he was out of sight, Colin stepped inside.
"Bravo, Harris,” he rejoiced. “You're a loyal servant and a good friend, for all that I abuse the bloody hell out of you."
"You heard, sir?"
Colin nodded. “I was listening outside."
"Well, that's a comfort,” said the stabler. “I had visions of havin’ to use this damn cannon again for a minute there."
"More's the pity you didn't."
"'Tis likely goin’ to come to that—you heard him, sir."
"I don't want you to do anything that will earn you a rope, but you'd best keep that there close at hand.” He pointed to the pistol and Harris nodded, thrusting it into his belt.
Colin moved toward Malcolm's sorrel. “Quite a horse,” he observed, strolling around the animal, with his hands clasped behind his back.
"Aye, sir, and it pains me to see him left like that. I'm a stabler, sir; horses are my life. I'd sooner trust them than people—they're kinder, and it goes against my grain to see a poor beast suffer, but I'll not be doin’ that demon's biddin'—not even if you tell me to, sir."
"There's not much likelihood of that."
"What are you goin’ to do about him, sir—the bastard?"
Colin sighed. “I don't know, Harris,” he regretted. “Tell no tales to the vicar no matter what happens. I don't want him in the middle of all this. That last seizure he had when he found Elspeth nearly killed him. I won't see him come down again here. He's only forty-six years old and he's had three seizures, and God alone knows how many twinges, as he calls them. He isn't looking at all well of late. I'm worried about him."
The stabler's ice-blue eyes softened. “I think, beggin’ your pardon, that he'd be lookin’ a whole lot better if you'd tell him that, sir."
Snapped out of his reverie, Colin's eyes flashed toward him. “The kindest thing I can do for Elliot right now is to alienate him, Harris. I won't have his death on my conscience. I've got enough guilt over that man burdening me as it is."
"I follow your drift, sir, but he's heartsore over the way you're actin’ toward him."
"Better his heart is sore than stopped. Don't you start picking at me. Christ!"
Harris repositioned his cap and adjusted his suspenders. “We've come through a lot together, sir,” he said, “and we've had our differences. I know I step outa’ line with you, but somebody's got to now and again. I was here when you come outa’ your poor mama's womb, and I'll not let my station stand in the way when it comes to speakin’ the truth. The vicar is the only friend you got hereabouts, and you treat him shameful. I'm your friend, too, but I don't count, ‘cause I'm not of your station, but that don't make me any less ready to stand alongside you when the time comes for it, though you don't know a whit about gratitude. There's one more thing—I'm not goin’ to beg your pardon for tellin’ you, lettin’ the bastard back in here was wrong. You never shoulda’ done it."
"I know that,” Colin regretted.
"Now ‘tis goin’ to come to killin'."
"I know that, too."
"Since I'm goin’ to be in the middle of it, would you mind tellin’ me why?"
"Why what?"
"Why you didn't toss him out on his ass when he first come back yesterday—why you let him get all settled in? After what happened here four years ago, I'd never have believed it if I wasn't here to see it with my own two eyes."
"That doesn't matter,” snapped Colin, “nor does it concern you. Mind your horses, and your business, stabler—and keep that pistol loaded. This time when he goes, he goes for good."
* * * *
When Colin returned to the co
nservatory the artist was nearly finished with his sketch of Jean. Having captured a perfect likeness, a proud smile crept across the little man's face and his posture expanded, but it all dissolved the minute Colin came through the arched glass door.
He hesitated a moment in the doorway casting a careful look around the room, then slammed the door rattling every pane in it and brushed past Jean muttering a string of muffled curses under his breath.
She felt the air stir as he went by. His cold, damp clothes smelled fresh with the scent of the moors. They still held the breath of the biting wind that had risen from the south driving the rain. Mixed with his spice cologne it revived her senses.
He went straight to Malcolm, who was reclining on the sofa with his muddy shoes braced on the arm, and slapped his feet to the floor with a vicious hand. “You take bold liberties with other people's property, bastard,” he spat.
Malcolm's eyes darkened and he sprang erect on the sofa, but Colin had turned to the artist. “And you, sir,” he scourged, “I see that you've taken it upon yourself to rearrange the furniture."
Jean shifted uneasily in the chair and the artist began to fidget. “Uh . . . forgive me, Mr. Chapin,” he sputtered, “m-more light was needed. I-I'll return everything to its proper place at once, sir . . . of course, sir."
"See that you do,” snapped Colin.
He crossed the room and snatched the tablet from the table where the artist had dropped it. After a moment he threw it down roughly and fixed his hard stare upon Jean while he tore off his coat and threw it down as well.
She had risen without a sound and begun the task of returning the candlesticks to their proper places when Malcolm slithered alongside. “There are servants in this house,” he said. “You needn't do that, my dear."
"I-I'll do it,” the artist interrupted in a louder voice than he'd intended. It cracked, and he cleared his throat taking the candlesticks from her hands. Through the ribbons of smoke as he tipped them scorching the wax, he cast a wary sidelong glance toward Colin, who seemed to be enjoying the scene.
Jean looked bewildered with the chore taken from her, and she stood looking on as the artist tugged at the table. Malcolm looped his arm through hers and pulled her close eyeing Colin, who tendered a scathing look down his nose in their direction.
Rape of the Soul Page 42