Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  "I'm sorry. I . . . I can't any longer,” he growled. “Don't pursue it. Find your pleasures elsewhere—and you can tell Kathleen the same."

  "Is . . . is it because o’ the bastard come back?” she moaned. “I won't lie with him no more, sir, I won't let him. Not like four years ago. I never wanted him ta do it ta me. He made me, sir!"

  "That is your affair. I need not explain my actions to the likes of you. I want nothing more from you, woman, plain and simple. Just leave me alone."

  Her tears spilled down as she fastened her bodice with hasty hands. “I think I'm seein’ the thing plain enough,” she snapped through her sobs. “Now that the bastard's come back with a fine lady on his arm, we're not good enough no more for the grand master o’ Cragmoor."

  "Get out,” he snarled.

  "Oh, I'm goin', with pleasure, sir."

  "If I'm going to have to listen to that rasping whine over it, you can collect your wages while you're about it."

  "No,” she sniffed, “I'll keep me position, and thank ya kindly for it. ‘Twill give me great pleasure ta wait ‘til ye're in a better ‘frame o’ mind', so's I can turn the likes o’ you away fer betterin’ meself, sir."

  Wailing openly, she sprang toward the door, burst into the corridor, and ran past the thunderstruck vicar without so much as a glance in his direction.

  Stunned, Elliot stared after her and hurried quickly away from the study door, not wanting Colin to know he'd heard that conversation.

  His brows knit in a puzzled frown, he let himself out of the house, climbed into his trap, and drove back through the fine sheeting mist to the vicarage, pondering the thing that, if he'd not heard himself, he would never have believed.

  * * * *

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  Chapter Thirty-four

  * * * *

  Malcolm didn't speak as he led Jean up to their chamber. Once he'd closed the door and thrown the bolt, he swung hard, hitting her full in the face and sent her sprawling at his feet.

  An agonized scream poured from her lips as he reached the mantle in two strides, grabbed the riding crop, and raised it high.

  "You rebellious bitch,” he snarled, stooping over her, “I'll show you the price of disobedience!"

  Seeing the crop coming toward her through her tears, Jean rolled over quickly face down on the parquetry, but that didn't spare her. It struck her hard, again and again across the small of her back tearing the frock and her flesh along with it.

  She moaned, crawling away from the weapon, but his hand fast in her hair tethered her close as struck her again. “You dared to speak alone with Uncle,” he roared, dealing the final blow with a heavy hand.

  "No, Malcolm. No more,” she groaned.

  He hovered over her, the deadly crop suspended. “I'll kill you, Jean, if you try and undermine my strategy. I'll kill you as easily as I take a breath, but you won't die that quickly I promise you."

  "I've done nothing to spoil your plans,” she sobbed. “You know I haven't...no!” she cried, shrinking away from the crop again. “You know that from what he said downstairs. If I'd betrayed you, you'd be the one who'd be dead now, Malcolm, and you know it."

  He worked the crop in the air over her head. The whirring sound it made troubling the drafts spread her quivering body with gooseflesh. Suddenly he lowered it hard to her back again and she screamed, crawling away as it struck her raw wounds.

  "Shut that goddamned mouth,” he warned. “There you lie, inches from death—I swear that you are, Jean—and you dare to take that insolent tone with me? You left this room and talked with Uncle. You put me at a disadvantage. You shan't do it again."

  "No, indeed I shan't,” she sobbed, defiant. “I want no more conversations with anyone—ever in this house. Let me go, Malcolm. My God, please let me go!"

  Using the hand still fast in her hair, he yanked her to her feet, propelled her toward the bed, and shoved her down upon it ignoring her cries. “What was said during your little talk, Jean?” he snarled.

  "Nothing,” she sobbed.

  "Answer me,” he demanded, wielding the crop again.

  "Nothing . . . no! My God, Malcolm,” she moaned shrinking from him. “You'll never explain this downstairs after what's just happened. If you kill me now your game is over."

  Malcolm laughed. The sound turned her blood cold. “Don't delude yourself, my dear,” he said. “You're a fool if you think I haven't devised an alternate plan. Now you'll tell me I think what happened downstairs last night—and since."

  "Nothing since . . . I swear it!"

  "Tell me,” he persisted, brandishing the crop again.

  "I-I went down to the conservatory."

  "After you were told not to leave this room,” he interrupted, bending closer.

  Staring through terrified eyes, she spoke quickly, “It shan't happen again, you have my word."

  "No, it shan't—go on."

  "Nothing happened, Malcolm. I didn't see him there until it was too late."

  "What did he say?"

  "Nothing, I tell you,” she groaned. “He wanted to know where you were, and I told him you had gone . . . riding."

  "And?” he prodded, raising the crop higher.

  "Please, Malcolm,” she despaired through hysterical sobs, “please put that down. I'm trying to tell you."

  But the crop hovered still, and she went on speaking with a close eye upon it. “He asked me if you ever told me why you were sent away four years ago. He said I should ask you . . . that's all, I swear it."

  "All right, my dear,” he said, “you'll stay here in this room ‘til I'm certain you've told me the truth. Besides, you can't very well go downstairs looking like that. I'm afraid you've had an unfortunate accident, love. It seems that you've tripped on a tear in the hall carpet and you've nearly broken your neck."

  "There is no tear in the hall carpet, Malcolm."

  "Ahhh,” he chuckled, “but there will be before I go downstairs again, my dear."

  "You'll never get away with this, Malcolm . . . never!"

  Tossing the crop aside, he dropped down on the bed, rolled her over, and straddled her. Clamping both hands around her slender throat, he squeezed until he'd reduced her cries to hoarse stutters. “Oh, yes I will, Jean,” he promised, “because, you're going to tell them all the same story. You'll tell it exactly the way I tell it to you. Perhaps I should snap this pretty neck now and not take the chance you'll betray me again. It would be much simpler that way actually."

  "No, Malcolm . . . no,” she choked. “I'll tell them whatever you say. My God . . . let me . . . go. I . . . can't . . . breathe!"

  He threw her aside, and she doubled over gasping for breath.

  "I think you'll behave now, my dear,” he said smugly. “I can see you realize at last that I'm in earnest. Now then, as I was saying, you tripped on a nasty tear in the hall carpet. You struck your face on the newel post and your back on the step when you came down, but you managed to grab fast to the banister before you fell all the way to the bottom. You're going to be quite indisposed until I decide otherwise. Your meals will be served to you here, and you will flatly refuse the doctor—no doctor, Jean. Am I plain?"

  Still sobbing, she nodded.

  "You will play your part to perfection, Jean, or there will be another unfortunate fall, and that one will be tragically fatal I fear. You see it will occur while you are trying to come downstairs on your own before you're recovered enough to handle it, poor thing. A sudden attack of vertigo and you shall tumble down that staircase to the gallery floor below. It's a hard floor, Jean; Italian marble, and that's where they'll find you—quite dead. Choose your fate, my love. The choice, you see, is entirely your own. Now pull yourself together. I'm going down and fetch Amy to tend you. I'll not lock you in; there's no need really. If you try to escape now, I fear you'll find out just how workable your alternate fate really is."

  * * * *

  In the dining hall later that evening, Colin had taken his place
in the carver's chair for dinner as usual. Sipping his wine, he scowled over the rim of the goblet at sight of Ira hurrying toward him clutching the torn sketch.

  "W . . . what happened to my drawing?” he whined. “Do you know, sir?"

  Colin ground out a long sigh that ended in something akin to a growl. “Ahhh, I'm sorry,” he begrudged, “it met with a little . . . accident."

  The artist gasped, his scalp receding further, suddenly imagining it.

  "I'm certain that you can work another,” Colin snapped, draining his glass, “and I've no doubt in my mind that you will, if you can manage to fit it into your hectic schedule, that is."

  Lost somewhere between disbelief and anguish, the artist stared.

  "Well?” barked Colin. “If you're going to eat, dispose of that trash and sit down."

  "Y-yes, sir,” mumbled Ira, crestfallen. He looked around the room dismally for a receptacle, and Colin crooked his thumb toward the hearth.

  Pained, the artist pressed the sketch to his breast. He winced as though he'd been wounded at the thought of committing his work—destroyed though it was—to the fire, and Colin snatched the crumpled papers out of his hands and strode to the hearth, feeding them to the flames himself. Striding back to the table, he took his seat again and refilled his goblet while the nervous little man sank down in his own chair beside him.

  "Well, Mr. Stanley,” said Colin through a careless swallow, “it appears you are to be kept busy at least. Perhaps your new subject can provide you with more character than I have done, though somehow I rather doubt it. I'm afraid you're doomed to frustration at the hands of the Chapins. I do hope you'll charge him well. He can obviously afford it from the look of the clothes on them."

  "I think she'll make a lovely subject, Mr. Chapin,” the artist defended. “She has very good features. The eyes are clear, the nose is in perfect proportion, and there's color in the lips. I like that. She has good cheekbones, too, no hollows to collect ugly shadows. And her hair. Once we've gotten it dressed in a softer style with the tendrils I proposed, it will be just perfect. She's got a good neck you see. I expect she'll be able to carry the coiffure quite well."

  Colin smiled coldly. “Tell me, do all artists speak of their subjects in terms of dissection?"

  But his smile was short lived. Wrapped in his traveling cloak, Malcolm's dark shape stalking angrily through the arch brought his head up with a sharp jerk, and his eyes narrowed on the dark youth approaching.

  The artist craned his neck searching behind Malcolm for Jean. “I-isn't Mrs. Chapin joining us for dinner this evening?"

  "Mrs. Chapin has had an accident,” snapped Malcolm toward Colin. “You know, Uncle, you should be more mindful of the upkeep in this mausoleum. There's a bad tear in the hall carpet upstairs. My wife's had a nasty fall. She could have been killed."

  Colin stared. His cold eyes were unreadable.

  The artist gasped, lurching in his chair. “Oh, dear. Shouldn't we fetch the doctor, sir?” he pleaded, turning to Colin.

  "You needn't trouble,” Malcolm interrupted, though Colin seemed to have no intention of answering the little man's plea, “nothing is broken at least. Amy is tending her, but she'll have her meals on a tray in our chamber until she's recovered."

  "A tear in the hall carpet, eh?” spat Colin. “A pity your foot didn't catch in it."

  Malcolm's half smile curled wide and perverse. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, Uncle,” he said, “but I'm afraid such as that isn't likely to happen to me—I step cautiously you see."

  "Indeed you'd better."

  "I still think we ought to have the doctor,” whined Ira.

  "She's his wife,” snapped Colin. “If he wants a doctor he knows where to fetch one."

  Megan entered with the soup course, and Colin's deep voice arrested her. “Take Mrs. Chapin's dinner to her chamber on a tray,” he said. “It seems she's had an accident. Serve her meals there until further notice."

  "Yes, sir,” said Megan curtly.

  Colin met and matched her icy stare over the rim of his goblet.

  "Well, are you going to see about that tear?” said Malcolm.

  "In due course,” Colin replied coolly. “I'll have my dinner first if you don't mind. I hardly think there's need for undue haste. I should think she'd have sense enough to avoid it now."

  "You are a blackguard,” breathed Malcolm.

  "Indeed,” Colin pronounced.

  "C-can we be civil?” The artist cast a fresh pleading glance between them.

  Colin dosed him with a baneful look of disbelief springing erect in his chair, but the artist bravely ignored the reflex and turned to Malcolm. “I . . . I was hoping to make another sketch,” he stammered. “The one I made today has been . . . ruined you see."

  Malcolm shook his head. “You won't want to sketch that,” he said, meanwhile arresting Megan, who had just ladled soup in his plate and was about to set it down. “I'm not staying to dinner. I have business in the village."

  The maid moved away without answering, carrying the soup with her, and slipped out through the arch casting one last poisonous glance toward Colin over her shoulder.

  "No,” cried the artist, “not her face!"

  Colin continued to study them. He leaned back in his chair rubbing his chin deep in thought.

  "I'm afraid so,” said Malcolm.

  "Oh, I'm so terribly sorry, sir,” the artist despaired. “Are you certain about the doctor, though . . . shouldn't she . . .?"

  "I'm certain,” Malcolm interrupted him. “Amy is most capable. I can vouch for that firsthand can't I, Uncle? Believe me she's in good hands. And now if you'll excuse me I really must be off."

  Clicking his heels, he spun on them and stalked out as abruptly as he'd entered.

  Sipping from his glass, Colin listened to the hollow echo of his footfalls and the thunderous crack of the double doors slamming shut after him at the other end of the entrance hall.

  The artist had begun to stir his soup. The trembling hand that worked the spoon had slopped some over the edge of the bowl onto the gold-rimmed charger plate. “Sir, I think we ought to have the doctor in any case,” he said courageously.

  "Bloody hell,” cried Colin, tossing his napkin down. “Since when are you master in this house? Will you kindly mind your own goddamned affairs and stop mixing into mine?” He stared at the little man's soup plate. “If you plan upon eating the mess you've made of that there, you'd best begin, lest you have to lap it up from the table. Christ!” Vaulting from the carver's chair, he scudded it out behind him and marched from the hall himself.

  Crossing the gallery, he sprinted down the south wing corridor to the oriel at its end, where he snuffed out the candles in their sconces with the palm of his hand and watched Malcolm ride off on the sorrel through the leaded panes rattling in the wind. Raking his hair savagely, he turned and started back toward the study when he saw Amy shuffling toward him.

  "Oh, sir,” she panted, out of breath, “have you heard about the lass’ fall?"

  "I've heard,” snapped Colin.

  "She come down pretty hard, sir. She ought ta have Dr. Howard and she won't hear o’ it. I mixed her a draught, but she won't touch it. She's hurtin', too, poor thing."

  "And just what the bloody hell do you expect of me?"

  "Will you go up and have a look at her, sir? Tell her ‘tis all right ta take the draught. She flat out refused the dinner you sent up, too. She was too upset ta eat it and Megan took it back down ta the kitchen. I'm goin’ ta fix her a pot o’ tea, and some clear broth and wheat toast instead. I've done all I can do. She ought ta have Howard I tell you."

  Colin glared at her. “Gone over to the enemy, have you?” he snarled. “He's seduced you, too, has he—you of all people."

  "Shame on you, sir. You know better,” she cried, “but that lass is no enemy, and she's no horse ta be left saddled for spite, neither. She's hurtin’ I'm tellin’ you."

  "I'm not responsible for the bitch—the bastard i
s."

  "If he don't have sense enough ta look after her proper, somebody's got to. Fie, sir, ‘tis your house she's in, and your carpet she caught her foot in. You can't just leave her up there sufferin’ like that."

  "Jesus!” spat Colin, all but throwing her down as he pushed past her. Rage moved him through the gallery, and he took the broad stairs two at a stride.

  Jean lay propped with pillows in the hand-carved mahogany four-poster, listening to the endless moan of the wind and the mournful growl of the sea below tossing spindrift over the head of the cliff in the darkness. Despairing over the hopelessness of her predicament, Amy’ kindness tugged at her conscience and tears bloomed on her lashes. She longed to confide in that kindness, but she dared not risk it. Instead, out of fear, she had done exactly as Malcolm wanted, and she bitterly despised the lie.

  All at once the lamp on the nightstand flickered in a sudden draft, and the windowpanes rattled in their casings as Colin burst into the room. Startled, she gave a lurch and gasped, clutching the quilt to her bosom as he strode close.

  "Jesus,” he growled, staring toward her bruised cheekbone and puffy split lip.

  "How dare you come barging into this chamber?” she breathed, shrinking from his narrow-eyed scrutiny.

  "And how dare you order me about in my own house, madam?"

  Her eyes, flung wide in terror, stared nervously past him. Expecting Malcolm's dark shape to enter through the doorway at any moment, she'd become paralyzed with fear and her heart had begun to pound visibly beneath the bedclothes. “Get out at once,” she shrilled. “Have you no shred of propriety, sir? My husband . . ."

  "Your husband has gone off to tend business in the village so it seems,” Colin interrupted.

  Jean's posture sagged in relief. “Get out of here,” she demanded.

  "I've come, madam, at my housekeeper's insistence.” He moved closer. “Well, I dare say, you are somewhat accident prone, at that, aren't you?” he mused. “You fell you say?"