"Y . . . yes."
"On a tear in the hall carpet,” he scorned, answering his own question.
"I've told you, yes,” she snapped, unable to meet his cold eyes.
"I say you are a liar, madam."
Her head flashed toward him. “I beg your pardon?"
Colin sucked in his cheeks toward a caustic smile. “Your husband made mention of wanting some time...alone with you this afternoon, as I remember. I've seen such as that there on his women before.” He gestured toward her swollen face. “Could it be he's become . . . eh, how shall I put it . . . a tad overzealous again? He does rather tend to be brutal during his sexual bouts, but then, obviously you know that don't you?"
She gasped. “How dare you presume to discuss such matters with me? Who do you think you are? Get out of this room. Get out at once!"
* * * *
He threw his head back looking down his nose toward the strange mix of terror and outrage that moved her then. “I think Amy is right,” he drawled, “I think I shall summon Howard. He ought to have a look at this."
"No!” she shrieked, vaulting upright from the pillows. But the sudden motion cause her pain and she cried aloud, biting hard into her bruised lower lip, and fell back again.
Colin took a quick step closer, a dark frown shadowing his eyes. “Where else are you hurt?” he wondered.
"Please, will you just leave me alone?” she forced. “I don't want the doctor. My husband doesn't wish it."
"Ha,” spat Colin, “I shouldn't wonder. I asked you where else you're hurt?"
"I . . . I struck my back when I fell . . . on the railing. Your housekeeper has been kind enough to prepare a poultice. I'll be quite all right. I just need to rest for a bit. Now will you please leave me alone? I should think you've done enough damage as it is."
Colin cocked his head, puzzled at the last, and after a thoughtful moment he raked his hair back roughly. “All right, madam,” he conceded, “but since you won't have the doctor, you will take the draught that Amy's prepared. It will dull the pain and you'll sleep."
"No,” cried Jean, “I don't want to sleep in this horrible house. My God, will you just let me be?"
Colin stared down toward her battered face glistening with tears and his breast heaved with rage. “Suffer then,” he snarled. And spinning on his heels he stalked out slamming the door after him.
Charging toward the landing, he met Amy approaching with the tea tray. “Is she goin’ ta have the doctor, sir?” she wondered.
"No, she is not,” snapped Colin, “and she's flatly refused your draught as well. Mix the nostrum into her food. The foolish slut hasn't sense enough to ease her own pain."
"Yes, sir,” said Amy, shuffling down the corridor.
Colin watched her set the tray on the settle outside Malcolm's door and deftly pour the sedative into the Spode teapot on it before she carried it into the room. Satisfied, he turned back toward the landing again and spotted the tear. Squatting down, he fingered the carpet that had come loose from the floorboards. As he gripped it absently, some of the pile and threads came away in his hand indicating that the damage was recent, and he turned staring long and hard toward Malcolm's closed chamber door.
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Chapter Thirty-five
* * * *
Two weeks before Christmas Ira Stanley finished Colin's portrait and the vicar was elated. The likeness was incredible. Even Colin was pleased. As soon as Jean's bruises began to fade, the artist wasted no time beginning hers, anxious to be away from the undercurrent of violence that permeated the very air in the great house.
Colin had adopted some of Elliot's strategy and, while it did nothing to remove the dark vengeful youth from Cragmoor, it did serve to annoy him. In view of that the vicar came often to keep a close eye upon the situation. In sympathy with Colin's position, he stood firm in the path of Malcolm's hatred toward himself as well, with little regard and less fear. Convinced that the devious youth was more evil than arrogant, he studied him closely, and the cryptic innuendoes he was fed by the half smiling mouth did not alter his opinions. But Elliot wasn't totally immune to fear, and while he wasn't afraid for himself, he was terrified for Colin.
Malcolm soon tired of his vigil over Jean at the sittings, and on the second of January he left her in the conservatory and went off in pursuit of his own amusements as the artist began the sitting. At ease in Malcolm's absence Jean sat very still watching the little man work for some time. The portrait was going well—too well to her thinking. Reminded that it would all too soon be over—that the sessions that took her away from Malcolm would eventually end, she lost her wistful smile.
Just then Colin entered, and the artist stopped painting mid-stroke as he stalked past the easel. “Carry on, I shan't disturb you,” he snapped.
Ignoring Jean, he went to the wall of windows that faced the east. Shielding his eyes from the glare, he scanned the bleak gray morning through the glass, seeking an invitation to escape, but the dreary face of the day offered no encouragement.
Watching him, Jean's eyes saddened. There was tension in his posture. He wore no jacket, and she could see the muscles in his broad shoulders pulling his blouse taut forewarning of anger, a sign she'd come to read clearly. Suddenly she knew what was written in her face—what up to then she'd refused to admit. She was falling in love with him—a man who despised her. That wasn't even sane, and yet if he had turned then he would have read the despair of it in her eyes. But he remained a prisoner of his own thoughts. Though his body was only several paces away, his mind was not, it was sunken deep in the moors. And when he finally moved toward the hearth he passed her by as though she weren't even there.
Strolling over the slate floor he saw Malcolm before she did. As he passed the artist's worktable, the dark youth's shape leaning in the arch entered his field of vision, and the look upon that face as the onyx eyes narrowed on his wife stopped Colin cold in his tracks. He had seen that menacing glare all too often before, but never trained upon Jean. He glanced thoughtfully toward her then, wondering. She hadn't broken the pose, and for a brief moment he continued to stare unabashedly.
Malcolm's sharp eyes caught his uncle studying the situation and he smiled, though his black eyes narrowed. There was a glimmer of fiendish excitement in the look of him then that riddled Colin with cold chills. He'd seen that look often enough in the past as well. It put him on guard, and when the dark youth pushed off from the archway and spoke, Jean stiffened as though she'd been run through, charging his suspicions even further.
"Well, Uncle, what do you think of the portrait?” Malcolm taunted.
Colin ignored him. Moving on to the hearth, he turned to face the scene and leaned against the marble statuary holding up the mantle, with his foot braced against the andiron.
Malcolm strolled toward the easel and studied the canvas. “No artist could ever do her justice,” he murmured, turning to Ira. “No offense intended, Mr. Stanley, but you must admit I am indeed a lucky, lucky man."
Ira beamed. “Oh, yes, I quite agree with you, sir, on both scores. I think that's all we'll do today. The light's not good and I must go into the village for more supplies before dinner.” He turned to Jean. “You can relax now, my dear."
Jean's posture eased, and she reached with a trembling hand to soothe the back of her neck. At the sound of her husband's caustic voice aimed in her direction, her hand stopped in mid air. “Tired, my dear?” he crooned. “I know just the thing. We'll have a nice little stroll on the cliff. Megan is fetching our cloaks. I thought you might enjoy a bit of an outing. The sea air is just the tonic you need to perk you up after your sitting."
Jean spun toward him. She was terrified.
Behind, Colin's eyes widened and he stepped away from the hearth. Adjusting his posture, he monitored the rapid rise and fall of Jean's breast carefully.
"I do hope that witless wench hurries,” drawled Malcolm. “I believe it's threatening
rain."
Feeling the tension in Colin's expanded posture clear across the room, the artist began to gather his brushes and paints together in great haste.
Colin paid no attention to him. His eyes were trained upon the fright in Jean's staring toward her husband. The odd exchange had made him more than a little curious, and he rubbed the back of his thumb across his rigid lips studying it.
Jean's fear of the sea had been made very clear. Malcolm's suggestion of a walk on the cliff bothered him, as did Jean's reaction to it. Malcolm noticed, glancing toward him. Their eyes met, and when the dark youth spoke, Colin tilted his head back looking down his nose at the both of them.
"Well, Uncle, you haven't answered my question,” he said, pulling Jean closer.
"What question?"
"I asked you what you think of the portrait? She is beautiful isn't she?"
"This man could paint the devil with beauty,” said Colin. “Why don't you let him do your portrait, bastard?"
A quick glance in Colin's direction wrenched a whine from the artist's lips, and he set his brushes down half cleaned, all but upsetting the solvent, and excused himself making a hasty nervous exit.
Malcolm laughed. “Do you still think I'm possessed of a devil, Uncle?"
"I never did, but you did didn't you, when you were a child? Perhaps you still do."
"The good vicar does,” Malcolm jeered.
"You're afraid of him aren't you, bastard?” flashed Colin.
"I fear no one, Uncle—least of all that poor, wretched soul; the man's pathetic."
"No, perhaps not in the physical sense,” Colin triumphed. “What you fear is his power—his strength of conviction. You fear what he stands for because you cannot stand against it. There are many different kinds of fear."
"I know none of them,” said Malcolm with pride. “Fear, Uncle, in any form can alter the design of one's future. I will be no slave to circumstance. I make my own to suit."
"And . . . does it suit?"
"Not yet, but it will—I'm certain of that now."
"You always were too sure of yourself, Malcolm, it will be your undoing one day."
"Not in your lifetime."
Jean had begun to pale just as Megan entered with their cloaks, and she scarcely felt Malcolm slip hers around her shoulders.
"Well, Uncle,” he sniffed, “we shall have to continue this debate another time . . . unless, of course, you'd like to join us?"
"No thank you, bastard,” said Colin, his eyes trained upon Jean. “I'm afraid I do not enjoy the sea."
Jean's head came up sharply and their eyes locked for an instant, but that was all Malcolm would allow. Exultant, he swept her out through the arched glass door and ushered her along the drive toward the cliff beyond.
He didn't speak as he led her to the summit that jutted out over the rocky shoreline. The wind was raw, swirling a fine spray aloft that sailed over the cliff in great clouds at the edge. It seemed to be mocking the breakers, fish-gray and cold, that scattered foam on the shingle below, and Jean began to tremble.
The expanse of hostile motion reaching without end was too vast—a ribbon of unrest unbroken by land as far as the eye could see. It terrified her, but she was acutely aware that Malcolm had brought her there to that very purpose, and she struggled desperately to hide her fear. That, however, was no mean task, for waterfowl strafed them soaring close in their haste to flee the gale, and she cried aloud trying to dodge the winged missiles.
Across the rise, Harris noticed the pair as he left the stable on his way to the servants’ entrance. He moved slowly along through the blasting wind to the far end of the stable and lingered there watching.
Malcolm didn't notice him then. He was straining his eyes toward the heavy swells. When he spoke his voice was calm, but a deadly tremor in it made Jean's knees threaten to buckle, and she stiffened against the arm tethering her closer.
"All this is mine,” he reveled, with a wide sweep of his free arm, meanwhile crushing her closer with the other. “See how it genuflects before me? It knows who is master of Cragmoor."
Jean shuddered, but he ignored her, taking a deep breath that expanded his lungs and his posture as well. “I can breathe out here,” he rejoiced. “Look, Jean—look! There's power in that sea, my dear, a symphony of power. Hear it?” he whispered, cocking his head. “It's angry now—it's best when it's angry."
"It's ugly, Malcolm, ugly and cold, just as you are. You belong to it."
"Careful, my love,” he warned. “It's a long way down from here.” He flashed her a lethal glance, but it was brief, for the sea had his attention then. There was a moment of pregnant silence. She watched the half smile broaden, baring canine teeth, and her heart leaped at the look in his eyes when they came back around toward her. “You're in love with him aren't you?” he triumphed.
Jean lost all color and her strength along with it. A sharp prickling across her scalp threatened to drain consciousness. He had taken her too close to the edge. Glancing down she could see roots and skeletal branches, long forgotten by time and nature, reaching toward her like outstretched arms from between rocks slimed thick with algae on the cliff's sheer face. And the dizzying motion of the backwash creaming over jagged boulders and broken shingle on the strand below sapped her courage.
Terror spoke. “I don't know what you're talking about. You're hurting me, Malcolm. Let me go."
He laughed. “If I let you go, my love, you'll topple over the edge. See how the ground gives—even where we stand?"
"You're mad,” she shrilled.
"I take my pleasure here,” he confessed, “tempting the edge to give as that out there arouses me. There is no woman alive who could bring me to such a climax as I know here in the arms of this mistress.” In the blink of an eye his reverie dissolved and his demeanor darkened. “But I do continue my search for one,” he snarled. “Feel it, my dear? It's ready for you."
Hysterical, she screamed, but his fingers only groped more urgently at her breasts, and his cold mouth threatened to smother her, swallowing her cries as he forced her against his hardness.
She jerked her head aside. “If you touch me I'll go to the vicar,” she threatened. “I'll tell him, Malcolm—I will. I swear it."
He chuckled huskily. “Oh, my dear, if you so much as entertain the thought of doing anything of the kind, this here that you feel will have you. It will tear you apart, Jean, and I promise you'll be in no condition to tell anyone anything."
Anxiety released adrenaline, and she struggled despite the crumbling precipice they stood upon. Clumps of besotted earth and pebbles broke away and fell to the rocky shoreline below, and her feet slipped on the slick wet grass as she fought to keep her footing.
All at once the dark youth held her at arm's length. Over her shoulder he saw Harris watching. Jean followed his deflected eyes with hers and saw the stabler as well. That inspired confidence, and she struggled against Malcolm's grip with all her strength.
Dodging the tiny fists that flailed at him, Malcolm laughed. “You're in love with him all right,” he knew. “It's no use, Jean. I saw you in there just now. He doesn't want you, my dear, but I do. I think I made that plain enough just now. Soon, Jean—very soon now, I'll see if you can pleasure me the way she does,” he promised, sweeping his arm wide toward the vast expanse of angry water rushing toward shore.
Watching from the misty shadows of the stable, Harris narrowed his sharp eyes toward the scene in puzzlement. The wind had carried her desperate screams to his ears, and he'd seen the cruel embrace she had fought so valiantly to escape without falling over the edge, wondering whether or not he should interfere. He had made up his mind to do just that, when he saw her break away and run slipping and stumbling headlong over the heath toward the house, leaving Malcolm and his laughter behind on the brink.
As he continued to travel the crumbling edge, the dark youth looked up and saw that the stabler was still watching. For a split second their eyes met, but Malcolm didn't c
ease his lurid courtship of the elements, and Harris hurried on toward the servants’ entrance trying to make sense of what he'd seen.
Jean knew that she hadn't escaped by her own prowess. Malcolm had let her go. She knew now that she would be no match for him when he did decide to claim his rights. She also knew he was tiring of whatever game it was he was playing in his uncle's house, and that it wouldn't be long before her worst fear became reality. She hadn't been able to hide her feelings from him. He knew she was in love with Colin, and he was right—Colin despised her, there was no help for her there. His betrayal was proof of that. She was alone in her dilemma and she was terrified.
When she reached the double doors she found them locked and panic moved her toward the conservatory. Moments later, she burst in through the arched glass door, leaving it flung wide to the misty drizzle, and ran through the room whimpering uncontrollably without seeing Colin lounging on the sofa beside the hearth. He vaulted to his feet and sprinted after her, but Jean didn't hear his footfalls behind. Her sobs and the thunder of her heartbeat pounding in her ears prevented her.
The hem of her frock beneath the wet cloak was caked with mud and grass, and her skin and hair were damp with the mist that had chilled her to the bone. Tripping over her wet skirts, she'd begun to climb the staircase when Colin reached her. At the touch of his strong hand on her shoulder, she spun around expecting to find Malcolm, and threw up her arms to protect her face in a reflex action that wrenched an exclamation of disbelief from Colin's lips. “Jesus,” he breathed. And, scooping her up without ceremony, he carried her up the stairs toward his chamber.
In mortal terror of the look in his eyes, she struggled against his grip beating at his head and chest with all her strength.
"Stop that,” he thundered, shaking her, “stop it I say. I'm not going to hurt you, madam, but, bigod, I will have some answers here."
The arms that held her were more powerful than Malcolm's, and yet somehow she didn't fear them. She could feel the harnessed strength in the rock-hard body that moved her up the grand staircase with ease. The scent of spice drifted from his skin. His heart was beating against her own, its rapid thunder echoed in her ears, and she shut her eyes unable to trust herself to meet his. They impaled her then and the look in them was deadly.
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