Once inside his chamber, Colin set her down in the wing chair without ceremony and slid the door bolt with a rough hand. When he turned she was on her feet, but his rigid arm and pointing finger sat her down again.
"Let me out of this room at once,” she demanded. “How dare you manhandle me?"
He strolled toward her with his arms folded across his chest and looked down his nose toward her terror. “You have a habit of forgetting that this is my house, madam,” he snarled. “Something is amiss in it, and I mean to know what it is. You just came running in as though hell hounds were nipping at your heels, and you're going to tell me why or remain here until you do."
"I . . . I don't like the sea,” she murmured, avoiding his terrible eyes.
"No, I know you don't. So does Malcolm. Why did he take you out there, then?"
"He . . . likes it out there."
Terror that Malcolm would discover that she and Colin had talked again nearly prostrated her with fear, but it was the thought of him finding them together in Colin's bedchamber that wrenched her to her feet. “You let me out of here,” she cried. “I'll scream—I swear it."
"And who's going to hear you? That addlewitted artist is off to the village, and your husband is still courting death on his precious cliff, and probably will be for some time. That only leaves the servants, who are well out of earshot, and me."
"Please,” she pleaded, “if there is one shred of decency in you, please let me out of this room."
He nodded. “Once you've told me what in hell is going on here."
"Nothing is going on. I don't know what you mean. Let me out."
"Why did you marry Malcolm?"
"That, sir, is none of your business."
"Probably not, but I'm curious just the same."
"Why don't you ask Malcolm?"
"I'm asking you."
"And I have no intention of telling you,” she cried, taking a brave half step nearer. “Now you let me out of this room, sir, at once."
Barring her way to the door with his body, Colin studied her longer than she was brave enough to stand. Her terror had turned her face to ash, and her heart pounded visibly against her bodice. She clutched the damp cloak tighter to hide her trembling, but it was no use, her whole body quivered with fright, and he breathed an exasperated sigh, stomped to the door, and yanked the brass bolt open savagely.
The moment he moved she was running toward freedom, like an animal sprung from its cage, but he grabbed her arm before she could get past him wrenching a cry from her and pulled her closer to his smoldering eyes than she cared to be.
"Has Malcolm told you yet why he was packed off four years ago?” he wondered.
Tears welled in her eyes triggered by the awful mix of emotions that gripped her then. She wanted to throw herself at his feet and confess her feelings, but the rage in his eyes closed her throat over the words. All of her hopes dissolved in those eyes, and the worst of it was that he despised her. Suddenly nothing mattered but getting out of that room, and anger mouthed desperate words, “I don't care why you sent him away,” she sobbed. “I don't care, do you hear? I don't care about any of it!"
He held her there for a painfully long moment studying her tears. “You love him that much, then?” he marveled.
Her hysterical sobs were all that answered him, and she yanked herself free with a savage wrench, pushed past him none too gently, and escaped into the shadows that had lengthened along the corridor, leaving him staring after her as she fled without a backward glance to her chamber.
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Chapter Thirty-six
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Malcolm found Jean slumped in the chair beside the hearth when he entered their chamber shortly after with his cloak looped casually over his arm. He tossed it down on the bed, pulled a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket, and began brushing what looked like sawdust to her from his jacket and trousers with it.
Curious, Jean spoke boldly, “What's that,” she wondered.
"I've been tending Lord Faar, since that insolent stabler won't, and it seems the only thing I haven't ruined is my cloak. I had the good sense to remove it first. Harris keeps a filthy stable.” He looked down at the dusty trousers that his assault with the handkerchief had failed to improve. “'Tisn't any use,” he said. “This will never come clean, it's too mucked up with the damp.” He stripped off the jacket and trousers and consigned them to the flames in the hearth along with the handkerchief. “I never did like the cut of that suit anyway,” he drawled. “The trousers were much too tight."
Crossing the room, he yanked another suit from the wardrobe and began putting it on with a close eye upon Jean's shocked expression. “You'll have your dinner here on a tray tonight I think,” he said. “That face won't do downstairs, my dear. Besides, you look a fright. I've told Megan to set up the hipbath. Look at yourself—you're filthy with mud."
"Don't bother with a tray, I'm not hungry.” She watched the leaping flames consume his suit.
Malcolm shrugged. “You bring these things upon yourself you know, Jean.” He adjusted the lapels on his jacket. “One day you'll learn not to provoke me. I do hope it's soon. I'm tiring of this farce."
Jean made no reply, and his twisted half smile broadened as he strolled toward the door. “I'll make your excuses, my dear. Consider yourself sent off to bed like the petulant child you are. Next time perhaps you'll behave."
But Colin wasn't convinced that things were what they seemed, and Jean's absence from the dining hall only reinforced his suspicions. Since she chose not to slake his curiosity, he resolved to do a little investigating on his own, and when Malcolm returned to his chamber after dinner he decided to follow him there and eavesdrop, wondering why he hadn't thought of that before.
He'd scarcely reached the staircase when Amy called to him. Panting and out of breath, she hurried toward the gallery from the servants’ wing. “Sir, can you come ta the servants’ hall for a minute? ‘Tis Harris, he wants ta have a word with you."
"Jesus Christ, not now, Amy. Tell him I'll come ‘round to the stable when I've time."
"Beggin’ yer pardon, but he says ‘tis urgent, sir."
"Christ, woman, are you deaf?” he snarled. “I've something urgent to attend to myself. Tell him he's got to wait. Whatever it is it will have to keep."
She wagged her head. “All right, sir,” she said shuffling back the way she'd come.
Jean had bathed while the dark youth was at dinner and exchanged her damp, soiled frock and soggy shoes for her nightgown and slippers. The bed looked inviting, but she dared not go near it with Malcolm due to return—not after the episode out on the cliff, and she brushed her long coppery hair loose about her shoulders to dry by the fire and curled up in the chair instead wrapped in an afghan. Her swollen eyelids had just begun to droop when Malcolm strode in wrenching them open with a start.
"Waiting for me, my love?” he jeered. “How sweet.” He went to the wardrobe and took out his boots and crop. “Well,” he drawled,” dropping down on the bed to remove his shoes, “you're just going to have to wait a little longer I'm afraid. I've business in the village tonight. But be of good cheer, we'll have our time together soon enough—very soon now."
A flood of relief comforted her, but she dared not let him see it. “Go wherever you must, Malcolm,” she snapped, “just leave me alone."
"I'm sure you'd like me to leave you alone to nurse your sweet dreams of Uncle wouldn't you, Jean?” Having tugged on his riding boots, he got to his feet and took up the crop, strolling toward her.
Jean lowered her head as he took a step nearer, and Malcolm clicked his tongue as he bent down to study her. “More tears?” he taunted. “Yes, you're in love with him all right. I want to hear you say it."
"Malcolm . . . please,” she sobbed.
His crooked finger jerked her head up sharply. “Say it!” he demanded.
"All right, I'll say it for you,” she snapped
defiantly.
Outside Colin stiffened, raking the waves back from his moist brow, his bewildered eyes memorizing every splinter in the door panel as he listened.
"Yes,” cried Jean, “I am in love with your uncle. I have been from the start. You didn't know that did you, Malcolm? And it hasn't to do with his looks, either. God knows his churlish foul temper has spoiled all that. Those horrible scowls of his are as black as your heart. And telling me of his sordid peccadilloes isn't going to change anything. It shan't make me love him any less—nothing will, and that isn't even sane. And it doesn't even matter what he thinks of me, because he'll never know what's in my heart. I shan't ever lay it bare to be trodden upon by a...a savage who doesn't have a heart himself. But not even that can change what I feel. So you see, you can do what you want with my body, Malcolm, but you cannot have my soul—it doesn't belong to me."
"You bitch!” he snarled, flinging her head aside.
Jean cried aloud, stung by the sharp, pinching fingers. “You wanted to hear it,” she sobbed, “well now you have. I trust you're satisfied at last. Why don't you just kill me and get it over with? That's what you're planning in the end isn't it? Go ahead, Malcolm, you'd be doing me a kindness."
Outside, Colin lunged for the doorknob and stood with his hand poised above it.
Malcolm clasped the crop behind him. “That sharp tongue is going to be your undoing I'm telling you, Jean,” he warned. “Have you forgotten so soon our little conversation out on the cliff today?"
"Why don't you just let me go, Malcolm? You know I despise you. I won't help you with whatever it is you're up to, so what in God's name do you want with me?"
"You aren't going anywhere, my dear, and I'm getting awfully tired of telling you that. I hope I'm making myself plain. I don't want to have to explain all this to you again. You know how I hate repeating myself. You are my wife and you're going to stay right here and act like it. I'll never let you go—never, Jean, so you can get all those lovely little fantasies right out of your head."
"Please, Malcolm . . ."
"You really don't listen do you?” he marveled. “You should know better by now I should think, and no one is going to help you, Jean—least of all Uncle. He's betrayed you once already.” He popped a sarcastic laugh. “But for him you would never have had to have that nasty little accident on the hall carpet, or have you forgotten about that so absorbed in your passion?"
In the hallway Colin scarcely breathed, his narrowed eyes burning toward the heavy oak door with venom enough to pierce it through.
Malcolm laughed again. “A pity I had to tear it like that,” he said, “but it was worth it. It really is a shame you missed dinner downstairs that night, my dear. I was magnificent. When I insisted that he repair it at once, do you know what he said—your precious love?” Folding his arms across his broad chest with the cloak he'd snatched up looped through them, he went on in sing-song, “'I should think she'd have sense enough to avoid it now', that's what he said. No, my dear, I'm afraid you're actually safer with me."
Jean turned her face away and Malcolm strolled toward the door. Outside, hearing him approach, Colin stepped quickly away. He sprang toward the landing, ran down the staircase, and disappeared in the south wing corridor below.
Malcolm reached for the doorknob. “Go to bed like a good little girl, my dear. I shan't be gone long, but don't wait up. I shouldn't want to spoil your . . . rest. Pleasant dreams . . ."
At the sound of his laughter and footsteps receding down the hallway, Jean vaulted out of the chair and hurried to snuff out the lamps. Taking no time to dress, she threw her hooded cloak over her nightgown and ran to the window straining the blustery darkness with anxious eyes until she saw Malcolm leave the stable astride the sorrel, his cloak billowing in the wind. Once he'd gotten clear of the stable doors, she spun on her heels and tore out into the corridor to the landing. Flying down the stairs she raced through the gallery and along the entrance hall toward the double doors and freedom.
From the south wing oriel where he, too, had watched Malcolm ride off, Colin saw her and bolted down the hallway in pursuit. Running on long, sinewy legs he charged through the doors she'd left flung wide behind her and narrowed his eyes to the blasting wind scanning the blackness in all directions.
Cyclonic gusts whipped the soft folds of his cambric blouse about the rigid shoulders beneath and swept his hair back from a furrowed brow. His piercing eyes came around toward the east and the rise that spilled down toward the cross, and he caught sight of Jean's ecru gown fanned out beneath her cloak as she ran headlong over the frost-covered heath toward the footpath. Springing toward her, he raced over the uneven ground he knew so well, through the tall, chattering grass spears snarled thick with bracken and furze, with the surefooted gait of a mighty stag.
Glancing over her shoulder, Jean saw him and screamed, driving herself harder into the merciless wind in a frantic attempt to escape, and he reached her just as she stumbled in her haste and fell forward in the wet scrub at his feet on the crest at the edge of the path.
"Oh, my God . . . please . . . you've got to let me go,” she shrilled, burying her face in the ice-crusted grass.
But strong hands pulled her toward him and stronger arms gathered her close. Wrenching her hard against him he found her lips with his own anxious mouth and she moaned at their touch. The sound mingled with one trembling in his own dry throat, resonating in their bodies, drawing them closer still, and she melted against him clinging to the rippling blouse and his powerful back beneath.
Locked in the heat of that combustible embrace, they scarcely felt the wind that whistled over the heath and slammed against them, or the icy splinters of rain that had begun to stab down driving hard out of the southwesterly gale. Joined roughly as she was to his dynamic body, she found no trace of brutality in it, nor did his arousal forced against her prompt terror. She could feel every throbbing muscle in him, and she wanted those strong arms to hold her there forever.
When at last their lips parted, his name spilled from hers and she went limp in his arms. Gathering her up, he lifted her tenderly and carried her back to the house and up the great staircase to his chamber. He slid the bolt as they entered and set her down on the edge of the bed. Taking her wet cloak and slippers from her, he draped the cloak over the boot chair beside the fire, and set the slippers on the hearthstone to dry.
Sinking down on the bed beside her, he brushed the coppery tendrils back from her face with gentle hands. Careful fingers traced her cheekbone where the bruise had been while his haunted teal eyes searched hers in the fire glow. “My God, woman, why didn't you tell me?” he murmured, gathering her close again.
"How did you find out?"
"I thought there was something wrong this afternoon. Then, when you didn't come down tonight I was certain of it. I followed Malcolm up after dinner. I was listening at the door just now. I wish to Christ I'd stooped to that sooner."
"You heard it all?"
"Enough,” he breathed. “And how was I to hear it? Reduced to eavesdropping like a common servant in my own house. Jesus, why didn't you tell me, Jean?"
"I . . . I was afraid,” she sobbed.
"I frightened you that much?"
"Since this nightmare began, I prayed you would be the kind of man I could plead with for help. Then, when I got here..."
"Did you mean what you said in there, Jean?"
She looked him in the eyes, drowning in the pain and confusion she found there. “Yes, Colin,” she murmured.
"All of it?"
She nodded.
He pulled her close again. “Ahhh, Jesus, and yet you couldn't tell me?"
Tears blurred his image. “I couldn't take that chance,” she moaned, “not after you'd told him we'd spoken. I begged you not to tell him, Colin."
"Yes, but you didn't tell me why."
"I wanted to, but you said such horrible things. And that look in your eyes. I was so frightened . . . of him . . . of you. Colin,
I have no experience in this sort of treachery. I was certain that you despised me right along with Malcolm. You know how you treated me. What else was I to think?"
His hands slipped away and he cupped his head in them. “I did at first,” he confessed on a sigh.
"But why?"
"You were a threat from the moment you came into this house, Jean. I knew you weren't a whore. I knew it when I first set eyes on you.” He spat out a cryptic laugh. “I thought if I called you one often enough it would make it so—at least in my mind.
"I'll own that I was jealous. Why the devil should he have what I've denied myself all these years? But that wasn't the worst of it. I'd shut all the doors a long time ago and you'd begun to pry them open. I wanted to pitch the pair of you out when you first came in, but I couldn't. Right from the onset, you were making me feel something I didn't want to feel—something I swore I'd never let myself feel, and yet I couldn't send you away."
"I had no idea,” she murmured.
"That's fairly obvious,” he said bitterly. “You seemed so devoted to Malcolm. Oh, my God, how that drove me mad. The mere thought of you in his arms in that bed. Christ knows I hated myself more than you then, Jean. Your love for each other seemed so strong. But even despite all that I couldn't bring myself to send you out of my sight. I've had Elliot on my back over it—even Harris dressed me down for not pitching the bastard out on the heath when he first set foot back on the place. Oh, I wanted you out of here all right, but it was too late. You'd gotten through all my defenses, and even if you were gone from this house, I knew you'd never be gone from me. I've been in torment of a hell beyond my wildest imagining."
He got up from the bed then and strolled to the hearth searching the crackling flames. It seemed an eternity until he spoke again, and when he did his voice was husky with remorse. “I knew you were afraid of me,” he told her. “I wanted you to be afraid. It was the only weapon I had. I thought if you were frightened enough you'd convince the bastard to leave before it was too late and you'd gotten in the way of what's coming to him. I just couldn't send you myself."
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