Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  Barefoot and bare chested, he propelled her into the hall and led her to her chamber. Once he'd seen her safely inside, he turned back just in time to catch a glimpse of Megan watching from the shadows of his own chamber doorway in the north wing.

  Running on long, muscular legs, he reached her just as she flew toward the landing and jerked her back along the corridor. With one hand clamped around her arm and the other firmly in place over her mouth, leaking a scream in the quiet, he steered her into his chamber and slid the bolt.

  Megan beat and clawed at his arms, and he clamped his broad palm tighter over her lips. Pained, her eyes began to water, and she attempted to bite the hand with sharp teeth.

  He shook her roughly. “Don't you dare, bitch,” he spat in her ear. “Sink those teeth into me, and I'll snap your treacherous neck in my hand here and now. I swear it."

  Her eyes widened at the deadly look of him and she sagged in his arms, but he didn't relax them. “Just what the bloody hell do you think you're about, spying upon me, eh?” he snarled, shaking her again. “What the devil are you doing skulking about my chamber at this hour?"

  His hand was still fast over her lips and she clawed at it wildly.

  After a moment he loosened his grip. “All right, but if you make one sound my fist will put a stop to it,” he promised, shoving her away.

  "Jesus,” she panted, “I can scarcely breathe, you savage!"

  "You'll find out just how much of a savage I can be if you don't lower your voice,” he warned, making a quick move toward her. She shrank back from him whimpering, and he nodded. “That's better. Now then, what in hell were you about just now?"

  "I seen you. So ye've had yer fine lady, have you?” She nodded, agreeing with herself, and braced her hands on her hips. “I seen you takin’ her back ta her chamber just now—half naked, the pair o’ you!"

  "I'm sorry you did,” he said, “because now I shall have to give you your wages.” Snatching a fresh blouse from the wardrobe he tugged it on with rough hands.

  "Ahhhh, so she was worth it, then?” She spat toward him and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “That ta the both of you, you bloody whoremaster."

  He grabbed her arm and wrenched it hard. “You slut,” he snarled. “I want you out of this house at first light tomorrow.” He shook her again. “Is that plain?"

  "Here—you're hurtin’ me."

  He flung her aside. “I'll do worse if you open that mouth again,” he promised, hastily fastening his buttons.

  "Sendin’ me outa’ here ain't goin’ ta stop me tongue from waggin’ should I have a mind ta tell what I know ta the right party . . . if you take me meanin'?” She sauntered close, pressing up against him. “But if you was ta favor me now and again like you usta’ do, I'd keep me mouth shut tight, I would—I swear it."

  He grabbed her arms and shook her again. “You would blackmail me? Filthy whore. How could I have ever touched you? I've been bloody damn good to you over the years in this house, Megan. I don't owe you a goddamned thing, nor will you extract any favors except swift and certain ruin if you dare attempt to betray me. Don't test me, bitch, because if you do I'll see you shut up in the workhouse—or transported. Wag that vicious tongue against me and you'll work no more in England, bigod. Before I'm through no respectable house will have you, I'll personally see to that. Now move.” He yanked her toward the door and threw the bolt. “Don't utter a sound,” he warned, “not so much as a whisper, or I will forget I am a gentleman, and you won't like the outcome I guarantee you."

  "Where are you takin’ me?” she whined, struggling.

  "Downstairs to Amy,” he snapped. “She'll keep a sharp enough eye upon you once I've told her that you've been caught stealing."

  Megan gasped. “Here, I never stole nothin’ in all me life and you know it."

  "Oh, no? And just what would you call this extortion you've proposed here now, eh?” He pulled her into the hall—barefoot as he was—and yanked her along beside him. “Not one word—be still,” he charged. “I'll give you your wages at once, and if you dare to mouth so much as one syllable against me, I will seek you out and show you what a savage really is—I swear it."

  * * * *

  Meanwhile in her bedchamber, Jean lay feigning sleep. Scarcely breathing, she listened to the click of Malcolm's key locking the door behind him and the creak of the parquet inlays under his heavy step. In spite of herself, she shuddered, and though the room was in darkness except for the soft glow issuing from the crackling hearth, Malcolm caught the motion and laughed aloud as he shed his cloak and jacket.

  "You aren't sleeping, Jean, I know that, so you needn't pretend to be.” His voice was like acid burning through the stillness. Moving toward the bed, he stripped off his shirt, tossed it aside, and dropped down beside her. “So many nights you've pretended,” he went on, “but I knew, and I let you think you'd pulled it off. I always know, Jean. Remember that. It doesn't mean much to you now, but one day it will. Not to worry, though, I'll remind you when the time comes."

  She turned her head aside shrinking from his closeness, but his cold thumb pressed into her chin brought it back toward him. “Now then, what have we here?” he crooned. “Whatever are you thinking of? What cruel things are these that keep you from your slumber as if I need ask?” He laughed. “Not going to answer? Well, that doesn't really matter, Jean. Your silence speaks louder than that voice you dare not trust."

  Twisting his fingers in her hair, he grabbed her wrist with his free hand and drove it down against his hardness. “Frustration is an ugly thing, my dear,” he murmured.

  Crying aloud, Jean struggled, but he laughed louder, tugging at her hair again while he crushed her fingers tighter against him.

  "Let go of me, Malcolm,” she shrilled.

  "Oh, you'd like that wouldn't you? I dare say I'm spoiling your sweet dreams of Uncle aren't I? I'm tiring of this little charade. It's high time I taught you a lesson in obedience—a little demonstration of just how futile your pitiful dreams really are."

  Bending, he covered her lips with his own hungry mouth. His sharp teeth pierced her lower lip, and she twisted desperately in a vain attempt to pull away, but his hold was firm and his fist crushing her hand against his groin had stopped her circulation.

  He'd nearly smothered her when he finally pulled his head back, panting. “Don't struggle,” he breathed, “don't, Jean, unless you want what you hold in your hand here. Struggling only stimulates me."

  "Please, Malcolm.” She sucked in her breath, for he'd tightened his grip on her hair forcing her head back.

  "You wouldn't pull away from Uncle would you, Jean?” he snarled. Freeing the numbed hand, he thrust his weight against her and his lips assailed her swollen mouth again. They were vicious, predatory things forcing hers apart beneath them. Terror-struck, she jerked her head aside.

  Laughing, he closed his hooked fingers tighter around her slender throat, stifling her cries, and forced her head back again. She couldn't move. Her body was pinned beneath his weight, and he had all but stopped her breathing between the viselike grip of his talons and the cruel, smothering lips. But her hands were free and she used them, tearing at him, drawing blood as she raked her nails along his face and throat and down his bare shoulder.

  "Bitch!” he spat. Stung with pain, he pulled back quickly arresting the flailing arms. Taking both her wrists in one massive hand, he held them high above her head and ripped her nightgown down the front with one savage wrench. Spreading it wide, he unbuttoned his trousers and forced her legs apart struggling between them.

  A scream rose in her throat, but he swallowed it, biting hard into her lip again while he pressed up against her. Then all at once he stopped like a statue frozen there and threw his dark head back in a burst of blood-chilling laughter.

  "No, Malcolm. My God, please . . .” she choked lying stock-still, for to move a hairsbreadth would have consummated their marriage.

  The misshapen sound of his laughter met Colin's e
ars as he hurried along the corridor toward the tutor's chamber, having finished his business with Megan, and he sprang toward their door and leaned near it listening with his breath suspended.

  "Do you see, my dear, how useless your struggling will be when I'm ready to exercise my rights?” Malcolm panted. “And you needn't fear, it shan't be long now."

  Flinging her wrists aside, he shifted his weight and rolled off her. Sobbing, she cringed, covering herself with the remains of her nightgown and doubled over in a fetal position at the far edge of the bed.

  Outside in the shadows, Colin stiffened. His trembling hand shot out toward the doorknob and he worked his fingers in the air above it, his heart pounding so wildly he could scarcely hear their voices above the noise.

  Malcolm rubbed the scratches on his face with a rough hand and examined his fingers, which came away smeared with blood. “You little wildcat. I'll clip your claws,” he spat. “Don't think you've gotten away with it, Jean. Your day is coming. You're no different than all the rest. You'd give that precious body of yours to Uncle in a heartbeat if you could, and all he'd need do is snap his fingers.” He hesitated a moment pondering something. Then satisfied with the thought, he spoke, but laughter preceded the words. “Yes, indeed, that's just the thing,” he said aloud to himself. “You're going to have a surprise soon, Jean—just as soon as that idiot has laid the last stroke to your portrait."

  Jean's head snapped toward him.

  "Oh? You don't like the idea? And you don't even know what it is. I'll just let you stew over that awhile."

  "Why, Malcolm?” she sobbed. “You don't want me. You despise me just as I despise you. Why in God's name are you doing this?"

  "That's bothering you is it? Ohhhh, I want you, have no fear of that. My passion just now was real enough, but no more than animal instinct. You should count yourself lucky. I always make it a point to satisfy that—something I've learned from Uncle as a matter of fact. I used to spy on him you know. He has no idea how often. Yes, I've had an excellent teacher I'm afraid."

  "You never learned such as that this side of hell, Malcolm."

  "Now, now, mustn't sell Uncle short,” he jeered. “He's quite magnificent isn't he? Much more handsome than I all the way ‘round. I've always been jealous of that. But no matter. What I lack in substance I compensate for in style. Uncle has no imagination when it comes to the sexual arts I'm afraid, for all the practice he's had. Awfully dull stuff. Would you like me to give you a detailed description?"

  Jean sat up and turned toward him. “Malcolm, why must it be me? Surely there must be other women you could choose to enlist in your sordid plans?"

  "It's too late for that now, my love. You'll do fine—perfectly in fact."

  "I'll not do so fine when it comes down to it, and I won't help you with whatever it is you're after here no matter what the consequences."

  Vaulting erect he shoved her down roughly ignoring her cries. “Enough of this,” he snarled. “I am amused with your pleading, my dear, but bored stiff with that pitiful whine and these wretched displays of defiance. If you only knew how ridiculous they are."

  "Enlighten me,” she pronounced.

  "You know, you grate on my patience, and we shan't have that. I'll tell you just one last time, Jean, so let us hope you're not too dense to absorb it. I will never let you go. You are my whole plan here. You'd like to know what that is wouldn't you? And indeed you shall, my dear. Soon. I'm smarter than Uncle you see—much smarter. I have no emotions to hinder my actions—none, Jean, and no scruples to cloud my thinking. Therein lies my strength, so you see you have nothing to appeal to—nothing save time to grant your reprieve until I'm ready to make my move, and there isn't much more of that, my dear—time that is. If I were you I'd enjoy what little there is of it."

  "And what if I form a plan of my own?"

  Malcolm shrugged. “It wouldn't matter now if you did,” he drawled. “You see this little surprise I'm planning is the final step. Once that's done all your questions will be answered in short order. I wouldn't be in all that much of a hurry if I were you, my love. Now kindly shut that corrosive mouth before I shut it for you. Take care. I am aroused, Jean. You are a very desirable woman for all that I'm sick to death of your senseless prattle. Now then, if you don't want me to finish what I've started here, you'd best hold your tongue and thank your God that this conversation is ended."

  In the hallway Colin dropped clenched fists to his sides and sagged against the wall. Cold sweat ran over his face from a furrowed brow and he swallowed dry, too dizzy from terror and rage to push off from the cold plaster.

  And there he stayed listening to the cold, steady rhythm of Malcolm's snores and the mournful echo of Jean's sobs, until the dawn came stealing to fade the shadows around him.

  * * * *

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  * * * *

  Colin could barely contain himself until Malcolm brought Jean down for breakfast. He washed and dressed hurriedly, and arrived in the dining hall well in advance of the others, anxious for a look at Jean to reassure himself after what he'd heard through her chamber door in the night. He passed the time pacing nervously before the hearth, and when Malcolm brought her through the arch he swallowed audibly and turned toward them struggling with the mask, for just when he needed it most it had begun slipping away.

  Paralyzed, he stiffened at sight of Jean's bruised lips and throat and swollen eyes. He was quick to notice the dark red scratches striping Malcolm's cheek as well, and a crawling chill knit the bones rigid in his spine.

  Ira came along on their heels and pulled up short himself at the sight. He gave Jean's bruises no more than a passing glance, having seen similar marks on her before, though his round face did color with embarrassment, and he cleared his voice and fixed his attention on Malcolm's wounds instead with not a little curiosity.

  "Good morning,” he said, addressing the group with one of his jumpy little bows. He turned to Malcolm. “I say, Mr. Chapin, nasty looking scratches, those. How have you hurt yourself?"

  Malcolm snickered. “Oh, these?” he said, stroking his face. “Tried to get one more shave out of a bad blade. Enough said for frugality. Elsie is fetching me another when she markets in the village. The devil's own curse, shaving; ‘tisn't serious."

  "Ahhh,” said the artist with a deep nod, satisfied.

  Colin paled at the ease with which Malcolm perpetrated the lie. His eyes were still fastened to Jean's, but she couldn't meet them. With the mask falling to tatters around him, there was nothing to do but retreat. Raking his hair back from a sweaty brow, he stalked savagely past them into the gallery and hurried to the stable where he saddled Exchequer and rode off toward the Cross by way of the footpath parting the mists of a sullen calm.

  Dismounting at the back of the vicarage, he tossed Exchequer's reins over the porch rail and scaled the steps, invisible beneath the fog, though his feet knew where to find them. He knocked at the door with an anxious fist and it came open in the hand of Rina Banks. Plump and rosy-cheeked, in her late sixties now, her shiny face wrinkled in a smile at sight of him.

  "Well, Mr. Colin, ‘tis good ta see you,” she said warmly, her tiny eyes twinkling from behind the rimless spectacles perched on her nose.

  Colin nodded, managing a smile. “Is the vicar about, Rina? I should like a word with him."

  "Why, he's in the church, sir,” she breathed aghast.

  Preoccupied with the urgency of his mission, her surprise escaped him and he gave a crisp nod bolting down the porch steps. “Thank you, Rina,” he called over his shoulder as he sprinted along the drive.

  "Lord have mercy,” she murmured staring after him. “I wonder if he knows ‘tis Sunday?” She stepped quickly out on the porch and leaned her stout bosom over the side railing. “Mr. Colin,” she called, but he was already out of sight and earshot.

  As he ran along, his long legs parted the milling lowland fog and he didn't notice the hors
es tied to the hitching rail on the far side of the church, or the carriages waiting axel-deep in the drifting vapors off to the east. He darted up the steps to the entrance taking them two at a stride, pulled the double doors open, and froze. It wasn't until his eyes fastened on Elliot standing in the pulpit addressing the all but filled church that he realized his blunder.

  "Blast,” he murmured under his breath.

  Every head had turned toward him, and a rumble of gasping, murmuring sound violated the quiet while the vicar stared down slack-jawed with a word half spoken, his ashen face like death in the flicker of candle shine that the draft had stirred.

  The mist trailed in licking Colin's boots where he stood paralyzed in the open doorway, his hands fused to the brass knobs. Against the bleak backdrop of fog, his towering silhouette swathed in black wool appeared unreal, like a specter come from the graveyard beyond—swept in on the moaning wind that had risen suddenly spreading his cloak and whipping his trousers legs.

  The vicar's open mouth began to tremble, and his piercing amber eyes burned from the shadow stains around them toward the tremor in Colin's. They probed the veil of confusion in them and delved deeper, mining the desperation beneath the surface. “Oh, my God . . .” he breathed.

  It was too late. Removing his hat, Colin stepped inside and closed the doors after him making a hollow noise that echoed conspicuously for all that he'd used a gentle hand, and eased himself down on a vacant bench at the back. But the rumble of voices did not still, nor did the sea of heads cease bobbing toward him. Angry, glowering faces spread with frowns of indignation trained their eyes upon him, but he scarcely saw. His eyes were fixed upon Elliot's. What he found in them was painful to view, and his heart sank as second thoughts tugged at his resolve.

  All at once Ted Marshall rose from the first row of benches. Tall and lean, his broad shoulders squared beneath his tweed jacket, he started down the aisle toward Colin.