Vengeful Lord, Defiant Lady.

by Maggie Pritchard

  A bewildering array of spires and turrets, fronted by a deep porch loomed in front of her. The whole was made of a dark grey stone topped with even darker slate, giving the place a sinister aspect while a veritable battery of mullioned windows reflected the brief flash of light. A scream from some creature of the night accompanied the lighting and for a moment Catherine felt a rush of terror. It sliced through her thin veneer of courage and she turned instinctively towards her only source of protection.

  Alex watched as his new wife, in a show of independence, moved forward into the gloom. Apparently unaffected by the wild weather. The wind whipped the hood from her head setting free her long dark hair, which flew, unchecked around her. Then the lightening struck and Llangorfan was illuminated in all its majesty just as an owl added its voice to the storm. In a millisecond she turned and fled, straight into his arms. He felt a surge of something indefinable, at least when fear struck she had turned to him for protection, it was something he supposed, so he wrapped his cloak around her as she pressed against his chest, seeking safety. Then she seemed to recover, to realize her dependence on him and reject it at the same time. Small hands pushed against his chest and she turned moving away from him determinedly, towards the porch, and the moment was lost.

  The main entrance hall of Llangorfan castle did nothing to dispel the initial apprehension Catherine felt. Grey stone walls rose to seemingly impossible heights, their austerity hardly breached by the mullioned windows or the occasional tapestry. The ornate tiled floor, in red, black and white, led coldly to the foot of a wide stone staircase, this, though clad in a rich red carpet, still succeeded in adding to the general air of chilled discomfort. To her right was a huge stone fireplace, where a crackling log fire blazed, and Catherine moved instinctively towards this only source of warmth in the cavernous space. Pushing back the hood of her cape she turned to face her husband in time to see him shed his own cloak and hand it to the butler who having closed the door against the night, now stood in attendance upon his master.

  ‘Thank you Evans, we will take some refreshment in the drawing room, will you be so kind as to arrange for one of the maids to attend to her ladyship’s needs tonight?’

  Then turning to Catherine, he removed her damp cloak himself and handed it to Evans before taking her arm leading her across the hall and through an ornate doorway on the far side.

  In the drawing room once again the sheer height of the stone walls seemed to make the place into a cold cavern. True, the floor was carpeted and the furnishings though old fashioned, were richly ornate, but the overall effect was of a room that lacked any style and character and Catherine could only look about her with dismay as she watched her husband pour some dark wine into two crystal glasses. Alex, she let the syllables roll around in her mind, his name meant nothing, she couldn’t think of him so intimately, and yet soon he would expect such intimacy as made her tremble. If only she knew something more of what was to come.

  ‘Come my dear,’ he said handing her one of the glasses and raising his own.

  ‘Let’s drink to your safe arrival in your new home, and to a long and fruitful union.’

  Catherine sipped and feeling a little revived was able to muster a final spark of defiance.

  ‘I’ll drink milord but not to this union, you may feel well pleased with yourself, secure in the power of your victory, but I will never acknowledge this, this mausoleum as my home, nor you as my family.’

  She put the glass down abruptly, splashing the wine, and watched with rising horror as droplets, red as blood chased themselves across surface of the little polished table. Fumbling in her reticule for her handkerchief she began mopping up the mess only to stop and stare in rising panic at the bright red stain against the pristine white linen.

  ‘Catherine?’

  The question went unanswered and Alex watched as defiance turned to first to fear and then to something he couldn’t put a name to. The flush of passion in her cheeks gave way to a pallor that enhanced the darkness of her panic widened eyes and she uttered a soft cry as she stared at the stained linen in her hand.

  He stepped forward just in time to catch her.

  It was some minutes before she uttered another sound and moving to a seat closer to the fire Alex held her against his chest and waited for her to regain her senses. It had been a long and tiring day, it was not to be marveled at that she should be a little overwrought.

  ‘The blood...’

  ‘No lady, not blood only wine, there is nothing to fear, come look at me now.’

  Catherine raised her eyes to his, realizing as she did so that he held her quite intimately on his lap. She began to remember, the red against the white, it had always made her feel faint, though she rarely actually lost consciousness. The strain of the last week and the long journey must have made her more susceptible. She felt again the steel of his arms around her and the solid wall of his chest under her cheek. The eyes she met with her own were concerned, kind even and feeling safe and secure she let the tiredness flood in.

  ‘Wine? Oh yes I spilt the wine I remember, but it turned to blood on my handkerchief, red on white, I felt, I feel...’

  Alex felt her relax against him, all defiance gone now, as, for the second time she seemed to accept his protection. It was so ironic he almost laughed out loud. That she could feel safe with him, that he should hold her, reassure her, when all his intentions were to hurt her and in doing so hurt her father. His mind replayed the last conversation he’d had with Edward Calthorpe just half an hour before he’d wed this girl.

  ‘I beg of you Tremayne, you cannot mean to carry out your threat, call this wedding off now and I’ll do your bidding in any other way. Please don’t hurt my innocent, precious girl.’

  ‘To late Calthorpe, it was too late when you seduced poor Emily, dragging her down into a pit of despair with your lies and falsehoods, leaving her without the will to continue her life of shame. She could see no escape from it other than death, she took the blame on her own shoulders forgiving you all and died in the belief that it was she who was at fault, that she was a shameless wanton.’

  ‘No! please Alex, you must believe me, I would never have hurt her so, not that lovely girl...’

  ‘Enough of your lies! You will shoulder your share of the burden, and it will not be a swift retribution. As she waited day by day for your letters that never came, you will wait day by day for my letters, and be assured they will come. I will keep you well informed of my actions, you will learn of each and every indignity and hurt I inflict upon your favourite, until like my poor darling sister your strength fails you and there is nothing left but to chose the manner of your death. Then, and only then will I release her. With any luck she’ll have bred me a son before I send her back to mourn you, so you see man, how I ensure my line lives on while I watch yours peter out in misery and obscurity.’

  Calthorpe had broken down then, crying as he’d never cried for the girl who’s life he’d taken as surely as if he’d pushed into that swollen river with his own hand.

  Alex shook himself out of his reverie, no, he would not falter now, would not be swayed by the sweet softness of her in his arms. She was the sacrifice, she was not the innocent he’d intended to despoil but her resistance to this marriage meant she’d not play the compliant wife and though he was not a man to take pleasure from forcing an unwilling woman, for once he’d put such scruples aside in the name of revenge.

  The bitter thought coloured his next utterance and his voice was harsh, ‘come now Catherine, it was nothing, time now to prepare for the night ahead, I’ll ring for Evans and your maid.’

  His sudden change of mood was not lost on Catherine and she left his embrace, a cold dread flooding through her. He thought she was shamming to avoid the wedding night to come, and from his tone he was less than sympathetic.

  ‘I need no maid sir, I can do well enough for myself.’

  ‘You are no country miss now, my wife does not wait upon herself, one of the upst
airs maids will see to your needs until a suitable ladies-maid can be appointed. Ah Evans, her ladyship is ready to retire now, is all in order?’

  The butler was a dour Welshman, he reminded Catherine of an old crow, all hooded eyes and croaking voice, weren’t the Welsh supposed to be a musical race? It was impossible to imagine that anything musical could ever emanate from Evans.

  ‘Indeed it is milord, if you’ll come this way milady.’

  Catherine followed, what else was there to do?

  “This is my life now, wedded to this man I hardly know and who has already shown himself to be so overbearing and demanding. True he seemed to soften a little just now at my weakness, but only for a moment. No, all my nightmares have come true in the space of a week and all I can do now is endure it. Though how I’m to do that is beyond my understanding.”

  If Catherine had felt the drawing room to be cold, it was nothing to the chill that engulfed her as she followed the butler down the endless passages of her new home. The stone floors and stairway of the entrance gave way to dark oak on the first floor, but the bare wood flooring and largely unadorned stone walls made the place seem like some abandoned medieval pile. Here and there pieces of heavy dark furniture stood like ebony sentinels and now and again they passed huge paintings of sombre gents and severe ladies framed in heavy wooden frames of a gothic style that Catherine felt could never have been in mode.

  “How I long for the light and warmth of home,” she thought. “He can surely afford better style and comfort than this? Will he allow me to change it? Will I be tasked, as his wife to run this house and so be able to make such changes as would please me, or will he maintain the overbearing attitude he has presented thus far? Oh how I long for home already.”

  ‘Here is your chamber milady, your boxes have been brought up and Anwen here will see to your needs for the time being, she is not a ladies-maid but will do her best.’

  ‘Thank you Evans, I’m sure we’ll get on perfectly well.’

  The elderly butler croaked an intelligible response as he left and Catherine turned with a smile to the young girl who stood demurely waiting to be addressed by her new mistress.

  ‘Good evening, Anwen is it?’

  ‘Yes milady, I have unpacked your things and brought up hot water for your toilet. Mrs. Morgan the cook is preparing hot milk and that will be brought up very soon.’

  The girl spoke in the lilting accent of the Welsh and for the first time since she’d arrived in her new home Catherine felt someone was trying to make her feel welcome. It lifted her heart, at least here was someone who might be a friend.

  ‘Thank you Anwen, what a nice fire. Is it always so cold here?’

  No milady, summer seems to be slow in coming this year and the rain has been heavy now for days, but it will get better soon I’m sure’

  ‘It’s just that at home we’ve been enjoying the warmth of an early summer and this chill has seeped into my bones.’

  Catherine moved towards the fire appreciatively, sinking down into a deep chair, letting the warmth envelop her as she looked around her. Thankfully this room was very different to what she’d seen of the rest of the house. Though still old fashioned, it was richly furnished and comfortable, in becoming, feminine colours and Catherine felt a momentary sense of relief.

  Anwen busied herself laying out her mistress’s nightwear, exclaiming innocently at the shimmering lace and silk. Mama had done very well considering there had been less than a week to prepare, all the local shops had been scoured for the best fabrics and countless fingers had been busied to produce a trousseau fit for a princess.

  ‘Will you be ready to change now milady, only Mrs. Morgan said to get you ready... and, well... that I was to be quick getting myself back down to the kitchen.’

  The girls fumbling attempt at tact would have made Catherine smile if it was not for the deep sense of dread that her words invoked. It was time now to don the silk nightdress that was designed to inflame her new husband with passion. Sheer white silk that would barely disguise her body, shimmering lace from Corsica and tiny seed pearls all designed to remind him his bride was from the best of families and as pure as a man of his station would expect. Except that this groom believed his bride was a wanton, already possessed by a gypsy lover.

  “Oh heavens what a mess, how am I do get through this?”

  She watched as the girl busied herself with a few bits and pieces before leaving with a flushed smile, obviously under the illusion that her mistress awaited the appearance of her new husband with love in her heart. It would be easy enough for the girl to weave such romantic nonsense around her handsome employer. If she but knew half the truth, that far from leaving a happy bride in her wake she left a girl not much older than herself, dressed in bridal finery and not trembling in sweet anticipation but in almost paralyzing fear.

  Alex sat for a long while nursing the glass of wine in the growing gloom, thoughts as dark as the ruby liquid in his head. Then draining his glass he rose and taking the steps two at a time made his way to the master chamber. His man had, with his usual efficiency, laid out a heavy velvet robe of midnight blue and hot water steamed in the ewer. He took his time, washing and shaving before he opened the door that led to her bedroom, it would not do to redden her soft white skin with the day’s abrasive growth.

  She stood by the window, a peignoir of pale blue silk belted loosely over a white gown, he glimpsed lace and the gleam of tiny seed pearls, no expense had been spared to make this a magical moment he noted. As he entered the room she turned, the expression on her pale features one of studied calm. So this was her ploy, she sought to deny his pleasure by feigning indifference, well it would not take much to break through that flimsy defense. He knew women and the one thing that was quite clear, even on short acquaintance with this one, was that a simmering passion lay barely contained beneath the veneer of propriety she wore.

  “With a little tutoring I’ll warrant she could learn to take as much pleasure as she gives,” he thought, “but that can wait, tonight all that is needed is to bed the wench, take my pleasure as is my right and on the morrow send report of her usage to her father in the first of many tormenting missives. So why hesitate? A few moments and it will be done I’ll be sated and she’ll be weeping, it’s no worse than most brides meet with in the marriage bed.”

  But he found himself moving towards her with a lack of purpose, delaying the act with a gesture of near tenderness, caressing her soft cheek with one hand before guiding her towards the door to his chamber.

  After her maid had left Catherine stood at the window staring out with unseeing eyes. For the first time since being informed of her fate, that desperate feeling of dread and near panic that had lodged in her breast was gone and calm reigned in its place. How bad could it be she’d told herself, Mama spoke of “what women must endure” but she seemed happy enough and there was Dorothea, newly married and there was no sign of much suffering. True she had been reticent to go into even the smallest detail when pressed, glossing over the issue with a flushed shake of her head.

  She turned as he entered the room, watched as he stood for a moment, dark eyes moving slowly from her head down the length of her body and back, though they held hers for what seemed like an age Catherine could make nothing of their expression. He had undressed, the possibility that under the midnight robe he might, like she, be naked made her heart skip a beat. She’d given no thought to his nakedness before, all her thoughts had been fixated around exposing herself to his gaze, his touch. She knew enough to realize he would want that, but that he should be fully undressed, that she would see him like that had not occurred to her.

  He was moving closer, not hurrying, until he was close enough to touch, towering over her, the breadth of his shoulders casting dark shadows on the wall. His hand was cool as he brushed it gently across her cheek, then he extended his hand and Catherine, knowing she had to take it, that he would not let her refuse, slipped her small hand into his and let herself b
e led from her chamber and into his.

  The room, like hers was warm and richly furnished in shades of blue, with deep carpets under her feet, but there the resemblance ended. In her chamber the colour used ranged from the pale almost translucent hue of a summer morning to the soft violet tinted blue of her own eyes, it was accented here and there with soft buttery cream shades that perfectly balanced the light gilding on the delicate furniture. It was a feminine room and Catherine had loved it on sight especially the exquisite little pieces of china that adorned it and the soft-pillowed bed hung with light organza. By contrast in this room jeweled golds and deep shades of blue were set against the heavy dark furniture to give an effect that was at once masculine and opulent. It was dominated by a huge four-poster bed, richly hung with velvet drapes that threw deep shadows full of mystery in the dancing light from the fire. There was little ornament save for a two large equine oils hung each side of the deep fireplace and a huge framed mirror above it. A number of books were piled here and there on two low tables within reach of deep armchairs set to benefit from the warmth of the blaze, it seemed her husband liked to read, it was something they had in common she thought, though she doubted he’d be interested in the gothic novels that were her favorites at the moment.

  He’d turned now and was watching her again with those inscrutable eyes, an involuntary shiver made her wrap her arms around herself and she returned his gaze. Then he moved, pulling her closer so that he could untie the belted robe and slip it off her shoulders making her gasp.

  ‘What lady? Not cold surely, come let me warm you then.’

  Catherine felt one big hand encircle her waist as he pulled her into his arms and she braced herself for the force of his kiss, lips pressed together as she shut her eyes to block him out. He’d only kissed her three times since they’d met and each time it had been an act of dominance, of possession, in the rose bower that first day of their engagement when he’d subdued her almost brutally and on their wedding day, when he’d marked their union with a brief but firm embrace in front of the small congregation.