Beloved

by Stella Cameron

  “Don’t,” Ella said. “Don’t. You’re hurting her.”

  “You shut up!” Precious told her. “And do as you’re told. I’ll help you, Pommy. You know I’ll always help you.”

  His response was to pinch the silly girl’s nipples viciously.

  Ella turned away.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Pomeroy move toward her. “I’ve changed my mind, Precious. Get out.”

  “Pommy!”

  “Get out!”

  “But you promised. You said I could be here.”

  “Well, you can’t. To keep you quiet, I pretended I’d let you stay—I was afraid you’d bring Father here at a run.” He sneered at Precious. “Won’t be able to do that now, will you? He’d only have to take one look at you to know what you’ve been up to with me. Just do as you’re told and I may not tell Father what a little slut you really are. Now, stay out of my way. I’ve waited a long time to get what’s mine, and I’m not sharing it—with anyone.”

  It. He referred to her as “it.” Ella tried to be calm, tried to gauge her chances of making it to the door without being stopped.

  No chance at all.

  “Pommy, I don’t want—”

  “I don’t care what you want, you stupid jade. I’ve shared everything for too long. Get out into the passageway and make sure no one comes in here.”

  Still half-naked and sniveling now, Precious did as she was told.

  Leaning forward from the waist, Pomeroy approached Ella until he could poke his vile face into hers. “At last,” he said.

  “We’re going to be alone, my gypsy. After so many years of waiting, you’re going to do what I paid for.”

  Years! She avoided his pale, flat eyes. Only inches from hers, they gleamed almost opalescent.

  “I won’t look, you know,” he said.

  Ella didn’t move. What was he talking about?

  “Not until you’re ready for me. Wouldn’t want to spoil it.”

  With Precious gone, the odds for an escape were slightly better.

  Pomeroy thrust the chiffon gown at Ella. “Go over there and change. Behind the bed curtains.” He smiled, and trailed the back of a finger along her jaw. “So beautiful. You’re going to dance for me, my beautiful gypsy.”

  She would not allow herself to flinch away from him. Instead she forced a little smile.

  Pomeroy’s smile widened. “That’s the way. Be good to Pomeroy. He’s earned it after all these years of waiting.”

  Again he referred to waiting a long time for something, something to do with her.

  “Go along,” he said, his tone singsong. “Go and do what Pomeroy tells you. I’ll make things nice for us while I wait.”

  Panic dried Ella’s mouth. She couldn’t make her feet move.

  Pomeroy gave her a little push. “Go along, now. Take everything off, mind you. I want you just the way you were when I first saw you.”

  Ella froze.

  “Aha!” He capered, grinning and rubbing his hands together. “Now you know, don’t you?”

  “No,” she managed to whisper. “No, I don’t know anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about. When Saber—”

  “Don’t speak his name to me!” The grin died. Pomeroy’s eyes narrowed. “That’s all over. A little mistake I’ll forget if you’re a very good girl.”

  Ella threw the chiffon gown aside. “I shall certainly speak my husband’s name. I’ll speak it as often as I please.”

  Pomeroy’s features twisted. He bared his stained teeth and advanced on her. “You have no husband. You’re mine. I bought you.”

  Her heart missed beats. She grasped one of the bedposts.

  “That’s right. I bought you in this very house. Mine was the highest bid, but Hunsingore stole you. For what? That’s what I’d like to know. You don’t think I believe he just wanted to save you, do you?”

  This man had been there—on that horrible night. “Papa,” she said faintly. “He is the kindest of men. He took me—and he took Max—because he is generous. Just as Mama is generous and Uncle Arran and Aunt Grace. And Uncle Calum and Aunt Pippa. You know nothing of such people.”

  “Because they’re better than I?” His face drew together in a fearsome glare. “They are no better than I. They merely hide behind their elevated titles and reputations. But I am beating them all tonight. When I have finished with you, they will be glad to get rid of you.”

  “Saber …” She could not finish her thought, or make more words.

  “Lord Avenall is a madman. But I should thank him for that. Had he not been so, then your beloved relatives would not have done me the favor of returning you to London—and your dim-witted brother could not have been persuaded to trap you into coming here.”

  “Let me go.”

  “Never. Never again. This is to be our little ceremony of joining. Afterward I will take you away.”

  Ella rallied. She drew herself up. “It is you who are mad. How can you imagine that my husband will not look for me?”

  Pomeroy took off his coat and set it on the chaise. The black and orange striped waistcoat he wore showed off the narrowness of his chest and shoulders. “I have it on the best authority—your brother’s comments to the old man—that Lord Avenall is safely under lock and key. Enough of this! Do not spoil something so special. I do not wish to have to undress you myself.”

  When she didn’t move, he picked up the gown and threw it onto the bed. “Put it on. I shall deal with the lights.”

  He went about lighting red candles he produced from a box on the mantel. All other lamps he extinguished, until a crimson glow washed the awful purple room.

  When he’d finished, he looked at Ella as if she were a bad child. “Come, come now—”

  “I shall do nothing you ask of me,” she said clearly. “Nothing. Anything you take from me will be taken, Mr. Wokingham. I shall give you nothing.”

  He dithered, walking closer, and backing away again— then making half-circles in front of her, watching her all the while.

  Ella felt cold, but clearheaded. He could do terrible things to her body, take her body, but he could not touch her mind. He could not put his fingers upon her heart or her soul. In those places her hatred for him would be strong. In those places she would guard her love for Saber no matter what happened to either of them.

  “You break my patience!” Pomeroy darted at her. He snared the collar of her cloak and the clasp opened. As he pulled the garment away, she spun around, then steadied herself on the bedpost once more.

  A surge of energy dulled Ella’s fear. “You will never get what you want,” she told Pomeroy. “Never. You tried to buy a child here in this house, but it didn’t work. You want me now, but it still will not work.”

  He lunged.

  Ella darted aside, and Pomeroy’s head slammed into the bedpost where she had been.

  “Bitch!” He flung himself around. A wide cut had opened on his brow and blood began to seep toward his right eye. “You’ll suffer for that.”

  She saw the fire poker.

  Pomeroy noted the direction of her glance and rushed to cut her off.

  Ella all but threw herself toward the fire. Her hands closed on the wooden handle of the tool.

  Pomeroy’s hands closed on top of Ella’s.

  They fell and rolled, over and over. The stench of Pomeroy’s drink-laced breath brought Ella’s stomach roiling into her throat. She gritted her teeth and fought him.

  With strength she’d never known she possessed, she clung to the poker.

  Pomeroy took one hand away and dragged up her skirts. “You want it this way? Good enough, madam. Good enough.” She felt his clammy fingers tearing at her drawers.

  With all the power she could muster, Ella heaved, thrust a knee free, and struck at whatever part of him she could reach.

  Pomeroy screamed. Tears bubbled in his eyes. His mouth opened wide, and he howled.

  Pleased with her success, Ella repeated the blow with her knee
.

  Like a cornered animal, he lashed out, crying and screaming all the while. He blubbered, and while he did so, he destroyed every part of Ella’s clothing he could snatch.

  She willed her mind free of her body’s struggle, and applied her knee yet again.

  He struck her face. And he jerked, drew his knees up to his chest, and gasped. A table crashed on top of them, then splintered against the hearth tiles.

  His next blow was to her shoulder. He pounded the fine bones there with as much force as he could summon. Ella heard the impact, and felt her arm grow numb. Their two hands, one of hers, one of his, still held the poker.

  “That is all,” he told her through his teeth. He sat astride her and pounded the back of the hand that held the poker against the floor. Again and again he pounded, until, at last, she could hold on no longer.

  “So be it,” she said, tasting her own tears, her own blood. “But I give you nothing. And you are no gentleman.”

  With the poker upraised, he laughed as if at some great triumph.

  “Yes,” she told him. “What a man you are. You have beaten a woman in combat.”

  “And to the winner falls the spoils,” he chortled, before Ella felt a draft of air fan her bared legs.

  “Pomeroy!” a new voice bellowed.

  “Get out,” Pomeroy said, blood trickling in rivulets over his face now. “Shut the door, dammit. This is nothing to do with you.”

  Whoever he spoke to entered the room roaring unintelligibly.

  “Pommy, you’ve got to stop and let him help.” Precious sounded truly frightened. “He’s very angry, Pommy. Oh, do stop. We mustn’t be—”

  “Shut up,” Pomeroy said, his words hissing through his lips. “Go away, Father. And take that bitch with you.”

  Lord Wokingham. Ella squirmed beneath her attacker. She could not bear him touching her. Surely his father would stop this disgusting assault.

  “We agreed,” Lord Wokingham said. “We were to have our little wedding ceremony for Precious and me. Then we would put the gown on Ella and you could marry her, so to speak. I’ve looked forward to it. But what do I find? I find me own fiancýlf naked out there, while you’re in here being selfish.”

  “But I did send for you, Woky,” Precious said through hiccuping sobs. “I did send the coach, didn’t I?”

  Pomeroy reared up, the poker brandished aloft. “I don’t need either of you.”

  Before Ella could draw a breath to scream, the Honorable Pomeroy Wokingham smashed a poker into his father’s head, and raised the implement to strike again.

  Holding the tattered parts of her gown together, Ella scrambled to her feet.

  The older Wokingham’s spindly legs buckled. An expression of piteous shock widened his eyes. Flesh lay open to shining white skull bone. Blood gushed from a huge wound and from the man’s nose.

  “Woky!” Precious cried at last.

  Pomeroy struck again, slashing at his parent’s face and ear this time. But blood already poured from the man’s mouth, and his eyes had grown flat and unseeing.

  Slowly, without another sound, he fell backward, his legs folded unnaturally beneath his heavy body.

  Voices in the passageway reached Ella. She couldn’t hear what they said, didn’t try. Lord Wokingham lay dead before her, dead at the hands of his own son, who now turned his attention to Precious Able.

  “No,” Ella whispered. “Leave her alone.”

  “I cannot imagine why you insist upon bringing me up here,” another woman’s voice announced from the passage. “I have no wish to prolong our acquaintance, Mr. Milo.”

  The voice stopped Pomeroy from swinging at Precious. She promptly swooned into a heap on the carpet.

  The sight of Countess Perruche, arguing with Milo, was a final unreal stroke. Spent, Ella slid to sit on the floor. She reached her cloak and pulled it around her.

  As she came into the room, the countess looked over her shoulder at Milo. “I paid you well and you did a poor job of things. But all is well now.”

  “So glad,” Milo said, a cunning twist to his lips. “I made sure the pieces of chiffon were delivered. And the letter. And then I had a piece of luck with the boy coming to me.”

  “Boy?”

  “Max. Her brother. He came, and that helped. I was able to give Ella the message about how you’d let everyone know about her life here at Lushy’s if she didn’t do like she was told.”

  “I have no interest in that,” Margot said. “Fortunately Lord Avenall will never have reason to think I manipulated what had to be. I could not risk losing his patronage. Now I shall not have to. I am to become his helpmate. There will be an annulment. Mr. North can have the girl. I shall care for Lord Avenall—and his money.”

  Milo laughed. “A nice arrangement.”

  “I’m here to make sure you understand that you are never to mention our acquaintance …” She saw Lord Wokingham’s body, and Precious still in a faint, then Pomeroy with the poker in his hands. “Mon Dieu!” She did not notice Ella.

  “Oh, my,” Milo said conversationally. “These domestic spats can get so unpleasant, can’t they?”

  “This is nothing to me,” Margot said, turning away.

  She turned away and walked into Saber.

  “Hold her,” he told Bigun, who followed him. “Don’t let the countess go. Oh, Ella.” He waved for her to retreat. “Get back, my love. It’s all right. I’ll deal with this fiend.”

  Pomeroy had no chance to raise his poker before Saber attacked. He caught the other man by the front of his shirt and drew him up until he could stare coldly down at him.

  Before Ella’s horrified eyes, Pomeroy contrived to change his grip on the poker he still held. Slipping his hand down the shaft, he grasped it just above the pointed end. He drew his hand as far away from Saber’s back as possible.

  “No!” Ella cried, flinging herself forward and clutching Pomeroy’s wrist just as it would have sent the filthy metal point gouging into Saber’s flesh.

  He released the weapon. Ella fell to the floor and the poker clattered away.

  Saber spun around and bent over her.

  “Pomeroy!” Ella shouted. “He’s getting away.”

  “He won’t get far,” Saber told her, gently gathering her to him. “Crabley’s outside the front door with a pistol, and instructions to use it.”

  “I want to be with you,” she told Saber. “I never want to be parted from you again.”

  He frowned as he touched her face where Pomeroy had hit her. “You never will be. Not as long as I live. My God! What’s that?”

  Clattering and thudding sounded from below—and gurgling screams.

  “Gawd aw’mighty,” Milo said, raising his voice. He still maintained his position half in and half out of the room. “Look at the mess in here. Who’s going to pay for it? that’s what I’d like to know. And listen to that racket. What does an old man have to do to get some peace?”

  The thunderous crashing and screaming ceased soon enough.

  “Bring her,” Saber told Bigun, referring to Margot. He glanced at Precious, who had struggled to her feet. “Get yourself to my house in Burlington Gardens. We’ll send you back to your parents—with an explanation of your behavior. They can decide your fate.”

  Precious blubbered afresh.

  “I came here to help Ella,” Margot said, slapping ineffectually at Bigun. “Tell him, Ella. I came to help you.”

  Holding Ella against him, Saber walked slowly past Margot and into the passageway. As they approached the stairs, Ella buried her face in his chest. “They did not mean to do you any harm,” she said, referring to Papa, Uncle Arran, and Uncle Calum. “They were told you were mad and they thought they were saving me from you.”

  “I have Devlin North to thank for that. Margot sent Crabley and Bigun after me, but only to make the pretense of helping me. Devlin was to do away with both of them. She and Devlin misjudged Bigun particularly. He has fought in ways they cannot even imagine. And Crabl
ey is a man I would trust at my back.”

  “Is it over now?” Ella asked him.

  “We have more to overcome. But I believe we can do it. That night—by the lake at Bretforten—you broke through something I had thought could never change.”

  “You are not mad,” Ella told him.

  “No,” he agreed. “I am not mad. But I need to deal with those things I have hidden for so long.”

  Ella kissed him quickly as they continued walking.

  Saber started to speak, but tried instead to stop Ella from seeing the scene at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Oh, no, no!” Precious Able screamed. She ran past them and down the steps. Her hat trailed by a pin and her gown was in tatters.

  Ella pulled herself from Saber’s arms and looked after the other woman.

  At the foot of the stairs, Precious fell to her knees beside the unmoving and grotesquely distorted form of Pomeroy Wokingham.

  Crabley stood over the pair. He looked up at Ella and Saber and spread his arms. “There you are, Lord Avenall. Lady Avenall.” He pointed to Pomeroy. “They do say more people die of falls than anything else, don’t they? People should learn not to be in such a hurry, particularly coming downstairs.”

  “Is he dead?” Saber asked.

  Crabley’s face worked through a series of frowns and grimaces before he pulled a pistol from the waistband of his breeches. He studied the weapon with evident disappointment. “I don’t think he’d be any deader if I shot him now, my lord.”

  Epilogue

  Castle Kirkcaldy, Scotland, Late Summer, 1828

  “Ye dinna so, Max Rossmara,” Kirsty Mercer said, planting her thin hands on her hips. “And me da says it’s pleasin’ t’the devil when ye tell stories.”

  Max rolled from his back to his stomach and squinted up at the ten-year-old who stood before him. “If I say I fought a dozen men in London, then I fought a dozen men in London, Miss Kirsty Mercer.” The little blond girl, daughter of Robert and Gael Mercer, whose families had been tenants on Rossmara lands for generations, had known Max from his first days at Kirkcaldy.

  Bright afternoon sunlight shone through the child’s long curls. She shook them back and planted her feet apart. “Ye’ve grown uppity, Master Max. I suppose ye’re too good for the likes o’ me now.”