by Mira Stables
Beside him Fleur crouched in a daze of exhaustion and terror. When he made no further remark after that last sally, nor attempted to touch her, she plucked up heart a little. Perhaps, after all, the words were just an ignorant man’s mistaken notion of gallantry, intended to flatter but not to be taken seriously. Better not to refine too much on them.
On and on they went. Out of Town now, the paved streets left behind. She wondered where they were taking her. Despite the darkness and the rain, they were travelling fast. The road must be very familiar to the man on the box, the whole business carefully planned, since the leader had seemed to know so much about her. But what would they do when they discovered that she had been speaking the truth when she said that she had no money — that there was no hope of ransom? She shivered. And once begun could not stop. She was wearing only a thin dress, the shawl that she had wrapped about her shoulders on leaving the club having fallen away in her struggles for freedom and been left behind. As reaction took over, her whole body was racked by uncontrollable shudders. Despising herself for yielding to what must be construed as a sign of fear, she strove valiantly to hold herself still, but it was useless. Her whole body was shaking with a nervous chill, her teeth chattering audibly.
The man beside her turned his head sharply. “What is it?” he demanded brusquely. “Are you ill?”
She was trembling too violently to answer coherently. “I c-c-can’t —” she tried, but the words would not come. He put out a hand to touch hers and swore beneath his breath at its clammy coldness.
“Damnation,” she heard him mutter. “And I did not think to bring a rug.”
Then he was struggling out of his coat and wrapping it round her shaking body. There was a flask of brandy in one of the pockets of the chariot. He poured a generous measure into the flask top and obliged her to drink it, tilting it down her throat despite her feeble efforts at resistance. Clumsily, in the darkness, he buttoned the coat about her and then pulled her into his arms. At that she began to struggle again, but he only pulled her closer, saying harshly, “Lie still, little fool. I’m only trying to keep some warmth in you. We’ve an hour to go yet, and after all the trouble you’ve put me to I don’t want you sick of a lung fever.”
The potent spirit was already having its effect. The words, for all their surface roughness, were somehow reassuring. Fleur’s struggles ceased and she lay quiescent, a slow, comforting warmth gradually stealing over her. Afterwards she was to wonder if she had not actually fallen asleep in his arms. Certainly it did not seem very long before the speed slackened as the chariot turned sharply into a narrow drive.
“Only a few minutes more,” said her abductor. “For the sake of your own dignity let me warn you that it is no use appealing to the servants. Job, as you know, is deaf. The others who will wait on you hear well enough but they are wholly devoted to my service.”
“And will no doubt expect their share of the profits,” she said scornfully.
She heard him chuckle softly in the darkness. “Oh ho! So you’ve an edge to your tongue, have you? Good. I’ve no use for miserable whining women. And here we are,” he added, as the chariot stopped in front of a sturdy stone-built porch.
Obviously they were expected, for a lamp hanging from the porch roof was alight and even as the horses checked the door was opened to reveal a stone-flagged hall with a fine oak staircase leading from it. A cheerful fire was burning on an open hearth and a door at the other end of the hall stood ajar to reveal a small square parlour where a table was laid ready for a meal.
It seemed an oddly civilised setting for a highwayman, but Fleur was too apprehensive to pay much attention to her surroundings. She stood silently by while her captor exchanged a few swift words with the man who had opened the door, a small shrivelled up little fellow who had but one arm, the left one having been taken off at the elbow, and a pair of blue eyes of an engaging honesty that seemed sadly misleading under the circumstances.
“I trust that you will find everything for your comfort in your room,” said the highwayman smoothly. “May I suggest that you exchange that thin gown for something a little warmer? Supper will be ready in half an hour. I daresay you are exceedingly hungry since you will scarcely have eaten before your performance.” His teeth gritted slightly on the last word, otherwise his manner was that of a courteous host. She looked at him curiously. In buckskins, riding boots and shirt sleeves — for she was still wearing his jacket — he loomed frighteningly tall, and there was menace, she thought, in the glitter of the eyes behind the mask. She wondered if he retained it to prevent her from identifying him at some future date, then pulled herself up sharply. Never mind the future. It was the urgent present that she had to deal with.
“I thank you, sir, but I am not hungry. With your permission I would prefer to retire at once.”
He grinned. “But you do not have my permission. You and I have a good deal to say to one another. It is a sad pity, of course, that we have not been formally introduced, but tonight you shall sup with me whether you will or no. I will brook no refusal. As for retiring —” he broke off, since still she did not recognise him, had not picked up the gauge of his last remark. “We shall see,” he said enigmatically. “Meanwhile, here is Elly, to show you to your room and to wait on you.”
There was no choice but to obey. With all the dignity that she could summon she walked steadily to the foot of the staircase where the girl — she was little more than a child — awaited her. “Mrs Melby has put you in the Yellow Room, ma’am,” she said, smiling shyly, and led the way up the first flight of stairs to a comfortably furnished chamber where all the necessities of a lady’s toilet were already laid out and a pleasant fire glowed a welcome to the weary traveller.
This was becoming more and more dream-like — or nightmare-like — thought Fleur desperately, as she submitted to the girl’s diffident ministrations. She had read in forbidden novels, as what schoolgirl had not, of villainous abductors who carried off innocent maids. The maids were always rescued on the brink of disaster by some impossibly perfect hero and the villains came to various unpleasant ends. But none of the stories had prepared her for anything like this. Here was no mysterious castle peopled by sinister retainers, no mouldering dungeon with eldritch hag as jailer. Every outward circumstance insisted that she was a cherished guest to be treated with consideration. Only her mind insisted that she was, in fact, a helpless prisoner. And in her case, alas, there was no hero to come to the rescue even if anyone knew of her plight. When Elly, beaming delightedly, threw open the door of the big clothes press that filled half of one wall and invited her to say which gown she would wear, fear raised its ugly head again. For the press held every kind of gown that a girl could possibly want. There was even, she noticed, a riding habit. And all of them had been most admirably chosen to set off a dark-haired girl of slender build.
Fleur stared at them with dilated eyes, her heart thudding painfully as she realised the implications of these elaborate preparations. But her own dress had been torn in her struggles and, moreover, smelt most unpleasantly of the brandy that been spilled on it when he forced her to drink. She chose, reluctantly, a dinner dress of cream velvet, because it buttoned high to the throat and the long, close-fitting sleeves would hide the bruises that already showed blue on her arms and shoulders.
Elly brushed out her hair for her but had no skill in dressing it. She proffered a cream velvet snood with cauls of golden net, obviously designed to go with the gown that Fleur had chosen. It was unusual, but easy to slip on. The shining masses of hair were simply coiled up and bundled into the cauls. Then she was ready — and must face whatever ordeal awaited her downstairs.
Her host, if so she might call him, had also changed his dress for formal evening clothes but was still masked. In the light of the parlour candles she saw him clearly for the first time and was immediately aware of a teasing resemblance to someone she had seen before. One of her ‘admirers’ from the club? Several gentlemen had been extr
emely pressing in their attentions, which was why she now declined all communication with them. But she could not recall anyone who bore a disfiguring scar — a scar that ran from jaw to temple where the dark hair had been brushed forward to conceal it. He rose courteously at her timid entrance and she allowed him to seat her at the table and enquire her choice among the several dishes. A childish rebellion over such minor matters would in no way serve her cause. Better to submit and save her strength for time of need. The maidservant who waited on them was deft and pleasant and seemed to regard the serving of supper to a masked master at two o’clock in the morning as nothing out of the common way. Fleur guessed he had spoken no more than the truth when he had warned her that it would be useless to appeal to the servants.
She had no idea what she ate though she had, in fact, been faint with hunger. The hot food revived her courage, even though the sense of unreality continued to oppress her. While the maid was in the room they spoke only trivialities. He asked if she had found everything that she required in her room, directed the girl to set a screen to shield her from a possible draught, seemed in all respects perfectly at ease, the courteous, well-bred host. But Fleur found the role of complaisant guest too much for her. Her replies were brief to the point of rudeness, and when she had eaten sufficient to blunt the edge of a hunger that was but natural to a healthy young creature whose last meal had been a light luncheon, her appetite suddenly failed and she found it impossible to choke down another mouthful. The eyes behind the mask were watching her closely but he made no comment, only turning to the maid and dismissing her with a pleasant smile, saying, “That will be all, Anna. I expect your father has remembered to set wine for us in the book-room as I desired him.”
As the door closed behind the girl, Fleur rose. “I will bid you goodnight, sir,” she said, with a gallant attempt at composure. “I am very tired. And I do not care for wine.”
“No?” The voice was coolly amused. “Your tastes have changed, my dear, along with your way of life. You liked it well enough in the library at Blayden. Tonight you will drink it to please me. I do not care for that sober Puritan face, Madame Flora. A wench who can disport herself in public for the amusement of the gapers should know better how to entertain a husband.”
One hand had grasped her arm as she shrank back at his first words, the other had gone up to remove the mask. Even without it, Fleur scarcely recognised him. That he was thinner, scarred, was but a part of it. She had never before seen him in a black rage — the rage that still convulsed him at the thought of his wife — his — displaying the perfection of her body in public for the delectation of any lecher or pimp who cared to pay down his blunt. That Flora had been the most modest of goddesses, revealing only a hint of a delicate ankle or beautifully moulded arm beneath her leaf-green draperies, made no difference to the depth of his loathing. When he thought of that gloating, grinning audience — for so he pictured them — there was something akin to murder in his heart.
For Fleur the revelation of his identity came as the climax to a night of intolerable nervous strain. The surge of joy that flooded her whole being at the sight of him was stricken by the bitter disgust, the savage anger manifest in face and words. She longed to pour out her delight and her thankfulness, yet was afraid to do so. And out of the tumble of feelings that sought for expression, the phrase that found utterance was perhaps the most unfortunate that she could have chosen.
“Marc!” she faltered. “What have you done to your face?”
Marcus was no vainer than the next man, but his mirror, let alone the Belgian physician’s well-meant advice, had shown him that the livid scar of his wound did nothing at all to enhance his appearance. He would not, he felt, have minded so much if the wound had been taken in battle. Honourable scars were one thing. It was harder to reconcile oneself to a disfigurement caused by a stupid and slightly ridiculous accident.
His voice was remote. “A pity, is it not? Small wonder if you repent of your bargain. Shall I resume the mask, lest you take me in even greater disgust? But no — I think not. Masks are for cheats and deceivers, are they not, my dear? And you and I have both put off ours, and must e’en make the best of what lies behind them.”
She stared back at him dumbly, her eyes great pools of pain. So this was the end of her innocent dreams, her tremulous hopes. He hated her — despised her. Oh! Why had she not paid heed to Maman’s doubts and warnings? Now he would never forgive her, though indeed she had thought no harm. She turned away to hide the tears that burned in her eyes.
He said harshly, “Of no avail to turn your back on it, my girl. You will grow accustomed in time. And that you shall have in plenty. I have brought you here so that you may learn the conduct becoming to a Blayden and the duties of a wife. For we are done with play acting at marriage. I daresay in time we shall go on as prosperously as most married couples. Once you have learned your lessons we need not see a great deal of each other.”
She cried out at that, for it seemed to her the worst thing he had said yet. “Then why did you not leave me where at least I was content? You do not want me. You do not love me.”
He laughed; a bitter, unamused little sound. “Love? A sentimental folly for poets and dreamers. And I am neither. I respect certain qualities that I find in you — dignity — courage. Good sense, too, since you did not fall into hysterics despite the anxiety you must have suffered tonight. I am sorry for that,” he added on a kindlier note, “and willing to believe that your reckless folly in appearing at that infernal club was largely the result of ignorance and lack of guidance. But when you refused to see me, you left me no choice. How would it have been if my father had chanced to recognise you there?”
For a moment she was puzzled. Then, with a flash of comprehension, she realised what must have happened. Some message from Marc must have been tossed aside among the dozen or so notes that were sent to her daily. That explained a good deal, not least his anger. But this was no time to be stammering excuses. In her own way Fleur was every bit as proud as any Blayden of them all.
“I doubt if Lord Blayden would recognise me if I walked smash into him at Almack’s,” she said quietly. “A poor little dab of a female with neither looks nor pedigree to recommend her! And you, for your part, could at least have left me alone — as you did when you married me. That choice was still open to you.”
“When I married you, you were little more than a child. And I left you in safe keeping,” he retorted. “Do you think that I would permit my wife to earn her own living? And as a dancer of all things! You cannot be aware of the reputation that such wenches bear!”
She shrank a little at that but held her head high. “Then you may divorce me,” she said fiercely, “since I am not fit to be your wife.”
His grim mouth relaxed at that, the hard grey eyes crinkled in genuine amusement. “We Blaydens may be steeped in several kinds of infamy but we do not divorce our wives. Particularly when they are too green and too foolish to be thrown unprotected upon the world. No. Resign yourself, my dear. You are my wife and there can be no going back. Remains only to teach you a proper submission.”
He took her hands and drew her towards him. She yielded unwillingly but made no attempt at a resistance that she already knew to be useless. The strong fingers that could be so brutal were gentle enough as they caressed her throat and tilted her face to his, deft and quick as they unfastened the buttons that closed the neck of the cream gown. He stooped and set his lips to that wildly fluttering pulse-beat in the slim throat.
“Many times these past months have I wished to do just that,” he said thoughtfully. “It is hard on you, my dear, that you must surrender to a scarred caricature of a man, but alas, there is no help for it. For my part I am well enough pleased with my bargain. You are lovely enough to set any man’s pulses racing.” The deep voice was velvet soft now, as he gathered her closer. “Tonight I think we will dispense with Elly’s services. I trust that you will find me an adequate substitute.”
&n
bsp; Chapter Fifteen
IT was very late next day when Fleur awoke to find herself alone in the big four-poster. The door into the adjoining dressing-room stood wide open but the room was unoccupied. Someone had drawn back the curtains and lit the fire, all so quietly that she had never roused. Pale sunlight was streaming into the room, gilding the yellow hangings that gave it its name. She lay still, staring about her wide-eyed, recalling all the strange events of yesterday until she came to the moment at which Marc had set a firm arm about her waist and brought her to this room.
At this point in her recollections she rolled over in the big bed and snuggled down like a sleepy kitten, pulling the covers over her head. Not even the gentle sunlight should intrude on that remembered rapture. She had never dreamed that it would be like that. She had known — oh! ages ago, even before they were married — that the mere touch of his hand could set her in a glow; and once, in the library at Blayden, when he had kissed her, she had felt the strangest longing to cling to him and return his kisses with an enjoyment that she vaguely felt to be most improper. But those experiences, pleasant though they had been, had given little indication of the ecstasy to which his love making had awakened her.
She was, blessedly, too innocent to realise that he had used all the arts of an accomplished lover to coax her into willing surrender. He had been very patient, gentling her out of her shyness, her fears, until his caresses had aroused in her a passionate response that had startled him. He had not thought that a maid — and so young and untried a maid — was capable of so generous giving. Afterwards he had cradled her close in his arms, heavy with sleep as she was, and kissed her very gently, a trifle ashamed of his behaviour but exceedingly content with the results.
