But he was between her and the path. Even if she made it past him, she’d still have a distance to run to the village and safety. Not far, but far enough that he could catch her before she got there.
She’d rather deal with him now, face to face, than have him run her down like a hunted animal, grabbing her from behind.
She took several deep breaths. And she should try to be calm. She still had to live in Little Puddledon and attend Sunday services in Godfrey’s church. Having a rational conversation about the matter would be better than shrieking at him.
She should treat this as a simple misunderstanding and be thankful she’d discovered his true nature before she married him. Harriet was right. He was horrible.
“You’ll pay for this, you slut,” he said through clenched teeth.
Slut?! A dam broke inside her, and years of anger, fear, and powerlessness flooded out.
Bugger calm and reason.
She grabbed a sturdy stick off the ground. “You’re the one who’s going to pay.”
“I don’t think so.” He laughed—well, that’s what the noise sounded like, but there was no humor in it. Rather, she heard anger and disgust, though the fact that he was looking at her as if she were a piece of dung he’d just discovered on his shoe might be influencing her opinion. And yes, his beak of a nose had wrinkled just as Harriet said it would.
“Here I thought you were a respectable widow. Zeus, how you played me for a fool.” He stepped toward her.
She was happy to note that he winced a little when he moved.
“Don’t come any closer.” She brandished her stick. “I won’t hesitate to use this”—she let her eyes drop briefly to his fall—“where it will do the most damage.”
Did Godfrey suddenly look a bit green about the gills? At least he stopped his forward motion.
“You’re a woman.” His lip curled. “I can overpower you easily.”
She gripped her stick more tightly. “I’m a woman who works with her hands every day. I’m strong”—she pointed her stick at her target—“and I have very good aim.”
And she was bluffing. Yes, she was strong—for a woman. It was hugely unfair that the female of the species was at such a disadvantage when it came to physical strength. She would just have to make up for the difference with a cool head—and unerring aim.
Fortunately, Godfrey decided not to put it to the test, at least not yet. “I almost offered for you, you know,” he said, tugging on his waistcoat and then, with false nonchalance, clasping his hands together in front of him so they offered his male bit some protection. “I almost opened my house to you and your”—his nose wrinkled again—“bastard.”
Her grip on her stick tightened so much her knuckles turned white. Perhaps anger would make her strong enough to beat Godfrey’s supercilious expression off his ugly face. “Don’t you dare call Harriet that.”
“Why not? It’s what she is.”
“It is not.”
“Do you prefer the term by-blow, then? Love child?”
Harriet is a love—a loved—child.
She suddenly remembered how powerful she’d felt with Harry. Her love had burned so brightly that nothing—not her father, not her reputation, not all the rules of behavior she’d grown up with—had mattered. All those things had been as insignificant as a candle in the noon sun.
She’d been young and naïve then, but so very brave.
As only the young can be. Being on one’s own with a child to support had taught her that the young were often fools.
Godfrey shook his head. “Thank God I discovered the truth in time.”
She slashed her stick through the air, almost blind with anger. “No, thank God I discovered the truth in time. You are no more than a whited sepulcher.”
Godfrey flinched, but recovered quickly. “Isn’t that a bit like the pot calling the kettle black?” He took a step forward.
Pen thrust her stick toward his groin as she took a step back. “I’m not a vicar. I work with hops, not holiness.”
She was not going to explain herself to him or to anyone, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask for forgiveness. She hadn’t done anything that she felt in her heart of hearts was wrong.
Though of course everyone else would think it wrong. They would look at her the way Godfrey was looking at her now. They’d see a woman damaged. Dirty. Worthless.
A whore.
And, more importantly, they’d see Harriet as a mistake, a child who would be better off if she’d never been born.
Which was why Pen had pretended to be a widow all these years.
“So, you want to talk about agriculture? About plowing and sowing?”
Her eyes narrowed—and she noticed he was coming closer again. She poked her stick in his direction and he stopped.
Unfortunately, his mouth didn’t. “Have you been letting all the other village men plow your field?”
“W-what do you mean?” The words slipped out before she could stop them. She could tell what he meant from his insulting tone.
“Come on. It’s only fair you give me what you’ve given them.” His lips turned up in a grotesque smile. “Think of it as tithing.”
Good God, how could she ever have considered marrying this jumped-up, sanctimonious scoundrel? “You’re despicable.”
“I promise you you’ll like it.” Godfrey cupped his fall. “My friend here always leaves the ladies begging for more.”
Her stomach heaved at the thought, but she forced herself to ignore it. “Ha! If you hear begging, it’s for you to hurry up and be done.”
Lord, I shouldn’t have said that.
His face darkened like a thundercloud, and then in a flash he was on her, ripping the stick from her hands and jerking her up against his chest. His arms across her back felt like iron bands.
She tried to knee him again, but he was holding her too tightly. She couldn’t move. And then he smashed his mouth down on hers and tried to push his tongue between her lips.
She kept her jaws locked.
Stay angry. Fight. Don’t let him do this.
He pulled his head back to glare at her. “Stop resisting.”
“And let you rape me?”
“It’s not rape. You want it.”
She shoved against his chest, but couldn’t move him even an inch. “Ask your aching cock if I want it.” Maybe I can strangle him with his cravat.
She reached for his neckcloth, but he trapped her hands with one of his before she could grab it. The arm around her back tightened.
Oh, dear God. Now she was in a worse position. Without her hands to exert any force against him, he’d closed the last space between them. She could feel his hard cock pressing against her.
“You’re a whore. You can’t be raped.”
“I am not a whore.” I have to break free. I won’t—I can’t—let Godfrey do this. What if he gets me with child? I—
I have to remain calm and watch for the slightest opportunity. “But even if I were, my body is mine. No one gets to decide who . . . touches it but me.”
He was panting now. He dragged her back to the willow, pinning her against the trunk. She felt his hand fumble with his fall. “Spare me your maidenly airs. We both know they’re an act.”
“They’re not.” Did she hear branches snapping, feet pounding down the narrow path?
It was likely just the blood rushing in her ears.
“Is it money you want? I’ll pay you.” He grinned. It was the most horrifying expression she’d ever seen. “I’ll pay more if I’m pleased. Try to please me, Penelope.”
He must have got his fall’s buttons undone because now he was fumbling with her skirt, pulling it up, higher and higher, past her calves, her thighs—
“No!” She screamed and tried to slam her head into his face. She didn’t get a flush hit, but managed a glancing blow to his chin. She felt him flinch.
“You bloody bit—aurgh!”
Suddenly she was free.
Sh
e blinked. How—
Oh. Godfrey’s hands had more important things to do than molest her. They were busily clawing at an arm clad in blue broadcloth that had appeared across his throat.
“Aurgh!” Godfrey said again. “Gaa gaa gaa!”
Who was her savior? She looked up—but the man had twisted around, putting his body between her and Godfrey. All she could see was his back.
His back was very nice—broad with wide shoulders. He was a good six inches taller than Godfrey and clearly in far better condition.
Good God, if this man decides to rape me, I’ll have no hope of freeing myself. I should run.
But the men were between her and the path. Perhaps she could go over or through the stream. She moved toward the water, trying not to bring any attention to herself.
The stranger removed his arm from Godfrey’s neck.
“Bloody hell, sir, what do you mean by this?” Godfrey massaged his throat. “I’ll thank you to take yourself off. You are interrupting my sport.”
“Not sport. Rape.”
She paused in her retreat. The voice was educated and vaguely familiar. Who could it be? Not a villager—Godfrey would have called him by name if he were.
She looked at Godfrey to see if he showed any signs of recognizing the fellow.
He didn’t.
And then without conscious thought, her eyes dropped to Godfrey’s fall. His pale pink rod peeked out at her.
Blech.
Godfrey made a dismissive sound, a cross between a laugh and a snort. “Oh, no, my good fellow. You’ve misconstrued the situation entirely. The woman’s a common slattern, a—”
The man’s fist connected with Godfrey’s jaw in a dull thud. Godfrey’s head snapped back, and the rest of his body followed to measure its length on the dirt and dead leaves, sending a red squirrel scampering away in alarm.
Pen pressed her lips together to keep from cheering.
She shouldn’t cheer—she still had no notion who the stranger was. He might turn against her next. She saw the stick she’d dropped when Godfrey had accosted her and picked it up.
Godfrey scrambled to his feet. “You blackguard! Cur! I’ll teach you some manners.” He threw a punch.
In one fluid motion, the other man blocked it and sent Godfrey crashing back to earth, nose spurting blood all over his cravat.
“Bloody hell”—except it came out more like buddy hell—“you broke my nose,” Godfrey said, sitting up and using his handkerchief to try to stem the red flood.
“Unlikely. But if you try to hit me again, I will break it.” The man straightened his cuffs. His back was still to Pen. “Now apologize to the lady.”
Godfrey snorted—and then winced in pain. His eyes over the rapidly reddening handkerchief glared at the man and then glared at Pen. He got laboriously back to his feet.
“My apologies if I gave offense,” he said to a point somewhere over her head.
If he gave offense! She’d like to—
“Let it go, Pen. Accept the man’s weak apology before I’m forced to kill him.”
Good God! It couldn’t be—
“Harry?”
Chapter Five
“So, you know each other, do you?”
Godfrey’s words were muffled by the roaring in her ears.
It’s Harry. Oh, God. It’s Harry!
She felt lightheaded, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might tear a hole in her chest, her lungs struggling to draw air. She planted one end of her stick on the ground, using it like a cane to steady herself, and studied him.
He was older, of course. There were lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes that hadn’t been there before. And he seemed more . . . he looked more . . .
The only way she could describe it was solid.
The slim boy she’d loved had turned into a man.
Does he know about Harriet?
A hard ball of ice formed in her stomach. She was afraid she might be sick.
Godfrey sniffed. “Is he one of your custom—”
Harry’s fist sent Godfrey back into the dirt. Fortunately, Harry’s hat remained firmly on his head.
If Godfrey sees the silver streak, he’ll know at once what Harry is to me.
Was. What Harry was to her. Had been. Their relationship was very much in the past.
Something that felt like longing stabbed through her.
Ridiculous. Yes, she’d loved Harry once, but that was a decade ago. He’d changed. She’d changed. They most likely had nothing in common.
Except Harriet.
Has he come for Harriet?
Panic joined the stew of emotions roiling her gut.
“You bloody bastard.” Godfrey had managed to get to his feet again. “I’ll have you know I’m the vicar here.”
“Good for you. Now go away,” Harry said dismissively, focusing instead on Pen.
She searched his face, but she might as well have been looking at a shuttered house for all she could glean from his expression. He hadn’t used to be so inscrutable.
What can he see in my eyes?
Likely far too much. She looked at Godfrey instead.
His face was the same shade as the blood spattered on his cravat. “You can be certain I shall write at once to my patron, the Duke of Grainger, sirrah. He will not like to hear that you have abused one of his vicars.”
That got Harry to look back at him. “He’ll like it even less when I tell him one of his vicars is a rapist.”
Godfrey’s jaw dropped and his face went from red to white and then back to red. “I am no such thing!”
“Only because I arrived in time to stop you.”
“I . . . The woman is a—”
“Say what I think you mean to say and I’ll break your jaw as well as your nose.”
Godfrey snapped his mouth shut, but only for a moment. “I promise you I intend to write the duke at once.”
Harry shrugged. “You may do as you please.”
“Indeed.” Godfrey cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot. “I must ask you your name, sir.”
Was Harry going to tell Godfrey that he was the Earl of Darrow?
Apparently not.
“Harry Graham.”
“I see. And—” Godfrey’s mouth hung open, frozen for several beats. He frowned. “Graham as in the Earl of Darrow’s family?”
Or as in the Earl of Darrow.
“Yes. But you can just tell Grainger it’s his friend Harry. I’m here on his business, so he’ll know whom you mean.”
“Ah.”
Pen thought she could see Godfrey’s Adam’s apple bobbing nervously even from her vantage point several yards away.
Harry’s smile had an edge. “I do think he’ll be more inclined to believe a friend than an, er, employee he’s never met, don’t you?”
“Um.”
“In fact, now that I consider the matter, I think you might be wise to explore other employment opportunities. I very much doubt Grainger will wish to keep on a vicar who’s a rapist.”
“I didn’t . . . That is, she—”
“Do you really wish to feel my fist again?”
Godfrey looked at her. “Mrs. Barnes, I do apologize but you must see I made an honest mistake.”
An honest mistake? She would like to punch him in the nose—or in an organ much lower on his person. “You forced your attentions on me when I clearly didn’t want them.” Didn’t want them? That was a colossal understatement. “I was trying to fight you off. That is not a mistake, honest or otherwise. It is an attack. If Mr. Graham had not arrived when he did, you would have r-raped me.”
She started to shake as the realization hit her just how close she’d come to being violated.
I can’t lose control now.
She tightened her grip on the stick and took several deep breaths.
Godfrey’s mouth had flattened into a thin, tense line. He turned back to Harry. “Mr. Graham, I must tell you that this woman is living under false pret
enses. She holds herself out as a widow, but she has an illegitimate daughter—” He shot her a glance before looking back at Harry.
“Since you say you are here on the duke’s business and not your family’s, perhaps you are unaware that this woman is the former earl’s whore.”
Harry’s fist connected with Godfrey’s stomach this time.
Godfrey bent over, gasping.
“You are quite a slow learner, aren’t you?” Harry’s voice was hard and cold—she’d never heard that tone from him before. “I advise you to leave without saying another word—here or anywhere. I really do not wish to kill you, but you are sorely trying my self-control. Do I make myself clear?”
Godfrey nodded.
“Good. And button your bloody fall.”
Godfrey fumbled with his buttons as he scuttled off. He looked cowed, but Pen was certain Harry’s threat wouldn’t keep him from telling the first person he encountered the entire story.
Oh, who cared? It didn’t matter any longer. The reputation she’d worked so hard to build was gone no matter what Godfrey did.
“Pen.” Harry had come over and put his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t cry.”
“I-I”—she sniffed—“I’m not c-crying.”
“Of course, you’re not.”
His hands exerted the slightest pressure and she gave in, dropping her stick and collapsing against him, burying her face in his coat and sobbing. It felt so good to have his hard chest under her cheek again and his strong arms round her back.
But it was so foolish, too. She knew even as she sobbed and snuffled that Harry would go back to his estate tomorrow or the next day and she’d be here with Harriet—
She would be here with Harriet, wouldn’t she? He’d not try to take her daughter?
Their daughter.
But he wouldn’t do that to her. She knew he wouldn’t. What did he want with Harriet? No, he would leave and she would stay. There would be no escaping or even sharing her responsibilities.
Not that she wanted to escape them. Of course not. She was quite able to handle matters on her own. It was weak of her to buckle under a little difficulty like this.
She forced herself to raise her head. To step back out of the warmth and support of Harry’s arms.
Little Puddledon is where I belong now. I have a job to do—Jo and Caro and the rest of the Home depend on me. And I have Harriet to raise. I’m strong. I’ll manage.
What Ales the Earl Page 6
