Juliet stiffened and froze. Fear seized the whole of her as she came to her hands and knees and saw first the terrifying men surrounding him then the man himself. She stared, just stared, able to do nothing more. She had never seen anything like him, this great, tall man sitting atop the huge snorting black horse and staring at her with cold dark eyes, a gaze filled with both inexplicable hatred and derision. A long mane of wild, dark hair swung freely over the wide width of his shoulders, framing the hard features of his face, features that spoke of arrogance, pride, and cruelty: the savage arch of dark brows, the fine large nose, and the harsh curve of his generous mouth, the dark growth of an unkempt beard spreading over his hard, square chin. Dressed in a way that made visible the hard-worked muscles encasing the whole of his body, he looked made for war and brutality and terror.
The morning sun rose behind him, burning off the mist. His dark shadow fell over her. The man was, she knew in the space of a moment, her worst nightmare, the shape of the dark shadow haunting her dreams. The form he took by light of day was a combination of the images of Apollo, Vulcan, Mars, and Jupiter himself, all layered to make a man who seemed, even then, much larger than life.
The meadow shrank with his presence and that of the red giant waiting quietly at his side. More men arrived, all of them looking wild and mean, greeting the sight of her with mistrust, that same inexplicable hate. Tomas started to come to his feet just as her quick thoughts assembled the scene before her: someone had betrayed her and her uncle had found her out. He sent these men to hurt either Tomas or herself or both. Clarissa's warning swam dizzily through her mind. Her uncle sent these men to murder her, and they would kill Tomas, too. "No! No please!" She shocked everyone there by rushing to place her small form between Garrett and Tomas. "Don't hurt him . . . please, please, have mercy! 'Twas all my fault! He's done nothing!"
"Your fault, indeed; I shall try to remember that," Garrett said, surprised by the futile but valiant attempt to save the young man; it seemed so real. Yet her looks surprised him far more. She was nothing like he imagined her. Nothing. But he supposed treachery could hide behind a startling look of innocence. "So you want my mercy? And so soon?"
Juliet slowly shook her head in an attempt to blot out the whole scene, especially the way his eyes claimed her without even a touch. He made her know he could and would do anything he wanted with her, that she was helpless to change that.
"And to think we've not even begun yet."
Fear engulfed Tomas, choking him, and he began to back up, ready to bolt. The cold sting of a pistol put to his back stopped him and he turned, gasping as he saw Gayle there. With his fine good looks, loose flaming red hair, and bright blue eyes, Gayle Campbell looked tall, lean, and mean, not much older than Tomas but four lifetimes wiser. Tomas's brief cry of shock sounded like a whimper. He felt certain Gayle would shoot him dead.
"Your young man seems eager to quit the company," Garrett observed with an amusement arising from disdain. "I'm not surprised. I suppose you deserve to be left alone to fight the wolves." He nodded to Gayle. "I'll let him go. Not, however, in the conventional sense."
Gayle bowed and offered a brief apology to the terrified young man, " Tis for the best.* Before Tomas knew what was happening, Gayle rose from his bow with an arc of his arm, sending the butt end of the pistol into the side of Tomas's head.
Juliet screamed as Tomas dropped lifeless to the ground. She ran to his side, the tender cuts on her back sending stinging pains through her, pains she ignored as she flung herself upon him. Afraid the blow had killed him, she laid her head upon his chest and gasped when she heard the steady beat.
Garrett watched the fine show with irritation. "Don't pretend to be so alarmed. I've no doubt I'm saving what little manhood the boy's got. Now get up or I will kill him where he lays."
Juliet lifted her eyes to him and for a long moment their gazes locked. What Garrett saw there confused him; he didn't understand. He swung off his mount. Leif moved his horse forward and took its reins. His first step toward her brought her to her feet, his next made her turn and run.
"I did say I'd kill him."
She stopped but did not turn. Her breaths came in huge gasps and she felt her blood draining from her head in a desperate rush to fuel the furious pounding of her heart. Far too frightened to think past obeying in order to save Tomas's life, she stood perfectly still as the strong hands came to her person, turning her. She looked up but briefly to meet his eyes, only to close them in the face of his cruel scrutiny.
The dark shadow sent to take her to hell . . .
Garrett stared at the young girl, unable to believe the things he read in her face. "They said you were lovely and I expected that, but—" He stopped midsentence, taken and held by her beauty. Not a common beauty or the studied beauty of so many of his women, women in general, but rather the unaffected and, yes, innocent, beauty of a young girl. He studied the delicately boned face, high cheek bones, and skin so pale that it scarcely seemed to have ever felt the touch of the sun. Her nose was small and straight and her mouth, oh, that mouth! Full, sensual, all but begging for a man's touch. She was a bit above average height for a woman, and though it was hard to tell through the plain dress, what he could see of her figure looked as slender as a reed but built to answer any man's dreams. The surge of desire he felt passed quickly into disgust.
He wanted to see her eyes. They were deeply set and widely spaced, framed in thick lashes and pencil-thin brows. His hands touched her chin and she flinched as he said "Look at me." She opened her eyes, eyes made larger with her fear. He studied the terrified pools of her eyes, seeing all his doubt put to play there. He ignored the bruise for a moment; it said only that someone had been here before him. What he saw was that a man could lose his mind, if not his head, in those eyes, by far her best feature. Either the girl was as innocent as the day was new or her treachery was such that she had developed the trick of it to a high art.
Juliet held perfectly still but closed her eyes now as he reached a hand to her hair and pulled out four pins. The long thick ropes of her heavy braids swung down past her hips. Never had he seen hair like that, but Elsbeth, his young half sister, wore her dark hair in old-fashioned plaits, and the fact took on significance in his mind, warning him. She could not be much older than Elsbeth's ten and seven years. "Heart," he called with slow measure, "where's that maid?"
Leif had a good deal more than a doubt and was only too glad to put it to the test. The girl Garrett towered over, scaring to death, was not the one they sought, he knew it. A mistake had been made. The wretched whore who bedded young Edric while making love to so many others, the woman who cried rape when her father caught her and who cost the boy his life, could not be the same creature who set herself in front of a man to save his life before her own. Besides, he saw her eyes, wide with fright but with the innocence of an angel.
Leif simply motioned Heart into the clearing with the maid. Held loosely in Heart's arms, Missy took one look at the scene before her and suffered but a brief pang of conscience. It was for the best, she knew. God's own judgement for sure, far better Juliet than Clarissa; 'twas that simple.
Garrett's gaze never left Juliet. "Is this your mistress?"
"Yes, sir."
Juliet missed Garrett's changed face and Leif s surprised disbelief as her eyes flew to the spot at the sound of the familiar voice. "Missy! Oh Missy, 'twas you who betrayed us! Oh, but why? What have I ever done to deserve this?"
Missy said nothing, her mouth shut to a straight line, her eyes filled with moral indignation. Garrett motioned with his head, and Heart turned his mount around, taking Missy back to the house at a gallop.
Juliet gasped in a small, pained cry as Garrett's hands tightened around her arms like the metal casing of a torture rack. She looked to her torturer's face and gasped, seeing the naked fury and hate there.
Leif motioned the men back to the ship. "Garrett!" he called sharply. "Garrett," his lowered tone warned, "watch you
r pace man, the girl looks slight and as fragile as glass."
"Slight and fragile and as innocent as a mirage upon waking; a well-honed deception. The devil's own. Beneath it lies the woman who coldly caused my brother's gruesome death."
Juliet looked to the great giant, then to Garrett, not understanding the words through her panic.
"Nay," Leif said. "We have the wrong woman."
Garrett knew better than to doubt a single one of Leifs judgements, and his gaze narrowed as they returned to her. "Your name?"
The question surprised her and she searched his face with confusion. "You know it. You must know it. I, I don't know why I should say it ... say anything to you!"
"Only because I would rather kill you than to listen to you. Saying it will deny me the pleasure."
It was neither a threat nor a lie and Juliet knew not what previously untapped intuition told her he would indeed rather kill her. She tried to swallow, an effort that cost her a frightened gasp, one that continued as Garrett suddenly took her small hand in a cruel grip.
Even Leifs gaze filled with the accusation as Garrett held her small hand before him, scarcely able to believe what he saw: the ring of Lady Evelyn Marie Saint Van Ness, his own maternal grandmother, on her finger. The finger was mangled too, as if smashed by a hammer, a grotesque oddity to this perversity, and Garrett released the hand as if burned by a coal. How could she wear Edric's ring—one of his grandmother's — after she had witnessed, had caused, his death? What kind of sickness lived within her?
Juliet gasped at his expression as his eyes lifted from Clarissa's ring to her face, then she shook her head slowly with denial.
"Take it off."
Juliet slipped it from her finger. A trembling hand held it up for him and in a quick sweep, his hand covered hers. She cried as the huge hand tightened around hers, as if unable to control his need to hurt her. He was stopped from crushing bone by the merciful touch of the giant. "No, Garrett! No,"
He held the ring, shocked by it, and by his madness and rage, by the evidence of how easy it was to hurt her. Juliet dropped to her knees, overwhelmed by the pain shooting up her arm. She, too, recognized only too well the madness of men who could hurt women, and he had it, this terrible thing that preyed on a weaker being. " Twas given . . . 'twas a gift ... I didn't take it. . . "
Garrett saw she was too terrified to make much sense now. Only one thing mattered, anyway. He brought her back to her feet to ask: "You do know who I am?"
Still holding her hand, she nodded, the fear of it washing over her in waves. Her uncle had sent him to hurt, maim, kill her, or perhaps to do all of those things. With a trembling hand she reached to her mouth as she drew in a breath that she couldn't release, stopped by the thought that her punishment must be death indeed if her uncle sent this man to do it for him.
Her terror was plain, and Garrett felt drawn like a fly to a web by it—her innocence seemed so plain—and to his surprise, he found himself having to fight it. "At least I see what my poor brother saw in you. You know why I've come, don't you?"
Again she nodded. "To kill me." Saying the words gave them reality, and it engulfed her in a surge of abject desper ation. Her knees collapsed and she dropped to the ground again, covering her face in her hands. "I don't want to die….I-"
It was as far as she got. His hands came over her arms and he drew her up to her feet, shaking her just short of snapping her neck, a mercy he'd not give her. "You don't want to die?" his voice thundered the questions from far above her. "Damn your soul to hell, girl! How do you think my brother felt when your father put him to such a gruesome death? When you listened to it, knowing one— one! —word would stop it! And you would ask me to spare your wretched existence?" He stopped shaking her and stood still for a moment, trying to imagine the awful sound of her silence as she listened to Edric's cries. "Yet I will not kill now. I will wait until the time comes when you hate each breath that comes to you, until I hear you begging for the mercy of death."
Juliet stared in complete shock. His words made no sense to her, save for the last part, and for whatever difference it made, she knew then he was mad. Her fear grew large, too large for her body to accommodate. Her heart thudded with alarming force and her breaths came in huge pained gasps until they stopped altogether. She was too shocked to know she had stopped breathing until Garrett, drawing on a restraint he did not feel, raised his hand and lightly landed the back of his hand to her face. She cried out with shock rather than with pain, though the blow would have knocked her easily to the ground but for the fact he held her by the arm. "Oh no," he said, catching her up in his arms. "I won't let you faint on me, not now. Not before I've had my ounce of flesh."
Leif came over with his mount. Fear came in waves of nausea. She missed the pity in the man's eyes, pity she needed desperately to see, a revelation that a human sentiment existed, however small, among these men who came to do her uncle's deeds.
Garrett's arms came around her, bringing her to the mount. His hands never left her as he mounted his beast. She winced in pain but gave it no voice as he threw her in front of him over the saddle, knocking the wind from her. The pain changed to waves of nausea and back to pain again. She could not seem to draw enough breath and started to heave, retching as they were off in a gallop.
The wind hit her face and each lift of the horse's hooves jolted her like a hard kick in the sides. Garrett's gloved hand lay across her back to keep her in place, unaware of the sharp stinging pain this weight caused her. They soon caught up with the others, heading for the ship that was docked and anchored in plain sight of Bristol's famous garrison.
Juliet wanted to think, and thoughts did pass quickly in and out of her mind. She thought of Tomas and his grief when he discovered she died, if she would die, if this man could be persuaded to kill her rather than abuse her. Oh please, dear God, oh please! If she begged, dear God, begged and pleaded and dropped to her knees, would he simply keep taking a hand to her face until she stopped? How much pain can a person endure before the body decides to die, for mercy's sake? Yet all these thoughts registered dimly, quickly, struggling through the pain and fear, until—
Until through the blur of her tears she saw the dagger tied by a strap above his boot. Her small hands reached across for the jeweled dagger. She knew not to think but to strike without thought or purpose. Using all her strength and effort she twisted and lifted up, slicing across his arm and halfway over his chest.
Garrett lost the reins to grab her hand, moving faster than she could see. The great beast reared high in the sky, throwing her hard against him. She felt a sickening snap of her wrist. She screamed without sound as she flew through the air and landed hard on the ground. The air bolted from her lungs, then, mercifully, she lost consciousness.
Garrett was well known for the trick of turning falls into jumps. Only the soles of his boots touched the earth as he landed on the ground. He moved to where the girl lay still and lifeless and saw the bruise forming where he had caught that painfully thin wrist a mark to match the one on her face. Dear God, how could such delicate beauty exist with such a cold and black heart?
Leif came to his side, handing him a cloth to wipe the blood from his chest and arm. "I don't suppose you can blame her for trying."
"No," Garrett agreed, a coldness growing over his own heart. "I don't blame her for that." He bent down and lifted her up into his arms, shocked by how terribly small she felt in his arms and how fragile she seemed, an impression that was incongruous with the enormity of her sins. He stared down at an angel's face and whispered under his breath, "The devil's disguise indeed."
Leif turned away, knowing perfectly well that the devil could not make those eyes. Yet he didn't know how to convince Garrett of it, not when the immovable weight of reality said differently.
Pain shot from all parts of Stoddard's body. His arms and legs were tied and he slumped on the floor. A broken rib punctured his lungs. Each breath burned as if fueled by fire. A bloodied bruise
on his forehead mixed blood and sweat, which streamed down the lines on his face, wetting his palate with a salty-sweet moisture he would never live long enough to forget. Various bruises brought a painful awareness of parts of his body he had never thought of: his arms and shoulders, his lower back, and his left leg. The only place he didn't feel pain was in his right leg, which only meant it was broken.
He'd seen many men die for less; he had made many men die for less. He would not give the bold man who claimed the name Black Garrett the pleasure; he'd fight Vulcan himself to stay alive. He'd never let him touch a single hair on Clarissa's head, not that there was a chance in hell of abducting her in broad daylight with the grooms at the house and the garrison in Bristol. The miracle was that they got this far. He'd make them pay with their lives for each bloody step.
The next breath made him sputter and curse, his mind filling with images of the way he would punish this man, whoever he really was. The insane boldness of the measure made him half believe the man actually owned the famed traitor's name! As soon as the garrison arrived and rescued him, he'd make the bastard pay. He would not even wait to take him off this ship. First, the same castration the man sought to avenge, only unlike before, the cut would not lead to death. No, death would come slowly to this savage. . . . Yes, he'd fight to live long enough to hear the man's screams!
He closed his eyes, only to see the cheering faces of the crowd of his own workers watching him carried on board this ship, battered and bruised and half dead from being dragged like a carcass through the streets. Oh, they would pay too; he'd remember each one. . . . The faces faded gradually as he slipped into a hazy unconsciousness. He would kill him. ... He would kill him. . . .
Stoddard woke to sharp jolts of a new torment, his pain changing size and shape. He could not guess how long he had endured it. An hour? Less? He looked across the strange space of the room, his vision blurred but good enough to see soft morning sunlight still streaming in through the port windows. He heard men outside, readying sails, a commotion of some kind.
Jennifer Horseman Page 5
