by james
She stood like a statue in the middle of the room, waiting for the anger, expecting him to fly into a rage, but he ignored her and crossed to the door.
“I have business to attend,” he told her without turning. “I’ll be back when you’ve come to your senses.”
As soon as the door closed behind him, Bridgett limped forward and threw the lock. Two could play his game, she thought, smiling with satisfaction. He may be able to keep her locked up, like an animal in a cage, but she would no longer be forced to suffer his presence.
Releasing a weary sigh, she shuffled over to the table. She eased herself into a chair and chose a bit of cheese from the tray. Chewing mechanically, she barely tasted the pungent morsel. Her gaze fell on the rumpled bed, and a wave of sadness brought a lump to her throat. How could such passion breed so much pain? How could she want him, love him, when he thought so little of her?
Despite her anger, even knowing he did not care for her, her traitorous body still yearned for his touch. Her foolish heart still longed for his presence. Her gaze went to the door, and she sighed. He had a key, and he would be back. Sooner or later, he would come to her, and when he did, she must hold fast to her resolve.
Chapter Sixteen
“We have guests.”
Vincent didn’t look up from the papers strewn across his desk. He’d been working on the estate’s finances all afternoon. The task had taken him twice as long as it should have, his concentration constantly broken by thoughts of Bridgett. Beautiful, mesmerizing, angry Bridgett.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Who?”
“Boswell and Carrington and…two others,” Marie told him, stepping fully into the room.
Vincent raised his head, slowly absorbing his sister’s words. His gut clenched, echoing the distress in Marie’s expression. “What are they doing here?”
Shooting a worried glance over her shoulder, Marie pushed the door closed. “Boswell said they were in the area and got caught in the storm.”
“What storm?” Vincent glanced at the drapery-covered window.
“The one that’s brewing outside to the west.” Marie inched closer to the desk, hands twisting and untwisting the folds of her skirt. “Vincent, they’re asking to spend the night.”
Vincent stood and rounded his desk. He draped an arm around his sister’s shoulders. “Impossible. You told them to leave?”
“I…I couldn’t,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Well, I can,” he told her. “You may wait here, if you like.”
“Vincent, wait.” Marie tugged at his sleeve. “You can’t just send them out into the storm.”
He paused, raising a brow. “I can’t? ‘Tis less than they deserve. Perhaps, if there is justice in this world, they will be struck by lighting – or the hand of God.”
“One of their companions is a woman.”
“A woman?” Vincent frowned. “Do you know her?”
Marie shook her head. “I’ve never seen her before, but she doesn’t look…well. I – I had Thomas show her upstairs.”
“Marie!”
“She was swaying on her feet. What was I to do? Let her drop into a faint in our entry?” Marie returned his glare.
Vincent shook his head in defeat. “I suppose you’re right. Where did you put the others?”
“In the front parlor. I’ve already notified Cook there will be seven of us for dinner.”
Vincent smiled grimly. “It appears you have everything under control.”
“Dammit, Vincent, stop acting like a horse’s ass,” Marie said, batting at his arm.
Sensing the fear beneath her anger, Vincent relented. “I’m sorry. Chalk my poor behavior up to shock. I never expected to see them again.”
“I prayed we never would,” she answered, biting her lower lip. “But it’s only one night. We’ll send them on their way at first light.”
Vincent nodded. He’d see to it, personally. Taking her hand, he tucked it in the crook of his arm. “Come along, then. Let’s go greet our guests.”
* * * * *
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Vincent greeted the men gathered in his parlor. He deposited Marie in a chair near the fireplace, then turned, forcing a smile.
Boswell stood and extended his hand. “Vincent, my boy, good to see you.”
Vincent inclined his head, unable to return the nicety. He shook hands, breaking contact as quickly as he could without being obvious. “What brings you here?”
Boswell grinned, his loose jowls flapping as he laughed. “Oh, you know,” he said, winking at Carrington, who sat on the sofa next to another man whom Vincent had never seen before, “in for a bit of sport, and all that.”
“I’m afraid you’ll find none here,” Vincent said, his voice tight. “All that ended when my father died.”
“Ah yes, I heard about poor Remington’s demise. A shame, my boy. A damn shame.” Boswell tipped his head, his expression taking on a look of remorse. Vincent didn’t buy it. Not for a minute.
He let the statement hang, refusing to be a party to such hypocrisy. Boswell and Carrington had known his father for years, but Vincent had no illusions they were friends. Allies, perhaps, in their pursuit of illicit pleasures, but not friends. People like his father, and these men, didn’t have friends.
The silence grew into an uncomfortable chasm, and Boswell cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Good of you to take us in like this.”
Vincent looked at the man seated beside Carrington. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your companion?”
Boswell nodded. “Ah, yes. James Worth, meet our host, Vincent Renault. And the lovely lady there is his sister, Marie.”
“Lady Marie,” Vincent corrected him. “Mr. Worth, is it? Have we met?”
“No, I’m certain you haven’t,” Carrington spoke up before the other man had a chance to answer. “We only became acquainted with the good fellow ourselves two days ago.”
Vincent raised a brow, his curiosity piqued. “Is that so?” Carrington licked his lips, his gaze skating between the stranger and Vincent. “Ah, yes. We met over a game of cards.”
Vincent turned away, busying himself pouring drinks for his guests as he analyzed the situation. They were lying. But why? And what could he do about it, short of calling them out? Behind him, the conversation turned to the weather and the impending storm. Their nervous chatter sent a tremor up Vincent’s spine.
A gentle hand touched his arm, and Vincent looked down into Marie’s upturned face. Her eyes were wide, her face pasty white.
“I’m going to check with Cook,” she whispered.
Vincent inclined his head. “Go. You need not return. I will see you at dinner.”
A look of relief flashed across her face and she released her breath. “Thank you.”
Vincent waited until she’d slipped out the door, then turned.
“What about the woman?” Vincent asked. He handed fresh drinks to Boswell and Carrington. Mr. Worth, he noticed, still had a full glass, resting on his knee.
“Meg? A fine piece, that. Courtesy of our friend Worth, here,” Carrington told him. “I’d offer you a taste of her talents, but I’m afraid she’s rather…exhausted…at the moment.”
Vincent sipped his drink, hiding his rage behind his glass.
“There are just the two of you here?” James Worth asked, breaking the silence.
“Why do you ask?” Vincent pinned the man with his gaze.
Mr. Worth shrugged. “Curiosity, I suppose.”
“Dinner is served, Milord,” the maid announced from the door.
Vincent released his breath. “Thank you, Suzette. Gentlemen? Shall we?”
His guests rose, and Vincent preceded them into the dining room.
Throughout the meal, Vincent kept the conversation turned toward everyday topics, hoping to ease Marie’s distress. He listened carefully, all the while searching his mind for some plausible explanation for this unexpected visit. As the night wore on, he noticed severa
l surreptitious glances pass between Boswell and Carrington. The two men would look toward Worth expectantly. They seemed nervous, and excitedly distracted. Worth, on the other hand, appeared oblivious to his companions’ odd behavior, and concentrated on his meal, commenting appropriately when addressed, but adding nothing of substance to the conversation. Vincent sipped his wine, watching and listening for any clue that might explain their actions. Finally, Worth pushed back his plate and leaned back in his chair.
“My compliments to the cook,” he said, splaying his hands across his expanding girth. He stretched, letting out an enormous belch. “I don’t know about you men, but I could use a good night’s sleep.”
As if on cue, Boswell and Carrington nodded in unison, stifling yawns behind their hands.
“Yes,” Carrington said, “feeling a bit horse-whipped, myself.”
Boswell bobbed his head. “Exhausted. Vincent, old boy, you won’t mind if we bid you good-night?” We’ve a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.”
Vincent inclined his head. “By all means, don’t let me keep you.”
He stood, nodding to a nearby servant. “Bell, please show these gentlemen to their quarters.”
His guests rose, issuing a series of goodnights. Vincent watched them file out, waiting until they were beyond hearing before he looked to Marie.
“There’s something afoot,” he told her, “but I don’t know what. Boswell and Carrington couldn’t wait to leave the table.”
Marie pushed back her chair. “Why question good fortune? I don’t think I could have stood another minute in their presence. Did you see that man’s eyes? I could barely look at him.”
“They were rather odd, but not something I haven’t seen before. He’s an albino, I believe. They lack pigmentation in their skin, hair and eyes.” Taking in his sister’s pale features and the dark circles that rimmed her eyes, Vincent cursed beneath his breath. “Why don’t you go to bed, Marie? I’ll take care of things here.”
She raised her head, searching his face. “As if I could sleep with those…creatures…under my roof.”
Vincent didn’t argue. He shared her concerns. “Then read a book, relax, do something to take your mind off them being here.”
Marie made no move to rise. “Vincent, we need to discuss our other guest.”
Vincent looked at her quizzically, thinking she referred to the woman Boswell and Carrington had brought with them. “I dare say she’s sleeping and will be quite well by morning.”
“Not that guest, darling,” she cast him a mildly reproving glance. “I was speaking of Bridgett.”
Vincent glanced at the clock on the mantel. Ten o’clock. “I daresay she’s sleeping, as well.”
Immediately, an image of Bridgett, curled up on the bed as he’d found her earlier, sprang into his mind. He’d been sufficiently distracted the past few hours, but thoughts of Bridgett, the feelings she stirred within him, returned full-force.
“You can’t keep her locked up indefinitely, Vincent,” Marie told him. “I won’t have it.”
“I’m not letting her go!” Vincent raised his voice, then clenched his jaw, fighting for control. Marie raised one delicately arched brow, tilting her head and gazing up into his face. Vincent turned away from her too-knowing stare. Dammit. He sounded like a panicked boy. But that was just it. All day, he’d run over her parting words, his mood growing blacker by the moment. She wanted her freedom. If he released her, she would leave. He couldn’t let her go.
Marie stood, tossing her napkin on her plate. “Perhaps tonight isn’t the right time to discuss this. But you must realize you can’t keep her prisoner.”
She stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. Vincent stiffened, but did not pull away. “Sooner or later, you’ll have to face the truth,” she told him. “Hers, and yours.”
She gave a light squeeze, then stood on tiptoe, placing a kiss on his cheek. “Good night, brother dear. Sleep well.”
Vincent nodded, not trusting his voice. He waited until she’d gone, then poured himself another drink from the sideboard. Sipping the fiery liquid, he sat quiet and still, staring at the far wall. A half hour later, he’d made up his mind. He could not let her go. She belonged to him, and sooner or later, she would see the truth of it. Her truth. His. Marie was right, he couldn’t keep Bridgett prisoner forever, but for the time being, until he’d managed to convince her to stay, she’d remain where she was.
He drained his glass, then set it on the table with a resounding thump, punctuating his decision. Tomorrow, he’d set about changing her mind.
* * * * *
Bridgett moaned, tossing her head on the pillow, fighting the hands that held her down in her dream. Voices whispered in the darkness, hushed and excited.
She opened her eyes, shaking off the fog of sleep, and terror made her blood run cold. Two naked men knelt over her, one on each side of the bed. They held her, arms spread wide, their fingers biting into the flesh of her wrists. Something moved in the shadows, and she squinted into the darkness. Yellowish eyes glittered against pasty white skin, and she shivered in revulsion, certain the gates to hell had opened, releasing a demon onto the earth.
“Well hello there, lovely,” the demon said, “I was hoping you’d wake up and join us. You should be dead by now, but perhaps this is even better. Maybe, between the three of us, we can fuck you to death.”
Bridgett opened her mouth to scream, but his companion quickly covered her face with one beefy hand. “None of that, sweetheart. We can’t have you waking up the whole household.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed, as he chuckled good-naturedly. “You just keep quiet and lie still, and we’re going to have a bit of fun.”
His expression suddenly changed, his eyes narrowing. “I’m going to take my hand away. If you scream, I promise it’s the last noise you’ll ever make. You understand?”
Bridgett nodded. She understood all too well. There was no doubting their intent, and her throat constricted with fear.
“Hold both her hands,” the man on her left said.
The two men shifted positions, one kneeling next to her face, holding her wrists in a vice-like grip above her head, the other turning his attention to the laces at the neck of her peignoir. He fumbled with them for a moment, pulling at the knots, then uttered an impatient curse. Grabbing a handful of the flimsy material, he jerked. The sheer gown ripped from bodice to hem.
“My God,” the one who held her down said, “just look at them titties.”
He squirmed on the bed, his engorged penis twitching near her cheek. Bridgett swallowed the bile that rose in her throat and turned her head, squeezing her eyes shut at the horror unfolding around her.
“Hurry up an’ fuck her, Worth,” he said, “so I can take my turn.”
The demon wasted no time. He came at her from the end of the bed, yanking her thighs apart and crawling between them. His jutting erection brushing against her mound and Bridgett choked on her fear.
She struggled in earnest, twisting her legs and arms, trying to break her captor’s grip.
“Hold her tight,” the demon said, taking his cock in his hand and guiding it toward her. “This is going to be one hell of a ride.”
He plunged forward. Bridgett twisted to the side, bringing her knee up into his groin as she finally found her voice and screamed.
* * * * *
Vincent bolted upright, kicking at the sheets twisted about his legs. Heart pounding, he stared wide-eyed into the darkness. He waited, holding his breath, for whatever noise that had brought him awake to repeat. And then he heard it. Loud and piercing, the scream echoed through the house. His blood turned to ice water, and the hair on his arms stood at attention.
Bridgett.
He sprang up, grabbing his pants from the chair and struggling into them as he hopped on one leg, then the other. He reached the door, then doubled back, whipping open the desk drawer and withdrawing his revolver. Checking it quickly to make sure it was ready to fire, he str
ode into the hallway, passing a stunned Marie who had just stepped from her room. “Stay here,” he ordered, and flew down the stairs.
The door to his father’s chamber stood ajar, and he swung it open, heedless of whatever danger might wait for him inside.
The sight that greeted him brought him up short,
momentarily confused. He blinked, and understanding and a blinding rage, unlike anything he’d ever experienced,
filled his mind. A heartbeat later, he rushed forward,
dragging James Worth from the bed.
“What the…” Worth, hampered by his trousers that
puddle around his ankles, staggered across the floor, arms flailing.
Boswell and Carrington jumped up, reaching for their clothes as they fled across the room.
“You sons of a bitches,” Vincent growled. “I’ll kill
you.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Bridgett scramble
up, backing against the headboard. Judging her unharmed,
he turned his full attention on his guest.
He leapt forward, wrapping his hands around Worth’s
scrawny neck, digging his fingers into the soft, pasty
flesh. Worth’s eyes bulged and his mouth moved frantically, like a fish washed up on the beach.
“My Lord!” Vincent heard Bridgett’s shout, but
ignored her.
“Please, Vincent. Please stop.”
A hand fell on his arm; her soft voice drew him back
from the brink of insanity.
Vincent looked down into her pale, upturned face. He
met her beseeching gaze, watched as her lips curled into a trembling smile, and knew. With every fiber of his
being, with every beat of his heart, he loved her. The
shock of it, the utter impossibility, was like a physical
blow. As if punched, he released his victim and fell back.
Worth immediately dropped to his knees. Head low, he
gasped for breath. Vincent turned away, tugging a blanket from the bed to wrap around Bridgett’s naked shoulders.
Carrington and Boswell suddenly bolted toward the door, but Vincent swung on them, gun raised. “Stop right there, or I’ll blow your bloody heads off.”
