Riverrun

by Andrews, Felicia

  There was darkness, then, a red tinge and burning. She was on her hands and knees, the back of her skull feeling as if it had tripled in size. Tears exploded unbidden from her eyes as she shook her head to clear it, her hands twisting into claws when fingers gripped her shoulder and forced her to stand. She whirled, raking, heard Geoffrey’s guttural scream before his fist slammed into her cheek and she fell backward onto the mattress.

  She stiffened, her eyes widening in horror—not at the trembling hook that threatened her throat, but at Geoffrey’s face—or what had been his face before her nails had gouged it. There was a thin line of blood from the center of his forehead to the tip of his nose, thin and broadening, another on his cheek. And the patch—the patch had been torn aside to reveal a socket plugged with a sphere of milky white glass, the flesh around it hardened in permanent gray scar tissue threaded with faint shadows of crimson and black. Like some hideous vampiric vortex it drained all humanity from his expression, all vestige of sanity, all fringes of mercy. He laughed and leaned closer, and in her terror she could not turn her gaze from the mask of evil that loomed over her. Her lips moved silently, her head turned slowly from side to side, yet she still could not tear her gaze away from the blood, the laughter; and the eye.

  He’s going to kill me, she thought suddenly. Kevin is down the hail gambling away all we own, and this man is going to kill me.

  The hook flashed, making her blink, and the strands of her pearls separated, fell away from her throat and left her feeling inordinately naked. She moved a hand to cover her throat and the hook flashed again. The hand dropped away quickly.

  “You will undress,” he said then, backing away slowly.

  She dared not disobey him, praying futilely that this would only be a repetition of the winter before when he had stripped her naked and done nothing but stare. She pushed off the bed and rose, her hands awkwardly unfastening the stays, the bone, catching the dress as it fell from her shoulders with an accusing hiss, letting the material drop when he warned her with a glare. It will be as before, she thought, in an effort to keep from losing her mind; as before, it will be, it must be … and she was standing by the mattress, naked, her hands stiff at her sides as he nodded, and his good hand moved to his belt.

  “No!” she shouted suddenly, moving like an unleashed spring. She stopped when the hook tore into the bedpost, the arm blocking her. “My God, Geoffrey!” She tried to climb over the bed, fell when the hardened metal glanced off the back of her head, bringing bile to her mouth and a sob to her lips. Weakly, she tried to raise herself on hands and knees, but was shoved over onto her back. Another blow, and she was sure this time her skull would crack. She opened her mouth to cry out again, and gagged when a piece of cloth was rammed between her teeth. She nearly vomited. She blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to drive back the pinwheels of heated color flashing before her, her arms out to keep Geoffrey back as he climbed onto her legs and pinioned them to the covers. She lashed out weakly, sobbing wildly now and bucking to throw him off.

  Worst of all: he said nothing. His good arm held her down at the neck, the other easily slapping aside her panic-stricken blows.

  He entered her and her scream was muffled, though her eyes widened painfully. His arm slipped slightly and for a moment she thought she would be strangled, far better than the pummeling between her legs, the cold heat that scorched her while he rode her as he would an unbroken mare.

  Yet she might have been able to bear it, might have been able to close her mind against the violation if it hadn’t been for Geoffrey’s face—it had no expression, none at all: no hatred, no satisfaction, not even contempt. Nothing. It was as though the time of day, a flea on a dog’s back, the amount of gin in the bottom of a broken glass was far more important, and infinitely more interesting. It was as though she did not exist. And when it was done, he dressed and left without a single glance in her direction.

  She had no idea how long she lay there, sobbing, forcing herself to keep her hands away from her stomach, her thighs, to touch and ease the pain both without and within. Finally, however, she tore the gag from her mouth and rose, slipped into her clothes and moved to the door. She was numb. Her mind refused to dwell on the incident, skittering away like a frightened horse at a falling leaf. She composed herself, and stepped into the hallway—a part of her noting that the door had now been unlocked—and found Kevin pacing anxiously at the foot of the staircase.

  “Darling,” he said, running up to meet her, “where have—”

  “I want to go home,” she said flatly. “I have a headache, and I’ve been resting. Take me home, Kevin. Now.”

  Kevin smiled weakly, took her arm and brought her to the doorway where he spoke in low tones to a liveried servant. Then he turned to her. “The carriage,” he explained. “While we’re waiting, don’t you think we should pay our respects to Mrs.—”

  “Now,” she said, only faintly wondering why he was so amenable to their leaving so abruptly. And when a servant had adjusted her crimson pelisse over her shoulders, she was out the door before her husband could say a word.

  “Cass,” he said later, as they were racing eastward, “Cass, I—”

  “Did you lose much?” she asked, suddenly needing a target. “Did they—what is the new term, Kevin? Take your worth? Well, did they?”

  When he refused to answer, she did not pursue it. It was only one more pain to be added to the rest. One more pain. My God, she thought, how can I tell him?

  “I suppose the next thing you’ll say is that you’re keeping me instead of the other way around,” he said sullenly, a few minutes later.

  “It never crossed my mind,” she said coldly.

  “A damned good thing.”

  “Even if it is true.”

  He grabbed her arm, his fingers squeezing her so tightly she nearly gasped in pain. “Wrong, my dear. Remember, we are married. What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine.”

  It was well past midnight when they entered Jordan Lane, and not long after that before they were in bed, silent, cold, as she fought with herself to tell him what had happened, what had been happening since the day they’d first met. But how much of it would he believe, especially in his present state? She knew of the gambling, the losses, and knew with a certainty beyond speculation that Forrester had been at the ball solely to drive Kevin further into debt, as he had been doing for months. She stared into the darkness, cursing her foolishness for not telling Kevin the whole story right from the start. You’re a damned stupid fool, Cass Bowsmith, she told herself—and gasped. Cass Bowsmith. Cass … Roe! Roe! Damn it, you’re a married woman!

  But for the first time a faint, insidious suspicion insinuated itself into her dozing: suppose, Cassandra Bowsmith Roe, Kevin really didn’t love you at all, was attracted to you only after your wealth matched and surpassed his? Suppose, Cassandra. Suppose.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Utter nonsense,” Kevin growled as he strode for the door. “Cass, I don’t know what’s come over you, but you’re not thinking straight.”

  It was difficult to suppress the urge to grab something and throw it at him. She wanted to shout, but had done enough of that already; she wanted to cry, but it would only serve to fix his idea of her condition more firmly. The best she could do, under the circumstances, was follow him and plant herself in front of the door while he picked up his scarf, gloves, and walking stick after jamming his hat angrily on his head.

  “It is not nonsense,” she said as calmly as she could. “How many times do I have to tell you about that letter?”

  “I would still like to see it.”

  “And I told you I burned it, damn it! I would not have it under my roof!”

  Kevin shook his head and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. “Cass, you’ve been under a strain, I know. The way those people—supposedly my friends—have treated you, the way they all treat you, it’s small wonder you think someone’s out to get you.”

  “Damn it
, Kevin, I’m not making this up!”

  His hands dropped and he scowled. “Now look, I’ve just about had enough of this. I will not hear any more of it, especially when it concerns some dead man who was probably your lover. Confound it, Cass, before you met me did you have every man that came along?”

  She could not stop herself. Her palm cracked across his cheek, leaving a livid red blotch that he touched at gingerly with one finger.

  “I think I can forgive you that, Cass.”

  “Well, good for you.”

  Suddenly he softened, searching her eyes until she could not help but squirm under his scrutiny. “Cass … it’s silly, I know, but I’ve heard a lot of stories about women who are—I mean, they’re always getting upset about little things, and they imagine things that aren’t there, and they … they …”

  When he stammered into an awkward silence, she almost laughed. “If you’re trying to find out if I’m expecting our child, Kevin, the answer is no. I am perfectly healthy, sane, and I know what I am talking about. There was a man named Forrester, there was a man named Hawkins and he is not dead, and they are, both of them, after me because of that … that … thing I told you about. And damn it, last night he … spoke to me again, and he’s going to come for me sooner or later and I want protection!”

  “All right, all right,” he said, his manner infuriatingly placating. “When I get home this evening, I’ll—”

  “Kevin, for God’s sake!”

  “For God’s sake yourself, woman! Don’t I have enough troubles without my wife suddenly losing her mind because of a few harmless snubs from some idiotic old women? Jesus, I thought you were made of sterner stuff.”

  “I am,” she said, “and you damned well know it.”

  He hesitated; Cass hoped; and then he disappointed her by brushing past her and out the door. She sagged against the wall, too tired suddenly to follow him, fighting the tears of dismay and rage that burned her eyes. Then she slammed the door as hard as she could and ran back to her room.

  He’s impossible, she thought bitterly; he didn’t believe a single word I said. Not a word! She paced the floor frantically, having no idea what to do next, no notion at all when Geoffrey would make his next move. I should have told him about the rape, she told herself, and shrugged. No. He would only have thought I somehow lured Geoffrey on, actually wanted to be taken. If he believed it had happened at all. She dropped onto the padded stool in front of the vanity, and stared at her reflection in the oval mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffed, her cheeks flushed, and it seemed the luster had gone from her midnight hair. She yanked at it furiously, winced, and pounded a fist on the table. Damn him for a man! Then, abruptly, what felt like a packet of ice settled in her stomach.

  She frowned. From almost the first moment she’d brought the subject up once they’d awakened, Kevin had treated her as she’d feared; but there was more, she now knew, much more to it than he’d said. A gnawing sensation tickled the back of her mind and she tried to reconstruct the dreadful conversation, the words and the emotions as the gnawing grew into a seed of fear. There was something not quite true, something she had not noted at the time because she was too overwrought, too excited, and too hopeful, before he had dashed those hopes on the rocks of his cynicism.

  “This man,” he had asked offhandedly, “this man Forrester. What does he look like?”

  “What does it matter now?” she’d said in exasperation. “He’ll be back; I’ll show him to you. I’ll even give you an introduction before he kills me if you insist. Damn it, who cares?”

  “Confound it, woman,” he’d shouted, “what does he look like?”

  They had gotten off onto something else, then, and she had forgotten his demand. But now that she recalled it, she wondered why he was so insistent about it. It would be safe to believe that he merely had to know so that he could hire some men to seek Forrester out, and in the current phrasing, do him well; or perhaps he sought to prove that she was hysterical and could give no description at all of a man who did not exist except in her fancy. Or he wanted the description because he knew the man and wanted to be sure. Knew him, though perhaps not his name.

  She shook her head when she saw the fear in her reflection. She refused to believe it. If Kevin had had any dealings at all with Forrester, he would have told her, and would have believed her. He would have. He would!

  Unless, until now, there had been no reason for him to make the connection.

  Three hours later, after a great deal of indecision, guilt, and false starts, she stood in front of the yellow-windowed door of the Quill and Court, praying for the nerve to go in. She had gone to Kevin’s office to confront him again, only to learn that neither he nor Hiram were in their rooms. And neither was David Vessler, the man she had gone to see. Titus McWilliams, a stick of a man with a perpetually dour expression who wore his clothes as though they were bought secondhand, told her that David could most likely be found with his fiancée at the popular tavern where most of the area’s businessmen lunched during the week. He had pressed for some details, his smile fairly fawning, but she had only smiled sweetly and excused herself in a hurry, feeling his eyes on her back as she walked back out of the cul-de-sac. She did not like McWilliams, his manner, his presumptuousness. She could not like him, no matter how often Kevin raved about the sharpness of his mind and his extensive legal knowledge; she could not because she thought it unnecessarily cruel of both her husband and his partner to bring someone new into the firm when David had been working so hard, for so long, to make himself a place there. And then, to keep the young man on, like rubbing salt into a wound …

  She pushed through the door and paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the tavern’s dim lighting. To her right was a large, post-studded room filled with heavy oaken tables, edged with high-backed booths, and lighted by a random series of lanterns strung from the exposed-beam ceiling. It was crowded, filled with quiet laughter and talk, and a cloud of swirling smoke writhed beneath the beams. Directly ahead and sweeping off to a smaller room on her left was a magnificently polished mahogany bar behind which two buxom, flaxen-haired women with low-cut barmaid gowns worked furiously to keep up with the orders from the well-dressed gentlemen standing shoulder to shoulder along the bar’s length. Two other maids and a black-aproned landlord wound their way through the maze of tables, stems in their hands, trays balanced precariously on their forearms as they dodged the gesticulations and pinches of the customers. No one seemed to notice Cass’s solitary entrance, nor seemed to think it unusual. After waiting a moment for some attention from the landlord, obviously not forthcoming, she took a hesitant step forward, peering through the haze anxiously until she spotted a hand waving at her frantically. She sighed her relief, nodded, and made her way to the back of the room and the rear booth, next to a spring-hinged door apparently leading into the kitchen behind the bar.

  David Vessler rose quickly, a grin on his face, and Cass thought that in the two years or so that she had known him, he had grown perceptibly older. There were marked lines now about his eyes and mouth, lines of weariness and, she thought, melancholy. His hair, though still a rich light brown, was already showing strands of gray about his temples. And one other thing, too, had changed, and for that she felt the slightest pang of amused regret; when she had first come to the city, she had known that he had been struck by her, a puppy love really, but that had vanished with the cloak of his innocence. The looks he used to sneak in her direction were now openly reserved for the woman seated by the wall. She was quite thin, though her bosom was substantial enough, and quite pale. Her red lips and red-touched cheeks seemed all the more stark for it, especially under a flow of hair that was so blond as to be nearly white. Her eyes were large and blue, and Cass thought she looked like a doll that should never have been taken down from its shelf.

  “Mrs. Roe,” David said eagerly, taking her hand and guiding her into the seat opposite, “I’m surprised to see you here.” A light cough, and he
grinned shyly. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Roe, I’m being impolite. I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Melissa Miles. Missy, Mrs. Roe is one of our most distinguished clients.”

  “Charmed,” Melissa said, her smile forced, her head still.

  Wonderful, Cass thought, the child is jealous. She began to doubt that she had done the right thing in coming to the Quill and Court, second thoughts about whether David was the one she should talk to, the one she could trust. With Melissa present and obviously not in the most receptive mood, she nearly changed her mind and excused herself, but the memory of Kevin’s expression when he had left the house that morning was still too vivid to be dismissed. She accepted a small glass of port from the landlord, and sipped at it while David took Melissa’s right hand and held it possessively.

  “David,” Cass finally said, “I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch, but I must know a few things only you can tell me, and I must know them now. It’s very important. Please,” and she spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness, scowling at herself when she felt the tears creeping back to burn beneath her eyelids. Damn it, she scolded herself; behave yourself, woman!

  David looked puzzled. “But I don’t understand, Mrs. Roe, Why not one of the others? Surely you can’t expect me to—”

  “David, does my husband have many visitors during the day? I mean, other than those clients you know?”