The Last Killiney

by J. Jay Kamp

  * * *

  When she came to, it seemed there was a scuffle around her. Voices arguing. Christian yelling. The orchestra had begun again, far off in the blackened distance of her mind, but it faded as she regained her senses and the voices around her fell away.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes. Dark oak walls flew past her face, askew and tilted upside down, bouncing with Christian’s desperate rush. She felt the support of his arms around her back, behind her knees. Raising her head enough to slip her fingers around his neck, she caught sight of his slate-gray eyes.

  The end of the world looked back at her. Was he furious? Scared? She couldn’t tell which, but when he yelled at an usher to open the door, his voice nearly broke with the strength of his emotion.

  She held him tighter, pulled herself up nearer his face. “It’s OK,” she whispered, “I’m all right now, you don’t have to—”

  “Shut up,” he hissed, giving her a shake.

  More than the way he hated her with that voice, it was what he did next which frightened her. He strode to the curbside and, without warning of any kind, threw her down in the doorway of the carriage with a shove that smacked her head against the wall.

  Tendrils of blond drifted about Christian as he stood there, panting, watching her struggle to right herself. Ravenna looked up at him, knowing what would come next and hopelessly fearing it.

  But before she could move, he’d turned and dropped something on the street beside his left shoe. With gleeful abandon, he set his foot down hard and Ravenna heard the scrape of rock against metal, the sound of his heel grinding into silver.

  She knew then it was too late. There’d be no retrieving the chance he might somehow let her go, for it was Paul’s watch he’d smashed. He’d destroyed it happily, and this, along with the scorn in his eyes, the coveting long suppressed and wanting her, only her…it was enough to make her finally realize she had to get away. There was no alternative. Escape or die with him.

  So when he raised his foot to the carriage door, she didn’t let him step inside. Instead, blocking the width of the entrance, she put all her strength into one single well-aimed punch at his jaw. Not enough to hurt him, but it surprised him so much that she was able to squirm past him, out of the carriage and out of his grasp.

  For an instant she met with empty air, freedom.

  Then his fist slammed into her side, just below her rib cage. The force of it knocked the wind right out of her, sent her plunging to the pavement in pain.

  What has he done? She sucked in a stabbing breath. What more will he do if he gets me alone?

  Trying her best to make it difficult for him, she bit him hard when he scooped her up. She screamed as loud as she possibly could, flailing her arms at the passersby, begging their help, but still he got her into the carriage, only this time he didn’t throw her in—he backed in, holding her roughly around the waist.

  “You frigid, selfish bitch,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. “You’d spread your legs for that one, wouldn’t you? Is that all one requires? That face and nothing more?”

  The wheels jolted into motion and she kept still on his lap, waited for her dizziness to pass. She understood completely what he had in mind for her. She didn’t want to think about it, but to get out of his clutches, she’d have to. She’d have to.

  Resting against him, she willed herself to relax, not shiver so heavily with what she was about to do. It’s now or never, she thought to herself. If he gets you in the house, it’s finished for sure. “You’re going to rape me, aren’t you?”

  “I’m going to take what’s mine, what he never deserved.”

  “No, there must be some other way,” and dredging up every speck of hopelessness she felt, she pleaded him more than she ever would have, “give me more time, I know I can love you if—”

  “I’ll not be denied!”

  Ravenna leaned closer. “The servants will stop you. Mr. Drew hates you, he’ll help me escape if you—”

  “You are my wife, and I’ve every right to you, every right, so how is that idiot going to get you away from me? Force a pistol to my head?”

  “No, Christian, please,” and she whimpered, made her voice quiver, “what about my baby? Don’t take me back to the house, I’m begging you, not if there’s going to be shooting near my son.”

  And understanding fully well what unstoppable fires she might inflame, she let her hand slip as if by chance. Her fingers touched his inner thigh. “I’m so frightened,” she said, and turning to meet his terrible eyes, she moved her hand in a trailing caress.

  That fear, that paralyzing dread, showed itself in the crush of his brow. His lower lip tightened. He recoiled ever so slightly in his seat, but Ravenna pretended not to notice. “What if there’s an accident?” Filling her voice with as much motherly hysteria as she could conjure, she went on stupidly, “What if the baby gets shot by mistake when Mr. Drew comes to rescue me? Christian, please don’t take me home, don’t put my baby in the middle of this!”

  “If you’d shut up and lie still, there’d be no accident, would there?” he asked, giving her waist a vengeful shake. “Do you really love your son? Would you protect the Paddy’s spawn at all costs?”

  She pushed at his ribs, tried to stop his rough embrace, but all the while her fingers inched closer to her target. The carriage was just pulling up before the house, and knowing she had only seconds to reach her goal, Ravenna lessened her struggling and settled her hand between his legs.

  Christian’s eyes flared. He stilled beneath her touch. Taking encouragement from his reaction, seeing him so shocked and helpless, she pleaded for his mercy even as her fingers enfolded him ruthlessly. “If I give you what you want, if I…sleep with you,” she sobbed, “will you leave my son alone?”

  Christian couldn’t answer. His tongue moved silently in his mouth, but no sound came out. When the carriage door opened, he glanced at the coachman; he cleared his throat, and in an effort to regain the strength of his anger, his hands tightened further around Ravenna’s waist…but it was too late. She’d already aroused his need beyond repair and Christian knew it, couldn’t deny it.

  “Let’s finish it, then,” he grumbled bitterly. And with a stirring of shame deep in his eyes, he let her go.

  It only took an instant for her to clear the door.

  Putting a hundred yards between them, knowing well enough that Christian never, ever ran, she sprinted madly toward Charing Cross. She knew he was shouting at her. He’d surely send the coachman to chase her down the street, but she ran anyway, knowing the man couldn’t catch her once she’d ducked into the traffic.

  Back up Cockspur Street toward the Haymarket, she knew where she was going. In the wake of the horrible stairwell kiss, she’d formulated a plan to fall back on, should Christian make good on his threats. She’d struggled for hours in coming up with someone, a friend she might turn to, for what she needed was a sympathetic ear, a woman like herself who’d understand why she wouldn’t want to sleep with her husband.

  She knew of only one woman who might. Christian had mentioned how she’d once met this lady, at a party when Elizabeth had cornered her in an alcove and together they’d talked the whole night through. Christian hadn’t liked her. Did Ravenna care now?

  At the top of the Haymarket, she turned left. Piccadilly stretched all the way to Green Park, and she hurried past home after glittering home until halfway down the row, just as Christian had once pointed out, she came to the Duchess of Devonshire’s house.

  What must I look like? She wondered as she stepped up to the door, lifted the knocker. Will they even let me in?

  But the young man who greeted her wasted no time in taking her straight to the duchess. He led her to the library where, with some explanation of her frightened condition, of Christian’s vengeful threats to her son, she was presented to a beautiful and stylish-looking woman.

  Ravenna curtsied, or at least she tried to. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she began with a stam
mer. But glancing around at the duchess’s companions, she suddenly felt foolish. All eyes were on her. “It’s just that I didn’t know who else to turn to,” she went on. “My husband, Lord Launceston, he’s—”

  “He’s threatened your son?” The duchess frowned. “What’s wrong with Lord Launceston, anyway?” She seemed genuinely concerned when she approached Ravenna, took her by the arm as a long lost friend. “Poor girl, married to a foolish rake.”

  One of the duchess’s male companions lifted his hand. “Came into his money too young, that’s what’s wrong with him. It’ll ruin a man’s good sense every time.”

  “That’s rubbish,” the other gentleman spoke up. “It matters less at what age one succeeds the title than what sort of rearing one’s had to begin with. Launceston’s father was a rogue, as you’ll well recall—”

  The duchess gave the man a scolding look. Turning toward the servant behind her, she said, “Mr. Darnly, bring the duke’s carriage. We’re going.”

  “You’ll help me?” Ravenna felt a smidgen of hope.

  “What could Lord Launceston possibly do, refuse to receive me?” The duchess laughed, and her congenial eyes twinkled. “Of course I’ll get the baby for you. I’m a mother too, you know.”