"Of course she is. That adds to her charm. Personally, I detest a wanton wench with all my heart and soul."
His reply was baffling, Fiona thought. Didn't he seem to be constantly intent on leading her astray? Her resistance, however, might indeed have been what he liked. Perhaps it made a titillating game for a bachelor past his youth.
"More wine?" he suggested. "Ah, no, here is Solbaid to lead us in to supper." He waved his hand and bowed them into the hall.
Like everything seen so far, the dining room was lavish in the extreme. A damask cloth covered a round table heaped with silver plates and cutlery, jewel-studded goblets, a mound of fruit, and flickering candles in the center. Each carved-back armchair was adorned with emerald cushions to match the velvet draperies at several deep casement windows. The walls had paintings of gods and goddesses, thinly clad, cavorting beside sparkling streams and flowery meadows.
The serving dishes, offered by silent servants, contained so many rare and unfamiliar viands, Fiona was never certain what she ate. Various meats swam in sauces compounded of cream and wine; potatoes had been mashed and skillfully seasoned. Bowls of tender, tiny vegetables were laced with herbs. Hot breads accompanied every course, as did a number of different wines. At last came the sweet: a custard filled with cake and every kind of nut and chopped glazed fruit, whipped cream topping all.
By that time, Fiona could only take a taste and her mother also waved the sweet away. She looked so pale, Fiona became alarmed. "I think my mother should lie down in the parlor. We're not used to such rich fare, nor so much wine."
"Of course. I understand." The judge tinkled a bell, and at his instructions, a maidservant gently led Fiona's mother from the table.
Fiona started up from her chair. "I had better go with you."
"No, no! I'll be quite all right," her mother protested. "Pray don't let me disturb your supper. I'll rejoin you shortly, but I fear the wine has made me a wee bit dizzy."
When they were alone, the judge touched his fingers into a bowl of rosewater and then to his lips before drying them on his napkin. Fiona followed suit, though she had never seen it done before. She dipped into the bowl a maid placed beside her plate.
"If you have finished," the judge said, "would you like to view my treasure room while your mother rests a bit?"
When she agreed, he led her down the hallway to a distant door. "I want you to examine everything in here while I sit and revel in your pleasure." He then unlocked the door and gently propelled her forward. "Behold my treasures," he intoned. "You see before you beauty, luxurious and rare things from every corner of the earth, each one a dream come true. Go now—touch and fondle them. You will never see the like again."
Fiona stared around; her breath caught in her throat. She was conscious of rich colors, spinning lights, intoxicating incense, objects of such unusual beauty that she could hardly take it in. Tables, shelves, cabinets all held row on row of china statues, fans of lace and gilt, colored vases, some entwined with gold and silver ornaments. Open boxes showed flashing jewels, necklaces, bracelets, rings. On the walls, pictures glowed with a master's touch. Pegs were hung with gowns in every luscious hue and rich material, all lavishly adorned in cascading lace, ribbons, fur, or brocade.
From a leather-covered armchair, the judge watched her with a smile. At last he said, "I want you to try on a gown. There is a screen over there and mirrors everywhere to throw back your enchanting reflection."
"Oh, no, I don't think—"
"Humor me, my dear. It will only take a minute for you to change, and then I can watch you with increased enjoyment. Put on that soft green silk with the gold bead trim."
Fiona touched the almost transparent cloth and it seemed to spring into her arms and cling. She couldn't pull it off. Then she didn't want to.
"Please try it on, Fiona. I promise, you will be amazed at your own loveliness. Now, do as I ask."
She seemed to have no will of her own. Reluctant, yet strangely eager, Fiona carried the foaming silk behind the Oriental screen. It slid over her head with no hooks or lacings, only a wide, low neck and a sash of golden tissue to tie around her waist. Instantly, it seemed to mold itself against her skin in a perfect fit.
Her heart beat with excitement as she stepped back into the room and beheld herself in one of the long mirrors. It was true! She did look beautiful, with skin like thick white cream, waving curls glistening on bare shoulders, her green eyes echoing the dress's color. Her body was outlined closely and the curves of breast and hips looked much fuller and more enticing.
Nicholas came up behind her and joined her at the mirror. "Perfect! You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. It only needs one more thing. Come." He turned her around and led her to a mound of jewels. Pushing aside her hair, his long, thin fingers untied the cord of her doubloon and deftly replaced it with a chain of emeralds that winked like fire upon the exposed curves of her upper breast.
He picked up a heavy hand mirror and whispered in her ear, "Behold beauty in all its youthful glory."
In a dreamlike wonder, Fiona stared into the glass. Dazed and trembling, she touched the gems around her throat, smoothed the silk across her body, feeling the warm flesh underneath, almost as though unclothed.
Nicholas put his hands on her waist and drew her back against him. "Do you wish to keep the necklace? It is yours for just a kiss or two, the surrender of your body next to mine—"
Fiona gasped and managed to say huskily as she tried in vain to move away, "I do not sell my favors!"
"Don't be such a silly child. If I wanted, I could kiss you any time I wished and even do much more than that, but I am asking you politely. Think what you could do with that string of emeralds if you sold it. You could buy a house, support your mother, live in comfort far from this mad, sad town. You would never have to watch Grace making up to Giles again."
Giles! How this scene would horrify him. "No, no," Fiona shrilled, and struggled to undo the emerald clasp. When she succeeded, the jewels dropped to the floor.
"Very well, so be it," the judge snarled. His face twisted with rage and lust, becoming old and ugly. Before she could escape, his scarlet mouth bore down on hers with a searing pain, his vile breath mingling in her mouth. Hard as heated iron, his arms and legs bound her to his heaving frame.
Eyes wide with terror, Fiona now saw a red haze fill the room, and all at once, the objects seemed transformed. Faces in the pictures snarled or drooled insanely, the jewels grew dull, mere imitations made of paste, the garments dissolved to dusty rags. The judge became an aging lecher, cruel and insatiable, who had to feed his appetites by bestowing useless gifts, only momentarily transformed by an enchanter's power.
Exerting every ounce of strength to free herself, Fiona's scrabbling hand connected with the hand mirror, now streaked and tarnished. But the edge was heavily carved and she brought it down upon her assailant's head with all the force at her command.
He staggered backward with a demented howl and dropped full-length upon the floor.
Chapter 16
Fiona's breath wheezed in and out, her hands hot and slippery as she struggled from the green silk and flung on her clothes behind the screen.
Back in the so-called treasure room, she spared only a quick glance for the man still sprawled on the rug. He breathed heavily but did not move. Having no desire to linger, she didn't look around again to see if the ornaments seemed real or fake. What did they matter?
She fled into the parlor and found it empty. "Mother!" Fiona shrilled. "Where are you?" There was no answer. Racing into the hall, she met Solbaid, the dwarf. "Where is my mother?" she demanded loudly.
He bowed with slow, maddening politeness. "The master had me drive her home, young miss. She was not feeling well."
"Your master isn't feeling well, either," Fiona choked, torn between anger and alarm. "I am going now, but I shall walk."
She turned and ran out the front door. The dwarf called something after her about her shaw
l, but she didn't stop. She fled down the road which made a pathway to the woods and there the concealing darkness enveloped her. She plunged into its midst, her only thought to put as much distance as possible between her and the judge's mansion.
Now she could see no more houses, no road, but pushing aside limbs and leaves, she struggled on as fast as she could go. Clouds flickered constantly across the moon and gave just enough light to keep her from crashing into trunks or tripping over rocks.
Then to her horror, she heard him. "Fee-o-na, wait! Come back to me!"
She clapped her shaking hands across her mouth, almost faint with fear and loathing, wanting to shout at him and tell him of her hatred and disgust. She did nothing of the kind, however, except push on, not even knowing if she was going away from him or straight into his path.
She had no idea how to reach Aunt Mercy's house. She only knew she must evade her pursuer. While she had the advantage of youth and strength, he knew the woods better than she did and even now he might be cutting off her escape.
He didn't repeat his call and Fiona's terror waned a little. Had he given up? Briefly she wondered why he was so determined. There were many other pretty girls around, and from what she had overheard at the witch trial, they were not averse to accommodating his desires in return for a gem or two.
But were they really precious gems? Had her eyes deceived her? When was she really underneath his spell? At the beginning, when she first saw the treasures? Or when she'd resisted him, had he lost his power to delude her? Perhaps she had been so distraught, she'd just imagined the scene of decay that had seemed to descend on the room.
She had no further time for pondering. Breathing had now become torture, and finally, she had to stop and brace her trembling body against a tree. Where was she? Where was the road to Mercy's house?
Then something crunched on the dead leaves underfoot. Something howled. His voice came again: "Fiona, my poor child, where have you gone? Answer me, let me take you home."
Dearest God! The fiend still searched for her, and he sounded closer. A roaring filled Fiona's ears, and in resurging fear, she pushed off, running swiftly, trying desperately not to make much noise. What would he do if he captured her? Convey her back to some locked room? Punish her with blows? Perhaps even force himself upon her virginity so that she would be ruined forever?
Exerting every ounce of strength, she stumbled on, gasping for breath, until she had to cling once more to a tree while listening for his dreaded voice. No voice came this time, but she heard something else, someone on horseback approaching fast. Was it the judge? She couldn't take a chance. She must hide quickly… but where? The tree she clutched was large and thickly leaved, the limbs low to the ground and towering high above. Quick as thought, she gripped a stalwart branch, heaved her body upward, and began to climb, scrabbling for footholds. A squirrel chattered angrily and leaped out of her way. She felt her gown rip on a twig. Nothing mattered except to climb as high as possible until the branches could no longer bear her weight Then she stopped and prayed fervently that she was hidden.
The sound of hooves drew nearer and she shut her eyes, holding in her breath. If he saw her, could the judge climb the tree and drag her down? Oh, Lord, save me from this monster, she prayed desperately.
Nothing happened. The horse must have passed along the road. After a few minutes, she made her way gingerly down the tree, hoping she could find a house or barn where she might shelter until the judge gave up his search.
She tried to descend as quietly as possible, but twigs snapped in spite of her precautions. Then, about twenty feet from the ground, she missed a foothold. The branch she clutched broke in two and she fell, unable to help herself. She uttered a sharp cry of pain as her head struck the ground. Darkness deeper than the night enveloped her, and then she knew no more.
Faintly a voice came to her ears. "Fiona! Fiona, speak to me."
Who was it? Someone she should fear? A man's arms held her cradled against a leather jacket. She couldn't struggle. She couldn't see his face.
"Who—who are you?" she whimpered.
The man began to walk, breathing raggedly, but his stride was strong and purposeful. "Don't be afraid, Fiona, you are safe, and soon I'll fix you up." He halted in the moonlight. "Ah, thank God, your eyes are open. Do you know me, darling?"
Fiona blinked, and a wave of thankfulness washed over her. "Oh, Giles, I'm so glad you found me."
"Where's your mother?"
"She went home." Fiona began to sob. "Oh, it was awful—"
He held her tighter and started walking again through the woods. "You can tell me all about it later," he said grimly. "I'm taking you to Sally's. It's close by. I'm afraid to put you on my horse until I have a look at you. But anyway, you're safe now." His voice grew rough with feeling.
Fiona clasped her arms around his neck and rested her head against his shoulder. Safe from what? She found she couldn't think anymore or even remember what had caused her to be in the woods. Right now, it didn't matter. Giles would keep her from any harm, but her head ached dreadfully. She gave a stifled groan.
"What is it?" Giles asked anxiously. "Do you have a pain somewhere?"
"Just my head."
"We're nearly there, sweetheart."
How nice, to be called "sweetheart." She felt she should be equally affectionate, but there was some barrier between them which she couldn't remember at the moment.
"Ah, thank goodness, someone is still awake," Giles exclaimed. "Sally has a light in the kitchen." At the door, he raised his voice and called, "Sally, it's Giles. I have Fiona. She is hurt. May we come in?"
The next instant, Sally peered out the door and flung it wide. "Oh, heavens, what has happened? Is she hurt badly? Come in by the fire."
"I don't think she has a serious injury," Giles said. "She fell and struck her head. I'd like to examine her."
"Yes, yes." Sally flew to place a pallet and blankets by the kitchen fireplace. "Oliver is asleep in our bed, otherwise—"
"This is fine. Could you prepare a hot posset for her to drink? Something soothing, such as…" He murmured in her ear.
Sally nodded. "Right away. Do you think she is concussed?" When Giles laid Fiona on the blankets, Sally bent over her. "Do you know me, dear?"
"Of course. Sally Woods. I have my wits, some of them at least."
While Sally prepared the draught, Giles felt Fiona's limbs. She smiled, liking his firm, warm touch, and Giles flushed, smiling back. He pushed her blue silk skirt aside and pressed her legs and thighs as Fiona caught her breath. He felt her arms and then her heart, her soft breast resting on his hand. "It's rapid," he said thickly, and cleared his throat. "I think you'll be all right."
He examined the back of her head and stared into each eye in a very professional manner. "You have a large lump behind your ear, young lady. We'll bathe it with cold water and vinegar in a minute." He held up his hand. "How many fingers do you see?"
"Five." She giggled weakly. "Isn't that the usual number?"
"Yes. You'll do." Giles took the mug from Sally. "Here, drink this. It will soothe and warm you. You're still chilled and trembling."
The drink accomplished its purpose. Fiona was barely conscious of Sally putting a cold cloth on her head. Through the mists clouding her brain, she heard Giles and Sally arguing about who should sit up to watch her.
"She doesn't have concussion, or I'd not let her sleep," Giles said, "but I don't want to move her, either."
"Then don't. I'll take care of her. Why don't you go and tell Mrs. Prescott that Fiona will come back in the morning?"
Sometime in the night, Fiona started dreaming. She seemed to be standing in a strange, stone-floored room, dark and high-ceilinged. Shadowy figures crouched in the corners, wailing despondently. Some had their arms wrapped around their heads, and when they moved, Fiona heard the jangling of chains.
What was this place? What was she doing here? Her straining eyes tried to pierce the mystery.
Suddenly, a hollow voice called out, "Will the condemned witches now step forward?"
Screams and anguished shrieks of denial broke forth from the writhing creatures.
"You, Mistress Nurse—come here," the jailer called.
Grace gave a hard shove and hissed in Fiona's ear, "Go on, Rebecca Nurse. Judge Blaize has condemned you."
"I'm not Rebecca Nurse," Fiona shouted. "Are you mad?" Laughter filled the cold stone cell. "Mad! Mad!" Louder and louder came the cries, "Go up, Rebecca Nurse! They want you."
Fiona tried desperately to run, to escape, but found she couldn't move as a strange paralysis gripped her. The shadows and the angry cries drew closer. Hands reached out to touch her, cold and clammy. Behind them, Fiona saw Judge Blaize with Solbaid sitting on his shoulder. Both of them began to point and laugh with all the rest.
Fiona screamed then, over and over, until she fainted.
The next time her eyes flew open, she saw Sally and Oliver bending over her with anxious faces. "You cried out in your sleep," the big man asked. "Are you all right?"
Fiona stared around at the sunny kitchen, smelled porridge bubbling, heard a cock crow in the yard. Relief swept over her and she struggled to sit up. "I was having a bad dream."
"Want a bite of breakfast, lass?" Oliver grunted. "Clear up your wits, mayhap."
"Yes, th-thank you." Oliver returned to his breakfast and Sally whispered in her ear. Fiona nodded, moving slowly into the adjoining bedroom. She used the facilities, washed her hands in a basin of cool water, and smoothed her tousled hair, noticing that her dress was torn. It still was hard to think, but bits and pieces moved sluggishly through her brain. She began to recall things… the judge's supper… then the treasure room… and something had happened there that had made her run away. She would have to sort it later, when her mind was functioning better.
When she returned to the kitchen, Oliver had left and a place had been set with steaming porridge containing nuts and raisins, a mug of cold fresh milk, bread, butter, and jam placed close by.
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