Love's Savage Bonds

by Jeb

  Love’s Savage Bonds

  By Jeb

  Copyright © 2012 by Jeb Delia

  All rights reserved

  All characters and incidents portrayed herein are pure fiction

  For my one and only Lady Catherine

  Foreword

  For want of a better term, this is a “Damsel in Distress” romance. All romantic heroines face distress of one form or another; this tale is aimed at readers who enjoy seeing those tropes played out with particular attention to capture and restraint; a "bodice-ripper" for those who like their romance with a bit of rope. There is dark villainy, gallant heroism, and the pluckiness of a heroine who faces danger with determination.

  The setting is a version of 19th century England composed primarily of the author’s vague memories of Jane Austen novels and film adaptations of Jamaica Inn or The Scarlet Pimpernel; in other words, historical or cultural authenticity would be rather beside the point.

  Needless to say, it’s a fantasy, and though a somewhat erotic one, it contains no sexually explicit material, and is intended for the enjoyment of those who can distinguish imagination from reality.

  J.D., 2012

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter One

  How can a room so tall feel so confining?

  Lady Catherine Redmond sent her dark brown eyes once more to the huge, vaulted ceiling of the Coutts Manor ballroom, and for the hundredth time felt as though it had begun to press down upon her. The heavy paneled wood, the burnished gold and shining crystal—could one be imprisoned by such things?

  “One year today, my dear. And wouldn’t your mother have been delighted to see you so well and happy?” Catherine nodded vaguely in the direction of the woman who addressed her— an aunt of some sort on her husband’s side—and smoothed her peach-colored organdy dress for the sake of having something to do with her hands.

  One year. I have been the wealthiest woman in the district—“Mistress of the Manor”, and wife to Lord Philip Redmond—for an entire year.

  The gown was Paris—of course; the stones that encircled her throat and bedecked her full, firm bosom were the loot of some Continental monastery, which she wore that Philip’s friends might admire them… and her, too—another of his “possessions”.

  “And doesn’t Philip look positively marvelous tonight!” The woman laid a hand on Catherine’s arm as she nodded in the direction of Catherine’s husband.

  And, to be sure, Philip was a sight to weaken a woman’s knees. His coat, of royal blue, hung upon him as all clothes did: as though it had fallen from the heavens for no other purpose than to drape his figure. Exquisitely-tailored trousers accented his slim waist and legs, and his golden locks and Adonis’ profile seemed to have the women in the room dividing their gaze between looks of adoration at him, and looks of jealousy at Catherine.

  As she took in the sight, Catherine smiled wryly to herself. A haberdasher’s dream… if only he wasn’t so convinced of it himself! Still, to be the wife of a devilishly handsome, and impossibly rich man… well, who’d ever have dreamed it would happen to her?

  Not that Catherine wasn’t a considered to be a catch herself: the smooth skin of her lovely face glowed with youth and health, the glittering gold light from the crystal chandeliers danced in the mass of sable tresses piled atop her head, and no gown in the entire ballroom covered a bosom so fine. But a man like Philip could choose from so many women; it seemed almost churlish not to regard herself as terribly fortunate.

  Making her way about the vast ballroom, teeming with liveried servants and elegantly-clothed guests, Catherine did her best to “mingle”, though the majority of the guests were Philip’s friends, rather than hers. She took her time, endeavoring to give every well-wisher a few moments of her attention. Being mostly Philip’s friends, though, their conversation, like his, had a tendency to dwell on such matters as the cost of her clothes and jewelry, or the scope of their estate.

  Seeking a moment or two of respite, Catherine stepped out the door of the ballroom, and turned down the salon’s main hallway. She deliberately turned her back to the far wall… but that didn’t help.

  It never did. She could still feel them… the eyes.

  This is ridiculous! She forced herself to turn and once more confront the portrait gallery there: Philip’s family, in lush oil, framed in deep mahogany. Philip himself, of course, not long out of school, his late mother and father, gazing sternly down… and his brother, Charles.

  Catherine had heard of men whose gaze could turn a woman’s insides to water; but what of one who could turn her to flame?

  Looking at the painting of Charles Redmond, she wondered if she was in the presence of some work of unholy genius, showing unparalleled skill with a brush… or was this, simply, life? Was Charles so dynamic a figure that the force of his presence could not be contained by mere canvas and oil?

  Tumbling dark hair curled down over a brow that already seemed to hint at tilting at the world’s troubles. His lips were full and thick, all sensual amusement.

  And his eyes… in the painting, they were so dark as to seem almost black. They didn’t seem unkind, she thought—certainly nothing to match the ominous stories she’d heard of him—but with their intensity, they were the eyes of a man fully able to take that which he would… eyes that seemed to Catherine to follow her all through this huge house.

  She'd asked Philip to take down the portrait, but he had just laughed.

  "Can't be done, my dear. Chap who painted it's apparently making quite the name for himself in the City now. The thing's value has probably trebled in the past six months alone, and one doesn't hide such a treasure-- one shows it off."

  And, so, Catherine was left with the constant choice of avoiding the painting, avoiding the eyes… or braving their power.

  As she re-entered the ballroom, she pulled up sharply. Her husband was entertaining a small knot of his cronies, and while Catherine regarded most of them as harmless boors, she noticed once more, with distaste, the presence of a lean, dark-complected man affecting to listen, but whose tiny pale eyes roamed the room in search of more interesting topics.

  "Catherine, my dear," Philip barely broke the train of the story he was telling as he summoned his wife, "... and then, of course, the blasted gypsies were at the sheep again. Damn thieves!" He concluded, and was greeted with laughter from most of the group... though the dark man's laughter seemed strictly for show.

  The man was not as tall as Philip, but so whippet-lean as to appear even taller. His narrow features had an undeniable, yet intimidating, Gallic attractiveness. His suit was dark and simple, but its cut and cloth clearly of the finest. While Philip's other guests reached for refreshed glasses, or boxes of snuff, the dark man sent his eyes in Catherine’s direction. She tried to turn away, but her husband waved an imperious hand, beckoning her over.

  The slender man had seemed to be listening to his host more out of indulgence than interest; now, though, at Catherine's approach, his eyes seemed to awaken, and glitter like those of a serpent.

  “You know Colonel Lefanu,” Philip nodded to her.

  “My Lady.” The dark man's Parisian accent was light; his speech had the precision of one who has learned a language from an expert tutor, and for professional reasons.

  Catherine gritted her teeth as the Frenchman bent over her hand, his cold fingers clammy on her skin; he never failed to make her feel as though she were some new pâté that he was sampling.

  "Colonel." She drew back her hand, returning her attention to the room. Her curt dismissal seemed to amuse the Frenchman, a
sentiment that her husband clearly did not share.

  "Really, Catherine..." Philip reached a hand to take his wife's arm in reproof. Catherine gave a shrug of mild irritation and easily slipped her arm from her husband's grasp.

  You would think, if I mattered so much to him, he’d try to hold me more tightly, she thought to herself, with more emotion than logic. And, besides, while Philip was entitled to have his circle of friends, surely not even a hostess' courtesy required her to stay there and be tasted like some exotic dessert! Can't he see? Catherine fumed. Is he blind? I can practically READ that snake's thoughts! Was her husband that oblivious? She shivered at the even more frightening prospect that Philip, did, indeed, notice what was happening, but did nothing to stop it.

  "Philip, I must dash-- why, here’s Major Cathcart-- it has been ever so long since I've seen him."

  Philip grunted, starting into another of his stories, but Colonel Lefanu purred, "I hope we shall see you again this evening, My Lady;" he made even this casual conversation sound almost filthy. Catherine thanked God the man never used her Christian name-- she doubted she'd have been able to stand hearing it again. It was with real relief that she made her way to the tall, grey-haired figure in the red uniform tunic and white trousers.

  "Major Cathcart!" In her relief at finally being away from Lefanu, Catherine had to restrain herself to keep from running to her old friend’s arms. His ramrod bearing, unbowed despite his 70 years, was like a bit of Papa, here in England. The two men had served together in the Crimea, then India, and Cathcart was now retired. She wasn't sure that the old soldier was still supposed to wear his uniform to an affair of this type, but none could doubt the pride and dignity with which he bore it.

  Cathcart started to spread his arms for a hug; then his face reddened and he seemed uncertain what to do with his hands. "My dear… Cath… My Lady…” he stammered.

  "Please, just ‘Catherine’," she remonstrated. It had been like this ever since the wedding-- since the day when she had gone from being just Catherine Tompkins, simple soldier's daughter, to being Lady Catherine Redmond, wife and consort to the Lord of the Manor. Such a bother! “It wasn’t that long ago that I sat on your knee in pigtails.” She smiled warmly at the memory. “But you’ve not introduced me.” She nodded at the portly gray-haired woman in the garishly high-fashion frock at the Major’s elbow.

  “Oh!” The Major flushed even further. “My sister—Miss Cathcart. Here for a visit.”

  “Lady Catherine,” the woman beamed. “Such a pleasure.”

  "Miss Cathcart," Catherine smiled prettily as she took the woman’s hand.

  “My brother tells me that he and your father—and you! —spent some time together in India, of all places!”

  Catherine nodded. “Yes, a few years ago. I was fifteen when Father’s regiment was called to India. Mother wasn’t well enough to accompany him to run his household, and I fear that I made a proper nuisance of myself until he agreed to take me instead.”

  “That’s right,” the major beamed. “She was the youngest of the mem-sahibs… and by far the prettiest!”

  Catherine blushed as she continued. “Four years later, of course, came the Mutiny. Even though we were hundreds of miles from the worst of it, Father would take no risks, and sent me back home, while he remained there. As fate would have it, my return coincided with the… untimely death… of Philip’s father, and Mother decided to ‘strike while the iron was hot’, so to speak, and arranged the match.” She paused, and continued as though thinking aloud. “I suppose the fact that Philip and I had known each other as children had something to do with it.”

  “Childhood sweethearts, then.” The plump face beamed.

  Catherine’s smile flickered, briefly. “Well… childhood playmates, anyway.” Her voice and face grew more thoughtful. “Philip was never quite like the other boys—he seemed to have no interest in sports and games, I suppose because he wasn’t that physically strong. If he wanted his own way, he used his family’s money to get it. We played, as children do, even telling each other that we’d marry one day… but I don’t think I ever expected it to happen…” she cast her gaze about the vast room, “…certainly not like this.”

  “Your husband has an older brother, has he not?” Miss Cathcart inquired.

  Catherine paused, swallowing hard, as the eyes of that painting seemed to dance before her vision. “Charles. I… I barely remember him from when we were children—he was a few years older than I, and he was still away in The City when I left for India.”

  “But if Philip is the younger son, how did…?”

  “Do you not know the story, then?” Their party was joined by a strikingly handsome woman in her forties, in the black livery of household staff. There was little to suggest the woman’s age save the narrow streak of white that ran through her thick brown hair, and a perhaps too-knowing look on her face.

  “Mrs. Williams, our housekeeper,” Catherine sighed. She’d more than once asked her husband to speak to the woman about the familiarity she displayed around guests, but it seemed to make no difference.

  “The Master’s brother was what we call a VERY bad seed,” the buxom housekeeper seemed almost proud of the fact. “Engineered a swindle that beggared dozens. It drove their poor uncle, who had vouched for Charles, to suicide, and left their heartbroken father just enough time to disinherit the wretch before he himself died of the strain.”

  “Yes, well…” The Major hemmed and hawed as Catherine stared at the floor.

  “A bad seed,” the woman repeated enthusiastically, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Do you know? He killed two men making his escape from England.” At that, she gave Catherine a sharp look and moved off.

  Once more, the portrait came, unbidden, to intrude on Catherine’s thoughts. She needed no old wives gossiping to tell her that Charles Redmond was dangerous… but she wondered if an old biddy like the Major’s sister, or a shrew-tongued servant like Mrs. Williams could have any idea just HOW dangerous. Life and limb were one thing— any man could learn to threaten those; even Philip. What Charles’ eyes seemed to intimate went much, much deeper than that.

  Miss Cathcart stared after the woman, and tried to think of something to say to the horribly embarrassed Catherine, but the Major interrupted, gently but firmly.

  “No more interrogation now, my dear. Lady Catherine has other guests, you know.”

  “Oh, of course!” Miss Cathcart gushed. “It was so lovely to meet you.” Catherine caught the Major’s eye just as Miss Cathcart recognized someone across the room, and Catherine took the old soldier’s arm for a few moments of private conversation.

  “I apologize for my sister,” he began, but Catherine waved it away.

  “Nonsense. It was my housekeeper who instigated the unpleasantness.” As she often seems to do when I’m around! “Your sister’s curiosity was only natural. But… Major, I wanted to ask you something.” She paused, as though making up her mind, and went on.

  “Major… do you think that… this…” here, she gestured about the fine, big room… “Is truly what my father wants for me?”

  “Now, Lady Cath—“

  “I’ve told you, Major,” Catherine smiled. “Just ‘Catherine’.”

  “Well, miss,” the major avoided the awkwardness, “your father is the finest officer I ever served under.” The flush of pride in his face was followed by a darkening of his countenance. “But he was also the most honest.”

  “And why should that fact bring a frown to your face?”

  “Well, your father never enriched himself with plunder, the way so many of the officers did. There’s no country mansion or hunting lodge ahead for him. Nothing but a Colonel’s half-pay retirement… and, sadly, no rich dowry for his daughter.”

  ”Oh, but Papa knows I don’t need such things!”

  “Nevertheless, I know it preyed on his mind—that question of just how you were to be provided for. And I know he was most pleased at the thought that your n
ew husband could provide for you so well.”

  Catherine sighed. “He does that.” She swept a hand down the front of her dress, the jewels’ glint seeming somehow dull and lifeless to her. “It’s just that I…” her voice trailed off.

  “He’s not… he’s not treated you badly?” The old man’s face tightened, and Catherine experienced a reassuring flash of what it must have been like for Father to have this man at his side.

  “Oh, heavens, no.” Catherine hastened to correct the misapprehension. “No, he’s always been… very... gentle with me.” She thought of the softness of her husband’s hands, and the way that even the most intimate touch of his had a tentative... or was it casual?... way about it. “He… he takes very good care of me.”

  “Well, see that he does,” the old man admonished. “And should you have any troubles at all, you know where to find me.”

  Catherine blinked back tears. “Yes, thank you.” She went up on her toes to plant a grateful kiss on the old soldier’s cheek. As he went to rejoin his sister, Catherine looked around for Philip, saw him once more engrossed, and decided she had been on display enough for one night, and quietly mounted the stairs to her room.