One Night of Sin

by Gaelen Foley

  “That must have been hard.”

  “We were lucky that Lord and Lady Talbot agreed to receive us at all. Grandfather wanted to throw Mama out on her ear upon sight, but Grandmother appealed to him on grounds of the family’s reputation. How would it look if they were to let one of their own starve in the streets? So, it was decided that we would receive aid, but, of course, we were not welcome at His Lordship’s Berkshire palace, the seat of the Talbot earls. Instead, to minimize the family’s embarrassment, we were bundled off out of sight to the remotest of the earl’s secondary estates—Talbot Old Hall, in the West Riding. It’s quite in the middle of nowhere,” she said fondly. “An ancient hunting lodge on the edge of the moors.”

  “Sounds bleak.”

  “No, it’s wonderful,” she averred. “It’s peaceful and quiet, and the landscape is magnificent. I wish you could see it, Alec. Buckley-on-the-Heath is not smart and fashionable like Town, but to me . . .” Her gaze wandered wistfully across the ceiling as she imagined the tiny village square, as familiar as her own reflection. “To me, it’s home. The first real home I ever had. And now Mikhail is going to destroy it. I daresay destroying is all that he knows how to do.”

  Her thoughts drifted back to her first glimpse of her cousin, storming past the ivy-clad gatehouse and thundering up the drive with his Cossack retinue, his baggage wagon piled high, as though he intended a long stay. A sense of doom had come over her on sight of her formidable new guardian, but she had never anticipated the threat to her village, her home, or herself.

  “I had expected him to leave quickly. After all, the old Hall is not exactly the finest of the Talbot estates. Before Mama and I moved in, Grandfather used it merely as a hunting box. And yet, Mikhail seemed to settle in. It didn’t make any sense. Each day that passed, I grew more suspicious that something strange was going on. I didn’t understand it at the time, but now I realize it was the very remoteness of the Hall’s location that suited him—a perfect, secluded setting far from the prying eyes of the world where he could plot and scheme in secret.”

  While Alec mulled it over, Becky got up and went over to the small stone basin of holy water by the entrance of the chapel. “I hope this isn’t sacrilegious,” she whispered as she cautiously wet some of the cotton strips from her petticoat.

  Alec pulled his shirt down off his wounded shoulder so she could attend to the nasty cut on his arm. “I’ve never had a wound cleansed with holy water before,” he remarked, giving her a teasing glance. “Perhaps it will make me invincible.”

  She sent him a dark look. I hope so. Dabbing tenderly at his injury with the wet cloths, she set about explaining exactly what had happened the previous Thursday, when everything had begun to go so wrong. . . .

  Thursday morning, Yorkshire

  Becky stood in the shadow of Talbot Old Hall, her lashes bristling, her jaw clenched as she watched the frightened villagers go shuffling back down the sunny drive. She had done her best to soothe them; it all rested on her now. She pivoted and strode back briskly toward the house, tucking a long, waving tendril of her hair behind her ear.

  The breeze and her determined walk sent her light calico skirts swirling around her legs. Above her, stark against the cloudless blue sky, the rooftop angels carved in oak stood guard with swords and shields, one at every corner of the ancient, fantastical house. The Hall had countless gables jutting this way and that, their upper stories jettied out in late medieval fashion. Ivy climbed thickly up the walls, encircling the diamond-paned windows.

  Gusting inside, she marched through the dark, oak-paneled entrance hall, past Mrs. Whithorn, who seemed tempted to protest but held her tongue when she saw the fierce look on Becky’s face.

  Striding down the shadowy main corridor toward the great hall, she passed the gun-room and the massive Elizabethan staircase with its intricately carved pine-apple newel-post and the familiar sixteenth-century portrait of an ancestor called Lady Agnes, who wore a sly, knowing smirk and a magnificent ruby as big as a walnut.

  The ghost of Lady Agnes was said to haunt the Hall, and as a child, Becky thought she had seen the gray lady once floating across the minstrels’ gallery, but now that she was grown, she had decided that the elegant specter had been naught but a figment of her imagination.

  With the villagers’ protests still ringing in her ears, Becky continued to the end of the corridor until she arrived at the threshold of the great hall, mentally girded for battle; when she saw her royal cousin puffing idly on a long-handled pipe, however, she stopped in her tracks, taken aback by this latest incivility.

  So. Now he was smoking in the house.

  As if his groping her on the staircase last night after dinner had not been bad enough! She gritted her teeth.

  The man had no respect for anyone. No, all the world were serfs to His Highness. Back in Russia, he owned some twenty thousand human beings. Free-spirited as she was, she could barely wrap her mind around it.

  Clenching and unclenching her fists for a second, she wiped her sweating palms discreetly on her skirts, ignored her pounding heart, and with a lift of her chin, resumed her businesslike march into the vast, drafty room before he noticed her standing there fumbling for courage.

  Her slippered footfalls patted firmly across the cool gray flagstones, echoing beneath the soaring vaulted ceiling with its ancient chestnut beams against ivory plaster.

  The sound drew Mikhail’s attention.

  If he knew he was an unwelcome guest, he showed no sign of it, looking perfectly at ease now that he had been fed his breakfast, quite the king of all he surveyed.

  Seated on a cushioned bench at the dark, heavy oak table where he had just finished his late breakfast, and wearing nothing but loose trousers and a luxurious dressing gown, the prince looked over the edge of his newspaper at her, then slowly lowered it, watching with predatory interest as she passed.

  His cool perusal made her uneasy as she crossed to the bay of mullioned windows at the other end of the room and opened them to rid the air of his pungent pipe-smoke. The summer breeze blew in, carrying with it the heathery freshness of the open moors. How she longed to be out walking on the heath today, untroubled by all of this!

  But through the window she could see the source of her ire—the small, foreign army bivouacked in the meadow behind her house. The Cossacks were only just beginning to stir from their drunken bout of marauding in the village last night, though it was half past ten. They made an exotic sight there in the English meadow, sleeping off their vodka amid the butterflies and daisies.

  Ever since her cousin had arrived with his private Cossack army, it was as if her tiny village had been under enemy occupation, and there was no one who could rescue them.

  Some of his soldiers had slept on the ground around their campfire, others with their heads resting on their rugged ponies’ backs. They had formed a sort of teepee out of the deadly, sixteen-foot lances that Mikhail had told her they trained with from childhood until they became experts in the art of skewering infantry—to say nothing of their skill with every other weapon known to man.

  “Cousin.” Mikhail’s deep, accented voice broke into her thoughts. He sounded amused. “You seem agitated.”

  Becky turned around slowly, unsure how to begin without exploding, only hoping she did not look as tense and startled as the stags’ heads and other hunting trophies mounted on the walls.

  Mikhail cast his newspaper aside with a patronizing chuckle. “So serious. What ails you so on this fine summer morning, my little English rose?”

  She refrained from rolling her eyes at his attempted charm and stared evenly at him, advancing slowly as she spoke. “Your men spent last night terrorizing the village. Again.”

  “Is that right?” He looked at his newspaper.

  “Yes.” Becky stalked toward him as she rattled off the list of their latest offenses. “They drank to excess, ransacked the tavern, attacked the serving wenches, terrified the people in the square, and beat up the poor villa
ge half-wit because they thought he was making fun of them.”

  “And?” Mikhail asked boredly.

  “Something must be done!” she exclaimed. “Will you not speak to them? Their behavior was outrageous! Cousin, your men are a danger—”

  “Of course they are a danger!” he said lightly. “That is the reason they exist.” He tapped the ashes casually from his pipe. “Do not fret, Rebecca. It was a misunderstanding, I am sure. They meant no harm. This is simply what they are bred for. They are Cossacks, used to warfare. They are merely bored—as am I.” He rose from the bench with an easy motion and strolled toward her.

  “You refuse to curb them?” she murmured, staring at him in amazement.

  “I will do so, if and when the situation warrants. No sooner, and certainly not on your orders.”

  She stood there, stunned by his indifference. Exhaling smoke in her direction, Mikhail smiled when she gave a small cough.

  Waving the smoke away, Becky felt her resentment bubbling over. “I do not know the custom in your homeland, cousin, but in England it is considered rude to smoke inside the house.”

  “It is my house,” Mikhail said mildly.

  This frank reminder of her new reality took her off guard. “Right,” she forced out, lowering her head. What he said was quite true, though for some reason she kept forgetting that fact. It counted for nothing that she had lived here for over a decade while Mikhail had arrived but a fortnight ago.

  He was Grandfather’s rightful heir and that was that. The Old Hall belonged to him now. And, her mind whispered in warning, so did she. Careful, she cautioned herself and took another delicate step back as his sly smile widened.

  “Leave my men to me, loobeemaya,” he murmured, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when he lifted his hand to her cheek without warning. “The more interesting question by far is, what am I going to do with you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She held very still, fighting the urge to pull away, instinctively fearing to make any sudden moves around him.

  Her fear seemed to please him. His thumb stroked her cheekbone, sending unpleasant chills down her spine. “Shall I take you to London, I wonder? Bring you out in Society? Find a suitable husband for you, perhaps? Countess Lieven is a great friend of mine. Perhaps she’d be your sponsor.”

  She pulled away nervously as lust stirred anew in his eyes. “I do not wish to go to London. Mrs. Whithorn says it is as bad as Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  He tilted his head back and laughed. “Charming. Mrs. Whithorn is quite right, fair creature. Yes, I think you will be much happier right here . . . with me. I would much rather keep you all to myself.” His gaze traveled over her body, then he glanced discontentedly around the great hall. “The only problem is this house.”

  “What do you mean? What’s wrong with it?” she asked, thrown off guard.

  “I do not care for it. Dark, dank, drafty. Bloody medieval. I am thinking of tearing it down, building anew. Something grander, more modern.” He looked at her again. “What do you say to that?”

  “Tear down Talbot Old Hall?” she breathed, the color draining from her face.

  “You object?”

  “Mikhail, this house has stood in this spot for centuries! It is . . . my home,” she added softly.

  “Well, if that’s how you feel, then perhaps you should try and persuade me. Come, Rebecca.” He stared at her. “Persuade me.” When he started to pull her closer, she yanked out of his hold.

  “You are indecent!” she hissed, then whirled to make a speedy exit, but her cousin grabbed her arm, dragging her back to him. “Let go of me!”

  His smile was cool and taut. “Where is this famous English hospitality of which I have heard so much? You have done little to make me feel welcome, cousin. I am idle—and you are lovely.”

  “Take your hands off me!”

  “Why won’t you give me a kiss? We’ve got to start somewhere—”

  “I said no!”

  She slapped him hard across the face.

  Mikhail stopped. His eyes flared with fury at her reckless blow, then, without hesitation, he hit her back, backhanding her across the face.

  Becky flew, landing on the floor a few feet away and only just managing to catch herself with hands planted wide.

  “How dare you raise your hand to me?” he thundered. “Don’t you know who I am?”

  “Oh, yes.” Though reeling from the blow, she lifted her gaze in enraged, full-out rebellion. “A brute.”

  His chest heaved where the V of his dressing gown lay open. “Do you have any idea what would happen to a Russian girl if she dared try that?”

  Becky could not guess the answer and was not sure she wanted to know. She climbed to her feet unsteadily, still a bit stunned by the blow. She could not believe he had hit her.

  “I would have her flogged until she begged for a night in my bed,” he informed her in a snarl.

  Just try it with me and see what you get. Though quaking, she held her ground. “I am not your serf.”

  “But you are my chattel.” His arm shot out before she could escape. He gripped her hair and dragged her head back, forcing her to meet his blazing stare. His hot, stale breath filled her air. “Our grandsire’s death made you my possession by law till you turn twenty-one, remember? One way or the other, girl, I will teach you to obey.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “Ah, so it’s to be defiance? Your choice. You can take the yoke easy, of your own free will, or fight me every step of the way—it matters not to me. Don’t think our kinship entitles you to any special treatment,” he panted in her ear. “I know all about how your mother disgraced herself with scandal; to me, you’re little more than a whore.”

  “You bastard! Don’t speak about my mother—” She shrieked when her renewed struggles only brought more pain.

  He wrenched her scalp, pulling hard on her hair. “I’m afraid I am not like your English gentlemen, Rebecca. I’m not afraid to play rough. Did you know I have a harem back in Russia?” he asked mildly. “It’s very common among men of my class.”

  She grimaced in disgust; his pale eyes gleamed.

  “Yes, fourteen beautiful young serf girls of every coloring and temperament, about your age. I do miss them,” he added with a worldly sigh. “A man has needs. But of course, I could not bring them here. On English soil, the law would have them freed. Fortunately, I have you, thanks to Grandfather, and I shall train you by the same methods I used on them. It works, you know—my system—though it gets a little bloody now and then.”

  She sobbed and furiously blinked back tears, unwilling to give him that victory over her.

  “I always win in the end, Rebecca, so heed me well. If you wish to save yourself a great deal of misery, I suggest you make it your purpose in life to do exactly as I say. It is mine alone to decide what you may do at any hour of the day, where you may go, whom you may see, what you may eat, what you shall wear, how many goddamned times a day you blink. Get used to it,” he whispered in her ear, then roughly released his grip upon her hair and thrust her away from him.

  She stumbled away in humiliated terror while Mikhail folded his massive arms serenely across his chest. “Go to your room for the rest of the day. I will send for you when I am ready to hear your apology. Right now, I am not in the mood.”

  “Apology?” she gasped, still reeling.

  “You struck me and insulted my men. You will explain to me why this was wrong when I call for you this evening. Understood? Now, go.” He turned away, dismissing her with an idle flick of his jeweled hand.

  She was trembling all over, her mind a blank. Only one thought crystallized clearly in her mind: “Leave this place,” she uttered.

  “You’re still here?” he asked in an ominous tone, turning around slowly. “Very stupid. Yet I’m impressed.”

  Her temper snapped. “Leave my home!” she screamed, keeping the furniture between them. “And take your filthy barbarians with you!”

>   When he strode toward her, his robe flowing out behind him, she fled. She streaked past Lady Agnes’s portrait and went pounding up the stairs, her heart hammering.

  Mikhail stayed at the bottom of the staircase. “I am the master of this house now!” he roared after her. “Either learn to obey me or get the hell out!”

  That’s an easy choice. Gaining the safety of her bedchamber, Becky slammed the door. For a moment she stood there trembling, listening to make sure he was not still pursuing her. Hearing nothing, she slumped against the door in a dazed and trembling state of shock at what had just passed. Her mind could not absorb that her legal guardian had struck her.

  He intended much worse still to come.

  Her hands were cold, her stomach in knots as she realized she could not stay here. Her own home—and yet she had no choice but to leave it. He had made his revolting desire plain enough. It was his house now. She would rather be evicted than humiliated, terrified. Raped.

  At that moment, a muffled click from the door behind her nearly made her jump out of her skin. It was followed by Mikhail’s low sneering voice penetrating through the wooden seam between the lintel and the door: “I’ll be back at midnight to hear your apology. Then your training will begin. You’d better hope you please me, loobeemaya, or I’ll marry you off to the worst man I can find.”

  Laughter.

  Her throat closed, the curse she wanted to scream at him muted. She stared at the door. As she listened with pounding heart, his heavy footfalls receded down the corridor. He was gone.

  Cautiously testing the door, she discovered that he had locked her in. Now she was his prisoner in earnest. . . .

  Alec hoped his rage did not show too plainly on his face as Becky paused broodingly and finished cleaning his cut. Training? he thought, his temples pounding with wrath. Training?