Dangerous Obsession

by Natasha Peters

  “You can’t stop me!" I cried passionately. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over his chair. My cheeks were flushed and my eyes looked dark and angry. “You have no right to keep me here against my wishes! You can’t!"

  “Why not?" he said softly. “I brought you into this house and here you will stay until I give you leave to go."

  “Yes, in your own time and on your own terms," I quoted bitterly. “No, Seth. I won’t let you ruin my life this way! This is my chance to be happy! But you’re so selfish, so greedy that you don’t want me to take it! You think that just because you hate life and have no heart, that everybody has to be that way, but it’s not true! I want to be married, Seth! I want a husband and a home and a family!" Tears of despair ran down my cheeks and I brushed them away angrily. He watched impassively. “Oh, how I hate you! Why won’t you let me go? I mean nothing to you, I know that. I sleep with you and I play cards for you and I hate it, every minute of it! I won’t stay! I won’t live here a moment longer, do you hear me?”

  I ran up to my room and started to throw my things back into the big trunk I had just emptied. I heard him come in. I hated the sound of his tread, that uneven, limping rhythm. Sometimes I heard it in my dreams.

  “Can’t you leave me alone for one minute?” I said without looking at him. “Every time I turn around, you’re there. Watching me, watching me. You tell me what to eat, what to wear, how to talk, when to breathe. As if I had no mind of my own!”

  “I know your mind all too well,” he informed me. “Just remember, Rhawnie, if it wasn’t for me you’d be begging for bread on the streets of Odessa right now, or you’d be dead and buried in Moscow. You’re still a dirty little Gypsy in fancy dress—”

  With an infuriated cry, I hurled myself at him. I wanted to strangle him, to stop his mouth. I wanted to kill him.

  We struggled. He hooked his leg behind mine and fell heavily on top of me when I went down. I squirmed and scratched and bit. He pinned my wrists to the floor and kissed me and kissed me until I was limp and speechless. He eased off me and I rolled on my side and buried my face in my arms.

  “Somebody has to keep you in your place, Gypsy,” he said. He started to undress me. He had no trouble with the fasteners on my bodice that night: he tore them off. Then he picked me up and carried me to bed. “You’re getting ideas above your station.”

  “I hate you,” I murmured. “I won’t stay.”

  He ran his hands lightly over my body, and he kissed me in a hundred and one places. I gave an involuntary groan and I thrashed convulsively. I was in his power.

  “You’ll stay,” he said softly. “You know that, don’t you? We belong together, Rhawnie. We have a lot in common, more than you know.”

  “I know,” I said. “My father was Gypsy, but your mother was a pirate.”

  He paused in his attentions. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Madame Odette. She said that you were so ashamed of the way you lived that you used a different name. You’re as bad as a Gypsy!”

  “There,” he laughed. “You see how alike we are! And if our situations were reversed, if I wanted to marry a duchess, you wouldn’t let me go, would you?”

  “Yes!” I cried. “Gladly!”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” His voice was low, hypnotic. “That boy could never make you happy. You need a man. You need me. I know what you are, and what you want.”

  He proceeded to demonstrate—as though I needed a demonstration of his skills. He caressed and stroked me gently, stimulating me until I was frantic with desire. The rising tension in my body was more than flesh and blood could bear; it encompassed my mind and spirit as well. I wanted him, I hungered for him. But when I groped for him he eluded me and withheld his prize until I begged him for it. Then he plunged that searing iron into me with a force and ferocity that made me scream.

  His anger with me was evident now. He wanted to subdue and punish and enslave me—once and for all. I resisted him. I fought him. I sank my teeth into his chest and tore at his back and shoulders with my fingernails. But the pain only inflamed him further. He retaliated in kind, biting my breasts and belly and thighs. Soon we were soaked with sweat and tears and passion’s nectar. It was more like war than love. We were two combatants, each trying to overpower and destroy the other.

  I had never experienced a night like that. Neither, I think, had Seth. When it was over and we lay spent and limp in each other’s arms, he threw his arm over his eyes and sighed, “Jesus.” Nothing was settled, nothing resolved. I was more determined than ever to escape him before he devoured me.

  But he redoubled his vigilance. I was never alone. The next time I saw Martin, at Chez Albert, Seth stayed closed by me and I was unable to do anything but give him a little shake of the head and a despairing look, to let him know that I had failed to obtain my freedom.

  Then Madame Odette sat down at the table where Seth and I were playing faro. I said that I was thirsty, and he decided that he wanted a drink, too, and went off to fetch champagne for me and whiskey for himself. I leaned over and put my hand on Odette’s scrawny arm.

  “I must talk to you!” I whispered. “I know how you feel about me—I am sorry I hurt you—but it’s very important!”

  “In spite of herself the old woman was interested. “What’s the matter? Is he tiring of you?”

  “Martin de Vernay and I want to go away together,” I told her, casting a furtive eye around for Seth. “He wants to marry me. But Seth won’t let me out of his sight and I can’t even speak to him. Would you take a message for me?

  “Are you making this up?” Odette demanded. She leaned over the table and threw some chips down on a face card. “If you’re lying—”

  “I swear that I’m not! Please, Madame, this is what you wanted for me, what we both wanted!”

  I knew that nothing would give Madame Odette more pleasure than to have her one-time protege desert that rogue Seth Garrett to marry a titled nobleman. She took my message to Martin and returned to the table in ten minutes. Half an hour later she excused herself, muttering something about going to the powder room. And five minutes after that I gave Seth the same reason for leaving the table.

  "You may escort me and stand guard outside the door, if you like,” I said coolly.

  “Not necessary.” He tossed back his whiskey. “Your lover decided the situation was hopeless and left, about twenty minutes ago.”

  Madame Odette was waiting for me in the powder room. “You were right! He is going to take you away tonight! He’ll have two horses waiting under the big chestnut tree at the far end of the Rue de Montmorency, at three o’clock this morning. Martin is taking you to England! You’ll be married there, by a priest, of course. And you’ll live with some cousins of his until Martin smooths things over with his parents. They dote on him and they’ll come around in time. I’m sure of it. It’s a wonderful plan! But it must be tonight, Rhawnie. The longer you wait, the more impatient Martin will become. And the more chance there will be of Seth discovering something. I will leave you now. Good luck, my dear. I am very happy for you!”

  I played well that night and won a lot of money. I was glad. I would need it to replace all the things I couldn’t take with me when I made my escape with Martin. I hoped Seth would think that my high spirits came from the excitement of winning.

  “I hope you’ve come to your senses,” he said as we left the table. “You don’t want to waste your time on that pipsqueak.”

  I gazed at him from under my lashes. “Perhaps you’re right,” I said in a silky coquettish voice. “You were very persuasive the other night, you know.” I held his hand lightly and swirled my fingers around his palm.

  “I intended to be.” He looked at me searchingly. I prayed that I wouldn’t inadvertently betray myself. But he said, “You’re looking remarkably pretty tonight. Even for you.”

  “It must be my gown,” I said, smiling. I was wearing a rich moss green satin with silk overskirts and sleeves, very low cu
t in front. “The man I live with chose it for me. He has very good taste.”

  “Good taste in clothes and in women,” he grinned.

  As we walked to our carriage I noticed that his limp was more pronounced than usual. When we got home I didn’t go upstairs at once, but followed him into the drawing room. He poured himself a generous measure of brandy, drank it down, and poured another. Then he sat down in his favorite chair and sighed heavily.

  “Your leg hurts you tonight, doesn’t it?” I said.

  “‘Like the devil,” he admitted. “You haven’t been a very conscientious nurse lately.”

  “You can’t blame me,” I said. “I told you long ago what you had to do to make it better and you didn’t listen.”

  “No fun in solitary,” he said. “Like a lot of things, easing pain is nicer when you have someone around to help.”

  “Well, let me look at it.” I knelt in front of him and pushed up the leg of his trousers. Now that I was about to leave him I felt no hatred towards him, only regret. “Ah, so stiff! You are too stubborn to live, Seth Garrett.” I kneaded and massaged the bunched muscles.

  He sat back in his chair and submitted to my ministrations. “God, that feels good.” He closed his eyes. “I just can’t understand what you see in a pimple-faced boy like Martin de Vernay.”

  “He does not have pimples.” I snapped, digging my thumbs into his scar. He sucked in his breath and sat bolt upright. I glared up at him. “How could you understand? You, who have never loved anybody? Martin is as unlike you as—as an angel! He is sweet and gallant and kind.”

  “Sounds dull,” Seth remarked.

  “And he cares about me!” I stood up and brushed out my skirts.

  “I care about you,” he protested lazily.

  "You? Bah. You care about the money I can win for you. And about how I bring you pleasure when we lie together. You like to have a beautiful woman to live in your house and sleep in your bed, someone you can show off at the theater and the opera and Albert’s gambling den, so all the other men will envy you and think what a fine fellow you are. You don’t love me, as Martin does. If I told him that I—that I loved you and wanted to stay with you—and I don’t!—he would listen and he would let me go. If you cared about me, if you loved me, you would let me go.”

  “That’s a queer kind of logic,” he observed. “If I loved you, Rhawnie, I would do exactly as I am doing now. I’d never let you out of my sight.” He reached out and took my hand and pulled me down on his lap. “I’d tell you that you were beautiful and wonderful, and you would know that meant I couldn’t live without you. I would please you in a thousand and one ways.” He kissed my fingertips and reached up to stroke my cheek. His voice was low-pitched and as smooth as honey and butter. But I knew him too well to believe him. “I do please you, don’t I?” he asked. He put his arms around my waist and gathered me close. I hid my face in his neck. “I don’t have to remind you, Gypsy, that you’ve lived in this house longer than any other woman—a lot longer. You hold the record. It’s a dubious honor, I admit, but it means something, surely.”

  I said softly, “You don’t love me. Everything you say is a lie. You wouldn’t have to say anything at all, you wouldn’t have to prove that you loved me because I would know it. The touch of your hands would be different somehow. You wouldn’t make fun of me, you wouldn’t scold me all the time. You would be kind and warm and caring.”

  “Oh, my dear child,” he said with a rueful laugh, “you’re so young. You think that love is generous and good and kind, but it’s not. It’s selfish. Perhaps the most selfish emotion there is.”

  “Next you’re going to tell me that you’ve been keeping watch over me and treating me like a prisoner because you love me and you don’t want to lose me to someone like Martin.” I sat up and looked into his eyes. “Is that true? Are you really insanely jealous of me because you love me, Seth? Do you love me?” I slid off his lap and stood up. “If you did, everything would be different.” I waited. He didn’t speak. The clock in the hall struck one. I put my hands to my temples. I felt tired and sad and not one bit sorry that I was leaving him. “I’m going to bed,” I said. “Will you come, too?”

  He looked at me yet through me. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly. “I have some drinking to do.”

  “Then good-night, Seth.” And good-bye.

  “Good-night, Rhawnie.”

  I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked out of the room. When I reached the stairs I broke into a run and dashed to my room to pack. There was a lot to do before three o’clock. And if Seth was still awake—and drinking—then, Martin would have to wait.

  I wouldn’t be able to take very much in the way of clothing. I packed a small bag with some underthings, shoes, nightgowns and robe. And of course my cache of money and jewels. I wouldn’t leave those for Seth to spend on a new woman. I hid the satchel behind a chair, and got ready for bed. He might come in, there was no telling for sure until I heard him go to his room and close the door.

  An hour and a half passed with excruciating slowness. Finally I heard him come up the stairs. He stopped, about halfway between our rooms. I waited, certain that he would come in. But he didn’t. He went back to sleep alone. 1 was safe.

  I threw off my night things and put on my riding habit, and I tried to compose myself. But I was as nervous as a new bride, as they say. Not because I was anxious about my husband but because I distrusted and feared—yes, feared—my lover. A strange situation.

  An hour struck. Three o’clock, time for my rendezvous. I picked up my satchel and crept out of my room. I paused outside Seth’s room. He was snoring, as he always did when he was very drunk. I knew then that he would sleep soundly until mid-morning. Jules wouldn’t disturb him, even if he discovered that I was gone. Does a man prod a sleeping wolf to tell him his sheep has run off? Martin and I would have about eight hours head start, perhaps more.

  I left the house through one of the French windows at the front and ran swiftly down the Rue de Montmorency. The month was October. The night was clear and the moon full.

  “Rhawnie!”

  “Oh, Martin!” We embraced and kissed for the first time. “I’m free!” I breathed happily. “Free!”

  “Oh, my dearest! I could hardly believe it when Madame Mornay spoke to me! The horses are waiting. Let’s go!”

  We rode without stopping for about four hours, until dawn. I wished that I could have taken Blaze, but it would have been too risky. The mount Martin had brought me was a swift chestnut mare. We stopped a few times to rest the horses, and early in the afternoon we stopped to rest ourselves. We were about fifty miles north of Paris, on the road to Dieppe, where we could catch a boat for England. The name of the town was Beauvais, I think. Martin asked the innkeeper for two rooms, one for himself and one for his “sister.”

  Before he left me he knelt in front of me and held both my hands tightly.

  “Madame Mornay told you my plan? It will work, Rhawnie. No one will be able to say we’re not married legally, when we’ve been married by a priest and have lived as man and wife for a while. No one, no one will be able to separate us!”

  He was so ardent, so young and fine and pure. He reminded me a little of Django. Django would have been just as passionate, just as sincere in his adoration..

  “I promise that I will be a good wife, Martin,” I said. And I meant it. “I will never shame you or disgrace you. And promise me, we will never speak of the past, of what I haw been. We must forget it, or it will hurt our love for each other. Will you promise?”

  He promised, kissing my hands and permitting himself one kiss on my mouth. And then he left me alone. So noble, that Martin. I couldn’t imagine Seth Garrett behaving so honorably in a similar situation.

  I undressed and crawled into my small bed. I was exhausted from riding, yet elated. I really was free, and about to start a new life. I would be married in just a few days. Married! I have never been particularly religious— no Gypsy is
unless it suits him to be—but that day I hugged myself and thanked God for helping me to get what I really wanted from life.

  In a dream I heard Seth’s footsteps and the tap of his cane: tap, step, step; tap, step, step. I moaned and covered my ears and tried to banish the nightmare.

  “Get up. We’re leaving."

  I sat up and rubbed my eyes. It was Seth, in the flesh. He was dusty and tired looking, as though he had ridden hard and far. And he looked angry.

  “How—? What—?" I mumbled sleepily. “What time is it? Where is Martin?"

  “Get dressed." He tossed my clothes onto the bed. “We’ll talk later.”

  Just then Martin burst into the room. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Leave here at once! Rhawnie is going to be my wife!”

  “Rhawnie is my mistress and she’s not going to be your anything,” Seth growled. “Hurry up, Rhawnie.”

  “I will not allow this!” Martin threw himself at Seth, who gave him a strong shove. The boy reeled and fell backwards against the bed. He jumped up immediately and charged Seth again. Seth grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back.

  “Don’t be a fool, boy,” he said angrily. He released Martin and pushed him away. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You can’t hurt me, Martin shouted, “and you can’t hurt Rhawnie any more! You’re a brute, an animal! A man like you shouldn’t be allowed to live!”

  He attacked Seth again. Seth repulsed him with one sweep of his mighty fist. The young duke slumped against the wall and blood oozed out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Martin!” I started towards him, my arms outstretched, but Seth intercepted me.

  “Get dressed, damn you!” he snarled. “Or you’ll get some of the same!”

  Five minutes later I was sitting beside him in a hired coach, heading for Paris. The horse Blaze was tied on behind. I couldn’t bring myself to say one word to Seth. I was outraged and ashamed and saddened at the way he had treated Martin. It had been horrible. And humiliating.