“Ángel was off his head, okay? All of this was some sick, horrible game to him, a game he chose to extend for as long as he could.” Three eternal months, to be precise.
Ángel had laughed at her shocked refusal. She was locked into a small room, and as he left Ángel leaned forward to caress her cheek. She spat in his face. An hour later, she succeeded in breaking the window, clambered out through the narrow opening and jumped. Two hours later she was back, unable to walk, or talk. They’d been waiting for her, and Ángel had beaten her with as much passion as he’d previously shown her in bed. His last blow broke her nose.
Matthew groaned. “But why didn’t you…” he mimed a kick and a jab.
“Oh, I tried; but Ángel was just as good, if not better, than me.” Reflexively she covered her nose. He’d played with her the bastard, making her think she had a chance to fight free.
“I used to think I was one of those people who’d be really brave, you know?” Alex fiddled with her ring, her bracelet. “It turns out I wasn’t.”
“Very few are,” Matthew said.
Whatever.
Next morning, Alex had been supported out of her little room, still in her bloodied clothes from yesterday, and Ángel had sat her down by the large oak table. In his hand he held a hammer. Franco grabbed her hand, pressed it down against the table. Ángel smiled and asked which finger. Which finger? Well, he said, he’d start with her fingers, then her toes, and after that…he threw a look at a huge set of pliers that lay on the table. Alex swallowed, pressed her knees together, ashamed of the way her legs were shaking. So, which finger? Please, she’d said. Ángel had shrugged, and the hammer came down on her pinkie.
“See?” Alex held up her left pinkie. The upper joint was flattened.
Alex had howled. In pain, in fear, but also in anger. She’d tried to fight free, screaming at Ángel that he was a sick bastard, and that no way was she going to do anything he told her to. Ángel had merely smiled, gripped hold of her arm and dislocated her elbow.
“The pain…” Alex looked away. “He never hurt me again. He never had to.” Matthew’s hold on her hand tightened.
Over the coming months he reduced her to a nonbeing. She was underdressed and underfed, never allowed one full night of uninterrupted sleep. Roberto would scream her awake at two, Ángel would pour a bucket of water over her at four, and Franco… Alex took a deep breath.
For hours each day Ángel would photograph her, in one more demeaning pose after the other. And while Ángel never raised his hand to her, now and then Franco would, a hard slap when she wasn’t fast enough in complying with Ángel’s screamed directions. Worst of all was the day he tied her to the stake and…Alex couldn’t go on, gulping a few times.
“I thought they were going to set me on fire,” she whispered, “and when Franco threw the match into the pile at my feet, I screamed and screamed. Ángel took photo after photo.” And each and every one he sent to her mother.
Everything he told her to say to her mother she did, from that first phone call in which Mercedes was told not to contact the police or involve Magnus, to the last ones when she begged her mother to hurry and find her, solve the goddamn clues and find her, before these men did something really, really bad to her. Not that she needed a script to say that – she was quite convinced that Ángel would kill her.
“I should have…” She shook her head.
“What? Tried to fight him? And what do you think he’d done then?”
Alex nodded, seeing yet again that hammer, those pliers.
Finally, one day Mercedes appeared in a cloud of dust, astride a motorbike. She planted her hands on her hips and yelled for Ángel to come out, come out and be done with her if that was what he wanted, but first he had to free her child – except she had called him Hector Olivares, not Ángel.
“When Mercedes showed up, Ángel flew to the phone and rang this unknown Hector, asking him what he was supposed to do, now that he had the mother standing in front of the door.” She hadn’t heard the reply, but Ángel had laughed and walked over to the open door. What he’d actually said had been in Spanish: “Si no entras a buscarla te la devolveré muerta.”
Mercedes had gasped at his threat to kill Alex, and stepped inside. When Franco produced a rope to tie Mercedes with, Alex flung herself into instinctive action. Suddenly Franco was dead, Roberto was screaming and Mercedes stalked across the room towards a terrified Ángel. Roberto had slammed into Alex, who crushed his larynx with her first blow, the following kick throwing him back against the wall with a sickening thud.
“And then it was all over, well, except for the fact that in my belly grew a little stranger, and I didn’t want him there.” She burst into tears, and when Matthew opened his arms she nestled in as close as she could.
Much later she sat in front of the fire and played the closing scenes through in her head. Mercedes had hissed in hatred at Ángel, promising him he would pay for every humiliation he’d put her daughter through. Ángel had stood stock still, incapable of moving as Mercedes sat Alex down on a chair and kissed her farewell. Her touch had singed Alex’s skin, leaving blistered imprints on her upper arms.
Mercedes inhaled and stepped up to Ángel, wrapped her arms around him and in one tremendous surge of white heat they’d burst into flame, a silent, intertwined couple that twisted in the fire before evaporating, leaving nothing behind but a sooty sill.
Alex had sat stunned on her chair, and she had no idea who had tied her to it, or who notified the police. Neither did the police, although the switchboard operator insisted it was a woman, a woman who spoke Spanish, not Italian.
“Oh God,” Alex muttered, blinking in an effort to re-consign these awful, awful images to the darker recesses of her mind. It didn’t help. With a little groan she rolled towards Matthew, pushing against his solid warmth. An arm snaked out to draw her close, a misdirected kiss landed on her ear.
“Sleep.”
Her last conscious thought was that mostly he smelled of water – cool clear water burbling over a mossy bed.
* * *
The moment the cretin opened his mouth, Hector knew where he was; Scotland. A few more questions, most of them met by an ‘eh?’, and he’d gleaned this was sometime in the seventeenth century, and after a wearisome hour, he’d gathered they were closer to Glasgow than Edinburgh.
Hector scowled at nothing in particular, scanning the endless miles of moor that seemed to surround him. How was he supposed to find Diego here? He shook his head at the offered bread, but decided he wanted the knife, the cloak and the cheese. The idiot was still gasping when he left him.
Chapter 15
After a couple of days of erratic weather, it was blissful to wake in a warm, golden sunbeam. Alex stretched like a cat, limb by limb, and unrolled herself from shawl and blankets, her stomach echoing with hunger. Matthew was busy at the fire, giving her a good morning before going back to watching his birds. She disappeared behind a nearby bush, returned some minutes later with a small twig in her hand that she was chewing into a brush. She frowned at his amused look.
“I’ve told you. Unless you clean them they rot and fall out.”
In reply, Matthew produced a well-chewed twig of his own. “I heard you,” he grinned, running his tongue over his teeth. “They’re clean, very clean.”
Alex burst out in laughter before going over to kiss his cheek.
“I don’t have any teeth there,” he said, clearly disappointed.
“Tough.” She gave him yet another peck and danced out of range. She threw a quick glance in his direction, meeting eyes that had gone an emerald green. Deep inside of her something contracted, a delicious ache that sent sparks of heat flying through her. This man was driving her nuts; days of kissing, of casual caresses – it made her blood boil. Hell, at times she worried he might see the steam leaking out through her ears or something.
“Are they done yet?” she said, pointing at the sooty birds.
He chuckled. “Soon
enough.”
“He would’ve loved this,” Alex said as they walked their way through the woods that gathered in the folds of the hills. She had no real idea where they were, but they seemed to be walking west, and they’d crossed the Clyde a few days ago.
“Who?” He took her hand.
“Magnus,” she said, feeling a twinge of loss. “He liked trekking, and he’d beg and wheedle and generally be a nuisance, until Mercedes and I caved in and went with him to Sweden or Switzerland or wherever he suddenly decided he wanted to walk.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Mercedes wasn’t an outdoor person, and she’d complain about everything: it was too hot, it was too cold, too wet. The wine was too warm and why weren’t there any decent hotels out in the wilds. Secretly, I think she liked it. Well, except for the ‘Oh my God, the skies will cave in and squish me flat’ bit. At least they seemed to enjoy themselves quite a lot at night, and I would hold my hands hard over my ears. Bloody embarrassing they were, always holding hands and kissing…” She shook herself free of her little reverie. She didn’t want to think about Mercedes. Instead she turned to face Matthew and grinned.
“Magnus always used to say that there are three elements to good health; keep clean, eat and drink in moderation, and have as much sex as you can with your partner.”
“Sex?”
“You know, make love.” She was aware of a wave of blood washing through her, and kept her eyes on the meandering pathway at her feet.
“Hmm,” Matthew said, clearly as embarrassed as she was. “Well, at least we seem to be eating and drinking in moderation.”
She laughed. “I could do with getting clean,” she said, sniffing at her shirt. “I haven’t had a proper bath in what? Ten days?” Mrs Gordon had offered water and a pewter basin, and she’d washed hands and face, wiped herself as well as she could or wanted in that cramped little space. But that was four, no five days ago.
Now that she thought about it, she noted that she did smell; a ripe earthy smell with traces of smoke and grass. She scratched at her head. Her hair was greasy and heavy, and she longed for a hot shower and her favourite shampoo to be followed by someone swaddling her in a bathrobe and rubbing her dry. Not likely to happen anytime soon.
*
I could do with making love, he thought, feeling his balls tighten with want. Near on four weeks with this woman, long evenings talking to her about everything in his life and hers – he knew her better than he’d ever known another person before in his whole life. He sneaked a look at her, at the way her arse moved in those tight leggings, the way her neck rose slender and uncovered from her shirt.
“There’s a spring further up this hill, if you want to bathe.”
“A spring? Ice cold water or hot water?”
“Of course cold,” he grinned, “but very clean.”
“Go on,” she said, waving her hand at him. “Lead me to it.”
By the time they got to the top they were both gasping for breath and sticky with sweat.
“There,” Matthew pointed at a wide pool. Alex clapped her hands together, making him smile at the childishness of the gesture. She hurried towards the water, bent to scoop some up to drink.
“It tastes a bit weird.”
He kneeled down to taste it, shaking his fingers so that drops flew like glittering sparks through the air.
“It’s the peat,” he said, taking off shoes and stockings to paddle his feet in the water. She sat down beside him, tugged at her mud-caked breeches.
“I’d better wash these as well, and my shirt. Well, all my clothes.” She gave him an inscrutable look, and Matthew felt his face heating at the thought of seeing all of her naked. He got to his feet.
“I’d best leave you to it, then.” He handed her a piece of lumpy lye soap. “Don’t get it in your eyes, it stings.”
“And itches.”
He laughed. “I’ll be on the other side of those crags. Call if you need me.”
He didn’t mean to. Ha, of course he did. It was as he was coming back from taking a piss that a sudden movement from the pool caught his eye. He was mesmerised, crouching down in the shade of the closest crag, incapable of tearing his gaze away from her.
She’d taken off her breeches, exposing the full length of her legs, the roundness of her arse, and he could swear that even at this distance he could see the light, downy hair on her thighs. He could definitely see the triangle of pubic hair, glints of bronze in all that dark, and he wondered what had happened to that little scrap of red he’d glimpsed covering her privates some weeks ago. He slipped his hand inside his breeches.
He should leave, he shouldn’t sit like this and watch her, but down by the pool she unbuttoned her shirt and pulled it off, and he wanted to be the one that undid that strange contraption that held her breasts in place, letting them spill into his hands. He rubbed himself, his hand moving rhythmically up and down. She was fully naked, kneeling by the edge of the pool as she scrubbed her shirt and those wisps of lace.
Something about the way she held herself made him suspect she knew he was watching, and that made it less of an intrusion, because surely she would have covered herself or stood to yell at him, had she really minded. The way she rose to wring her shirt out, how she turned in his direction to shake the clothes before draping them over a sun warmed boulder – she was preening for him. It made him smile, and he shifted from foot to foot, his head ringing with her name.
Alex had by now finished with her clothes, turning instead to the business of washing herself. It was like watching a complicated dance, every one of her movements a silent demand that he come closer, take her and possess her. But he remained where he was, wanting to extend this moment for as long as he could, his eyes never leaving her. She lathered her hair, and he laughed at her creative expletives when she got soap in her eyes. She rinsed herself, used handfuls of grit to polish her skin, leaving her a rosy red, and Matthew moaned when she stretched, rising onto her toes with her arms extended high over her head.
She twirled, sank down to sit, and eased down onto her back, her face to the sun. Her hand brushed at her breast, it rested for an instant on her belly. It drifted lower, hovered over her pubic mound, and when her fingers threaded themselves into her bush, Matthew inhaled. Her legs shifted apart and her hand slid in to rest between them. Matthew stumbled to his feet, his cock a thudding magnetic needle pointing him towards her.
He didn’t undress, he just undid his lacings and fell to his knees between her legs. She opened her eyes and smiled. One thrust, and he was so deep inside he felt her brace, her heels scrabbling for purchase on the moss as she tried to put some distance between them.
“You’re…err…quite big.” She gasped when he flexed his hips again, but he was beyond hearing, all of him taken over by the raging heat in his balls and the fire that burnt through his cock as he drove himself deeper and deeper into her.
*
It was one long, endless afternoon, a succession of orgasms, of half-uttered sentences, of choked gasps. His fingers…oh yes! There, there! She undulated under him, he loved her, she kissed him, they stumbled over to the spring to drink, to wash, and her hands on his penis, his hands on her breasts, was enough to make it all start again.
She was sore but she didn’t care, lying spread-eagled under him, relishing his weight, his size, the surging strength that pounded into her until she no longer was – she just floated on a wave of sunlit colours. He collapsed on top of her, laughed out loud. Below him she fidgeted, squashed and breathless, and he moved to the side. Through half-closed eyes she looked up at him.
“Wow,” she said in a cracked voice. She raised her hand to trace the shape of his brows, his eyes. He captured it, nibbled her fingers one by one.
“Take it off,” he said, indicating the ring on her third finger. She looked at him and then back at her ring. What did he mean, take it off? “You’re mine now,” he said into her hair. “So take it off.” Matthew rolled off her and held out his hand.
She sat up. His? Who did he think he was? She frowned at him, but the look in his eyes and the vulnerable curve to his mouth made her relent. He’s old-fashioned, she reminded herself – very, very old-fashioned. He was still holding his hand out, eyes hanging off her. Talk about reverse commitment; by placing John’s ring in his palm, she was telling him she was his. It made her feel hollow somehow, her heartbeat echoing inside the cavity of her chest. It would mean accepting that she would never see them again, not John, not Magnus, and not her baby.
Matthew’s eyes locked into hers, and for a long moment she held her breath. Finally, Alex nodded, expelling the air in a rush. She had to tug a bit to get the ring off, and she held it in her closed fist in a silent farewell before she dropped it into his waiting palm.
“He gave you that as well.” He touched the golden bracelet round her wrist. She took it off, dropping the chain links into his hand. He smiled, a soft sheen in his eyes when he pulled her down to kiss her.
“Mine, aye?”
She shivered in the evening breeze and huddled closer to him. “Yours,” she said, and found to her surprise that she meant it.
He drew her close, he whispered her name, kissed her ear, her nose, the corner of her mouth. His hands were warm on her skin, his fingers touched and teased, and Alex wrapped her arms around him and took him inside. She gasped; he froze. He nuzzled her neck, she shivered and locked her legs around his hips. He took his time, and now it was Alex that laughed, her head thrown back.
He snickered at her gait when they walked up to the top, a self-satisfied note to his voice when he told her she was walking as if he was still between her legs. She huffed and brought her thighs together, feeling them sticky and sore. Despite all her washing, she reeked of sex, of him, and her lips were swollen and tender. He stopped her beneath one of the crags.
“You’ll be my wife then,” he said, not quite a question, nor yet a statement.
“Yes,” she swallowed. “I suppose I will.”
He raised her hand to his mouth, uncurling her fingers to kiss her palm and then fisting her hand closed.
A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga) Page 16
