by P. J. Fox
“Frankly, I have no idea.”
Belle blushed. The professor returned his attention to her. “You must still be in school, no?”
“I, ah…I was studying at Harvard but…I left.”
She bit her lip, hating this awkward moment. Hating any reminder that her life was a façade. Here was this poor man, kind if not pleasant, treating her like an equal. Because he’d been duped. She wasn’t some pretty young thing, fresh from the streets of Cambridge, who’d been swept off her feet. She was no one. Seeing herself as Graham saw her in that one, brief minute, her heart ached.
The professor, however, took her admission in stride. “I agree wholeheartedly that Mr. Singh is a full time job in of himself. I commend you for taking him on!”
Normality was restored. The moment passed, and the conversation turned to other matters. None of which, thankfully, included Belle. She was more than content to sit and listen as Ash and his old mentor reminisced over old times, including favorite Burns Night antics. Eventually the topic turned to the reason for Ash’s visit, a new technology that Graham and his research fellows had been developing and that Ash was interested in licensing.
None of it meant anything to Belle, who found herself thinking of other things as the two men talked and laughter drifted up from the quad. She was surprised to learn, in the course of the conversation, that Ash gave generously to Exeter College’s financial endowment and had in fact endowed a scholarship of his own to the tune of several million.
He must, she realized, have been happy at the seven hundred year old college, once popular with Devonshire gentry. As happy as Ash was anywhere, she amended silently. Ironically, Exeter College had been founded by Walter de Stapeldon, Bishop of Exeter, as a school to educate clergy. A less clergy-minded man than Ash, no one could ever hope to find.
The thought brought another smile to her lips.
FIFTY-FOUR
“You charmed him!”
Ash belted his trench coat as it flapped around him, exposing the plaid lining. At some point rain had begun to fall, the kind that felt light but was somehow drenching. And with it, wind. He and Belle had just left the main entrance, which resembled a barbican—and probably had been at one point. A thin ribbon of sidewalk separated the front of the College from Turl Street, where Alec waited with the car.
A different car, of course, than the one they’d left behind in the mountains; Ash must keep it somewhere in Oxford, or perhaps in London. Perhaps he kept a house here, too. There was so much she didn’t know about him. Again, that sense of unreality returned. Of pretending. Graham’s face flashed before her eyes; the old man who’d thought her a pretty young thing. Little did he know.
“Oh, he was just being polite.” Belle turned up her collar against the rain. The air was raw, unpleasant. So different from the mountains. More like fall at home.
“Hardly.”
Alec, seeing them, opened the car door.
Belle found herself wondering what the weather was like at home, at this precise moment. What everyone was doing. And then she realized, with a jolt, that she was beginning to feel confused about where exactly was home. When she thought of Scarborough these days, she did so without the familiar pang of homesickness. That had never really been for Scarborough anyway, but for further north. For the home she’d almost had there and for the home she’d wished she’d had, wherever she went.
“Thomas Graham is never just being polite.”
A couple of teenagers ran past them, screaming and laughing, and Ash grabbed her elbow reflexively as if frightened that they might spirit her off. She let herself be steadied, although she didn’t need it. Loosening his grip somewhat, but not releasing her, he met her eyes. That familiar half-smile flickered across his face. She smiled back, but more tremulously. She didn’t like the reminder, especially not now.
“What?” His look turned quizzical.
“Nothing.”
“I do appreciate it, you know. You’re an asset. I’m certain that he wouldn’t have agreed so readily—or at all—if you hadn’t been there to convince him that I’m finally doing something worthwhile with my life.”
So that’s what she was? A decoration? The human equivalent of a coal miner’s canary, meant to test if the atmosphere was sufficiently ripe for negotiation? She wasn’t, she noticed, an asset to the negotiation itself. He wasn’t praising her intelligence; merely her willingness to play nice with a bored old man.
She bristled. Ash let his hand drop and she got into the car without assistance. He said nothing for a moment, merely stood there, regarding her, before turning on his heel and walking around the rear of the car to his own side.
He got in, bringing the rain with him. He slammed the door shut. A minute later, Alec pulled away from the curb. He, as usual, kept his thoughts to himself. For a long time, there was no sound except the pelting of rain on the roof. Belle gazed out the window without really seeing anything, so it took her awhile to realize that they weren’t driving into the city—or anywhere recognizable at all. Not that Belle had much of a frame of reference.
Alec swung from the A34 onto the M40, one of the major roads crisscrossing the country. A sign indicated that they were heading north, toward Birmingham. Belle had only the vaguest notion of where that was. What she did know was that Ash had told her nothing about any excursions. In point of fact, he’d told her nothing at all.
A spike of fear thrilled through her.
She didn’t want to ask where they were going; she was afraid of the answer.
England didn’t have urban sprawl. Nothing sprawled at all; it reached. There was virtually no space between buildings, all of which were neat and polite. Even the street signs seemed tall and somehow narrow, and everything looked scrubbed clean. Belle had never seen such clean curbstones, she thought incongruously.
But slowly, geometric shapes gave way to rolling countryside. Cottages, equally neat, peeked out from behind riotous gardens just now going to pot in the bad weather. In Maine, Belle was sure, the leaves had all fallen. Fall had been mild, here; was it always this mild? People in Scarborough were probably ordering turkeys and stressing out over whether they’d be able to liberate their purchases from layaway in time for Christmas.
“What are you thinking?”
She was thinking that she was frightened. That she’d been kept too off balance, for too long. And that this was just like the trip into the village: too much. Seeing herself as the old professor saw her had been too much. She wanted to be that girl; she wanted his perception of her to be reality. For the fantasy to be true.
Instead, the truth tasted like ashes.
She didn’t respond for a long time. The car, a sedate Mercedes, purred along. Alec signaled and switched lanes. Rain lashed against the windshield, and ran in rivulets down the window beside her. She studied the rivulets.
“That people are looking for me.” And then, more to herself, “I mean, they must be. An American citizen doesn’t just go missing and that’s that.” Actually, she wasn’t entirely sure of what did happen; she’d never thought to ask. But she was fairly certain that—an embassy got involved, or something. Didn’t it? And Charlotte must have surely notified the authorities. If not that night, then at least when Belle never reappeared at the dorm.
Or in her classes.
No one night stand lasted that long.
Bizarrely, she supposed, she hadn’t put much thought into the situation—until now. Oh, she’d worried about the effect on her semester grade of not turning in her paper, but she hadn’t allowed herself to consider what her mother would call the big picture. Her thoughts about Donna had been confined to imagining how disappointed and disgusted she’d be; not that she’d be worried. She’d heard a story, her first week at TUD, about a girl who’d gone missing for a week whose parents had flown out from Chicago. Belle’s parents wouldn’t do that. They scarcely would have noticed if she’d gone missing while living under her mother’s roof.
“They’ll find
me, and you’ll be in trouble.”
“That would depend on what you told them.” Ash’s tone was cool.
Alec continued to drive.
“I could call. For help, I mean.”
“Yes.”
The air between them had also cooled, at least several degrees. But then again, this was the truth—wasn’t it? Who was Ash to parade her around before his friends when it was convenient, and then not let her use the phone? Or the internet? Having Belle on his arm had made him seem so domestic.
“Belle—”
Ash sounded pained. Belle blushed. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud.
“I see now,” Ash began again, in a different tone, “the source of your upset. But you are not, and were not, a prop. The old man’s enthusiasm for you was genuine and, I can assure you, so was mine.”
But he didn’t sound happy. Then again, he never did. And why should he?
She wished she could take the words back. Not because she didn’t mean them, but because she was scared. Of speaking her mind. Of angering him. Of some vague, unnamed consequence. She’d always been an anxious person, but in the months before meeting Ash her fear had kept her up at night. Fear of what, she didn’t know. Of the future. Of the unknown.
Life with Ash was no more certain.
Oh, she told herself that it was, and in her weaker moments she even allowed herself to believe that things were fine. But how could they be? She’d been kidnapped.
And now here she was, riding in a car she hadn’t even known he owned to who knew where.
As if reading her thoughts, “you haven’t even asked where we’re going.”
“No. I—I wasn’t sure if I should.”
“Belle, when are you going to stop acting like a slave?”
When I stop being one. But this time, she made sure to keep her thoughts inside. What was the point of voicing them? He might parade her around in front of his old teachers, or take her out to the occasional lunch, but he had bought her at an auction and they both knew that she wasn’t free to leave. Regardless of whether he was willing to discuss the fact. He said that he was selfish; that he needed her too much to let her go. But was that the truth? Or just a convenient excuse?
“We’re going to a friend of mine’s,” he said, “for dinner. He offered us lodging there but I…judged it best to refuse him.” And on that inscrutable note, Ash lapsed into silence. “We have a room at an inn down the road. Lovely place; converted dungeon.”
Was he serious?
“I’d planned to stop there and change before dinner. Alec has the bags. And,” he added, “I need a drink.” He said that last with some considerable conviction.
FIFTY-FIVE
Belle squirmed in her seat. She was uncomfortable in the so-called clothing Ash had chosen for her, as well as afraid to be seen wearing such a creation. It was beautiful; there was no denying that. But it was also brief. So brief that the backs of her thighs stuck to the car’s expensive black leather. Black inside, black outside. Black like her dress.
If dress it could indeed be called. It was handmade by a seamstress famous for similar work: what was known in certain rarified circles as fetish wear. Ash had explained that the person they were visiting was a friend from his school days. A friend who had, in later years, adopted a certain…lifestyle.
A lifestyle in which Ash and Belle participated, she supposed. Although not to quite such an extent. Ash liked pain. And she was, in the literal sense, his slave. But outside the bedroom—and inside, after a fashion—they were equals. Or, rather, as much equals as people in their disparate positions could be.
Outside of her duties to Ash, Belle’s time was her own. He encouraged her interests. But for her memories of that long ago-seeming night, she might have thought herself his guest of her own free will. No, more than a guest.
But Ash’s friend had taken things a step further. He, according to Ash, lived in a retreat of his own making in as close to the middle of nowhere as one was apt to find in central England. His trust fund allowed this, as did his success with a string of nightclubs. Several of which, apparently, catered to the same crowd of which he was part.
That there were places one could go for formal instruction in, for example, the art of whipping astonished Belle.
“How do you think I learned?” Ash inquired.
“I—practice?”
“The experienced dominant inflicts pain only when he intends to do so, as well as to the degree he intends. Missteps can lessen trust and lead, in some cases, to severe and even permanent injury.” His lip wrinkled in a slight, refined grimace at the thought. “Which is…distasteful.”
“Trust in what?”
“In the dominant’s ability to control the situation. To know what’s best, both for himself and for his submissive, at all times. In short, to dominate.”
To this, Belle had no response.
She squirmed again. She hadn’t known that Ash had had such a costume commissioned, which made her nervous. As nervous as the idea of going to this strange house, where the owner apparently lived like some sort of sultan from the storybooks. The master of his own harem, the king of license. Was this what Ash wanted for himself? His explanation of their attire had been oblique; that they’d been invited to a costume dinner of sorts, and should dress the part. He’d presented her with a black box, tied with matching grosgrain ribbon, and then disappeared to answer a phone call.
Inside the box was a confection of equally black satin: a one-off of the kind of dress that had been popular in the 1880’s, if the 1880’s had eschewed the need for underpants. The bodice was half corset, half blouse, its neckline plunging down beneath her breasts. Interior boning made breathing a challenge, at least at first. After awhile, she adjusted. The bodice itself did up in front, with a series of stainless steel clasps. The collar was high, echoing that of a man’s shirt, and oddly glamorous. The sleeves, too, had a menswear flair. They made Belle feel a bit like Jack Sparrow.
But it was the skirt that nearly stopped her heart. A few bustle-type ruffles around her hips and…that was it. When she turned, studying herself in the mirror, she was mortified to see that the tops of her thighs were quite visible. Not that there was anything to be ashamed of there; her mornings spent running were showing. But, whatever her shape, Belle preferred to keep that shape private. Ash’s notion of what constituted proper clothing was upsetting at the best of times but this…this was ridiculous.
Her lower half felt even barer in the fishnet stockings and small, perfect heels that came in the box. When Ash returned, it was to find Belle seriously contemplating whether she should attempt an escape through the window. Or, at the very least, hide behind the curtain.
His expression told her that he, at least, was entranced. He stopped in the door, staring. Like a wolf might stare at a fawn. He swallowed. All his refined mannerisms couldn’t hide the naked hunger in his eyes. Belle blushed, fighting the impulse to cover herself.
Now, an hour later, she wished she had.
“You look lovely,” he said.
He had also rejected his normal attire, in favor of a costume that complimented her own. Black wool trousers hung from his hips just so, hinting at rather than revealing his athletic build. He wore a white shirt, casually open at the neck, and over that a black wool tailcoat that might have looked at home in Jack the Ripper’s day. The tailcoat was lined in blood red silk, which shone in flashes when he moved. But perhaps the most unusual item he wore was what at first glance appeared to be a vest.
Cut from kid-soft black leather, it, too, buckled down the front. Steel boned, it didn’t lend him a woman’s curves but, rather, emphasized his purely masculine form. A man who needed a corset could never have gotten away with such an item. But Ash had a habit of making even the most unusual costume seem completely rational. Desirable, even. He could walk into a boardroom in a towel, and command the meeting.
Indeed, Belle suspected that the other men present might consider switching to
towels.
“I haven’t seen you dressed like that since…the night we met.”
Ash smiled slightly. “I’d been planning on visiting a club but got derailed.”
“A…club?”
“A dungeon, yes. The Crucible.”
To do what, exactly? She and Ash had experimented enough that she had a general idea but, still…in front of other people? “Is that…what’s going to happen?”
Ash seemed surprised by the question. “Belle,” he said, somewhat reproachfully, “we’re just having dinner.” He paused. “The clothes…John runs an interesting household. I thought it would be fun to join in. That’s all. I promise.”
But Belle wondered.
To pass the time, Ash told her about The Crucible.
Even the name sounded terrifying. Belle well understood that the average person was far more interested in kink than he—or she—let on. None of Scarborough’s matrons would even admit to having sex, let alone liking it, but Belle had found more than one copy of Fifty Shades at the Laundromat. And not new, pristine copies, either. But thrilling to bad prose for a few spin cycles, watching unconventional porn in the wee hours or even cracking out the paddles with your partner was one thing. Going to an actual club was quite another. When you went to a club…people saw you.
Even the clubs that—like The Crucible—allowed full nudity had dress codes. A concept that made no sense whatsoever. How did a Prince Albert qualify as a costume in and of itself? There were changing rooms for those disinclined to ride the bus sans knickers and then, once inside the club, there were usually different rooms.
The Crucible had both an open dungeon, which anyone could use so long as they abided by certain ground rules, as well as a separate viewing area for where various fetish performers put on shows. Although, according to Ash, the spontaneous shows given by amateurs were usually far more interesting. Especially if, as was often the case, one or more participants were new to the scene.
