HOLY POISON: Boxed Set: The Complete Series 1-6

by Margaret Brazear

  Her glance fell on the gold wedding band she still wore on her finger and the diamond ring Richard had had made for her when she gave birth to their only child. She could sell those, but she knew she would never do that. They were too precious; she could never part with those.

  She chose a gown of blue velvet with a sweepingly low neckline which showed off her bosom to its best effect. She thought she may as well try to tempt him; he may change his mind if he could be made to remember what they once had.

  Helplessness was not a feeling she enjoyed. It was helplessness about her future that had made her agree to a treacherous bargain in the first place, but she never expected to feel it again.

  She decided to swallow her pride, get down on her knees if she had to, beg his forgiveness. She would stay in Summerville Hall, never leave the house if that is what he wanted; she could not live in that peasant’s hut. But when he strode into the bedchamber he wore the same angry glare, his jaw clenched tightly, his hands still bunched into fists at his sides. She had hoped he would have calmed down by now, that he would have decided to spare her, but she could see nothing had changed. If anything, he was even angrier than he had been that morning.

  “Richard, I…”

  “You are ready, My Lady?” He interrupted as though she had not spoken.

  She did not reply. She would never be ready for this.

  He handed her into the carriage then climbed to drive the coach himself.

  At the cottage, he got down and held out a hand to help her out. He took her arm to lead her toward the door. He gripped her tightly, his fingers pinching into her flesh and dragged her roughly toward the rickety wooden door.

  “What about my clothes?”

  “You will not be needing them,” he replied.

  So he was planning her death after all. What else could he possibly mean by saying she would not need clothes? She was soon to learn the answer. An old oak chest stood at the end of the bed in this tiny room. He flung it open to reveal the clothing of a peasant. “You can store your gown in here. No one must see you in it.”

  She made no move toward the chest, but she could see enough to know there was nothing there befitting a countess, just drab, natural linen and grey wool. He gripped her arm again and spun her round to unlace her bodice at the back, and she caught back a sob which threatened to choke her. His fingers on her back reminded her vividly of all those nights when he had insisted on sending away the servants and undressing her himself; she could not believe he was not also remembering those nights.

  Once her bodice was loose enough, she shrugged herself out of it and turned to show him her cleavage overflowing the silk shift. He must want her, surely he must. After all this time, he must yearn for her. But he had Rachel; he had no need of his wife.

  His jacket was open and she put up a hand and slipped it beneath his shirt.

  “Richard, I am sorry,” she pleaded. “Please forgive me. I wanted only to help.”

  He did not move, just looked down at her hand where it rested over his naked breast, and the look of contempt in his eyes matched Julia’s when last she saw her. She shuddered and pulled her hand away, tears overflowing now and soaking her cheeks.

  “People will ask who you are,” he went on in a harsh tone. “They will be told you are the daughter of a former servant, come to seek solitude. They will be told you are suffering from leprosy; that should keep them away.”

  She gasped, swallowed the hurt and tried to summon some anger of her own.

  “So I am to be left here, alone, people afraid to come near enough to see what I look like. What an absolutely brilliant plan, My Lord. I congratulate you!” He made no reply. “Is it your plan to drive me mad?”

  “It is my plan to protect us both from your misplaced loyalties, Madam,” he replied and his voice was rising rapidly in anger.

  “Misplaced? I suppose I should have supported you in your efforts to help the Queen send more innocent people to the stake. Did you know I watched my sister die?” He flinched at that, obviously it was news to him. “Did you know she was dead?”

  “Yes, I did, but I did not know you had witnessed it.”

  She could only marvel at his calm. He had been her lover, albeit only briefly. How could he talk as though she were just another heretic among many? Bethany could take no more, her frustration and anger were rising and the need to lash out was overpowering. She could not stop herself from lifting her arm and striking him hard across the face.

  He caught her wrists to ward off a second blow while she cursed the tears that flowed down her face. She tried to take a step back but he held fast to her wrists; his expression was murderous and she was sure that this time he would kill her.

  “My God, but you have a lot of nerve,” he shouted. “You, who have broken every promise you made to me have the gall to strike me?” She struggled against him but his grip was too strong, and he pulled her roughly toward him, bringing his lips close to her ear. “One last try, darling,” he whispered seductively.

  “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

  “One last try for a son, I think, before I leave you.”

  Did that mean he did want her? Or was he merely toying with her, building her hopes of release only to let her fall. Whatever his intention, she had to try; it could be her only chance to avoid this squalid prison.

  “You want me to make love with you?”

  “Oh, I don’t think I would call it making love exactly,” he replied harshly.

  Then he pushed her down roughly onto the hard floor, bruising her back as he climbed over her, pinned her to the floor by sitting astride her and unfastened his breeches. She twisted and struggled to free herself but he caught her wrists in one hand, pushed her skirt up to her waist and forced her legs apart.

  She began to sob, loud, wrenching sobs escaping her while her face creased up in misery. He could not do this, not Richard. She could not believe he was doing this.

  “Richard, please,” she begged between sobs. “This is not you.”

  He did not answer, just laid his full weight on her body and pushed himself painfully into her, grazing her buttocks and the backs of her thighs on the rough surface.

  “Yes,” he said viciously. “This dirt floor will suit your type nicely.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After returning the Summerville carriage to the coach house, Richard went into the house to find a maidservant.

  “There is a box of Her Ladyship’s clothes in the carriage,” he told her. “She decided to have new gowns made when she gets to London. See that they are unpacked and put away.”

  The maid curtsied.

  “Yes, My Lord,” she murmured.

  If she noticed his angry mood she would make no mention of it but he felt her gaze following him as he made his way to the nursery to say goodbye to his daughter. She had grown so much since he saw her last; his plan had been to spend some time with her and her mother, but that plan was destroyed now – she had destroyed it. He could not stay here, not now, not with his treacherous wife only a mile or so away. He was tempted to take Alicia with him, but he had no idea if Rachel would be willing to play the part of a mother as well as a wife. Besides, Alicia would know she was not her mother; in her childish innocence she could give them away.

  Her little arms wrapped themselves around his neck and made him catch back a sob. Did he really want to separate her from her mother? No, he did not, but it was Bethany’s own doing and he could do nothing about it. The child was very young; she would soon forget her.

  In the stables he saddled his stallion himself. He was in no mood to wait for a stable hand or a groom and he wanted the comfort of something whose loyalty was without question; his horse fitted that description better than anyone.

  He rode away, as fast as he dared, galloping until he had put some distance between himself and that treacherous bitch. He could easily have killed her; he wanted to kill her and when he put his hands around her throat it had taken c
olossal effort not to squeeze and squeeze until her face turned blue and no breath remained in her. That would have given him a great deal of satisfaction. How could she do this to him? And how could he forget his own principles so far as to take her by force and so brutally?

  He slowed his horse to a walk as he battled with his conscience, tried to reason with himself, to comprehend how he could have committed such a sin. He told himself she was his wife, he was entitled to her body, any time he wanted it and in any way he wanted it. But his sense of justice would never allow him to believe that and his memory would not let him forget how she sobbed, how she pleaded with him. He was disgusted with himself.

  He had come home hoping for her love; he had wanted her, yearned for her, and he had still wanted her despite her treachery, despite his rage. He wanted to hurt her, he wanted to make her pay for her deceit and he had done the one thing he had always detested, he had turned the exquisite act of love into a weapon.

  He would never forgive her, that was certain. He had been striving to push her away, to make her think less of him, and it seemed he had achieved his wish. She must hate him to have betrayed him like that and if she didn’t hate him before, she certainly would now.

  He rode slowly for the rest of the way, for the sake of his beloved horse, and stopped at an inn to refresh them both before he continued on his way back to London.

  The place was crowded, being the only inn on the main road to London, but he was well known and the landlord soon found him a table away from the noise and raucous laughter, where he could think about the events of last night. He never wanted to see his wife again; she had gone too far. But he had no grounds to divorce her. He knew what he should do, what he was duty bound to do, and that was to arrest her for heresy and treason. He was still angry enough to do it, but he could not take the chance that given desperate circumstances she would speak out, announce to the world she was the Countess of Summerville.

  Yet his own safety and Rachel’s was not his only consideration, although his fury tried to persuade him it was. He tried to imagine Bethany kneeling before the block, her head leaving her shoulders, or even worse tied to a stake like her sister. His heart hurt as he summoned that image. Yes he hated her now, he would never see her again, but his conscience would never allow him to live with such an act. She was his wife; should he condemn her to the block?

  No, she would be allowed to live, so long as she could fend for herself like the peasant she was. He felt no shame about the living quarters to which he had condemned her; other people lived in places like that, so could she, and he had no intention of ever releasing her.

  ***

  It was dark when Bethany finally picked herself up from the floor and dusted down her gown. It was also cold now the fire was dead and she realised with a jolt that she had never in her life had to light one before. She had no idea how to do that; he would have her freeze to death, perhaps? She moved unsteadily to the bed in the corner of the room and climbed in beneath the fur covers. A good thing Father O’Neil had lived here, or she would not even have that much.

  A wave of terror tore through her then. It was nearly winter; how was she supposed to survive, living like this? She had never had to lift a finger for herself in her entire life, there had always been servants to do everything for her. She had no idea how to keep warm, much less feed herself. She still could not quite believe he meant it, that he would not calm down in a day or two and rescue her. He could not really mean for her to live like this, could he?

  She had cried herself to sleep on that hard floor, her bruises growing more painful as her limbs grew stiffer and her heart was torn apart. Her face was wet and dirty; the dirt from the floor had turned to mud on her cheek because of her tears, but she hardly noticed. She could not believe he would treat her like this, to force himself on her as though she was...was what? A treacherous wife? And now she recalled vividly his warning when he first suggested their union, those words which had sent a shiver of fear down her spine. You will not enjoy the consequences should you betray me.

  It had never occurred to her before to even consider what he had meant. He thought it unacceptable for a man to use his superior strength to intimidate a woman; she knew he would never beat her. But was what he had done any better?

  When they met it was easy to make her promises, because nothing would change, because he meant nothing to her. But she had betrayed him and now she was to learn about those consequences. She had lost his respect and affection, if affection he ever had for her, and she had lost them for good.

  Her wrists were turning purple where he had gripped them so tightly and she felt sore inside. She dragged up the memories of those first weeks, even though it tore her apart just to think of them, just to remember how gentle he had been, how easily she had forgotten their cold hearted agreement and fallen in love with him. And she had loved him so much, so very much. But not enough to keep her promises it seemed.

  Darkness had fallen before she buried herself beneath the fur covers and slept, hoping perhaps she would wake to find it was all a horrible nightmare, sent to warn her away from her dangerous activities. Perhaps she would wake to find she had been given another chance.

  The next morning she pulled the fur cover tightly around herself as she went to the dead embers of the fire and tried to recall if she had ever seen anyone light one. There had to be a way. She could not have lived all these years without seeing a servant light the fires, could she?

  There were logs beside the fire and if she was going to be able to keep warm or cook something to eat, she needed to find a way to light them. In the corner of the room she found some flints and a vague memory of Martin lighting this fire came to mind. She laid it all out, the kindling, the logs and rubbed the flints together. The cold made her shiver so much she almost dropped them, but it was not only the cold which made her shake, made her teeth chatter. She was trembling still from Richard’s attack, an attack she never thought him capable of. God! He must have been so angry to do that, he must have been enraged. She put a hand up to her neck, recalling how his hands had tightened around it, and she realised how lucky she was to be alive. But was this living? It was not what she was accustomed to for sure, but it was how thousands of people lived and quite happily. If they could do it, so could she.

  She drew a deep breath to calm her fears and made a determined effort to rub the flints together. She was surprised and pleased when it actually worked and she managed to get a fire going.

  The next thing was to remove her velvet gown and place it carefully in the chest with the clothes of a peasant. Richard had thought of everything; he had unlaced her bodice, which she would never have been able to do by herself. When he did that, she knew a spark of hope that he had amorous intentions, that she could find her way back into his heart, but he was only being practical.

  She felt like a peasant, as well, as she looked at her surroundings and at the cauldron. There was nothing to eat inside the cottage, but then she could not have eaten if there had been. He said something about food being left at the church. She would have to look, unless he expected her to go out killing rabbits as well.

  She wondered fleetingly how long he would expect her to stay here, if he would ever release her, find her a more comfortable prison. The way he had behaved made her think the answer was no, that he would leave her here until she died of the cold or starvation. She decided she would never see him again, that he was gone from her life for ever. But what of Alicia? He surely would want her to know her mother? Unless he now believed she was unfit to be her mother.

  The mattress was straw covered in cheap sackcloth but there were fur covers to keep her warm. He hated her now, that was apparent, just as her sister hated her, as she had gone to her grave hating her. Her thoughts wandered to Rosemary; he said he hated her and the more Bethany thought about the rage he had barely been able to contain, the more certain she was that he had indeed killed Rosemary. Somehow it had always seemed somewhat of a coincidence t
hat she should be in the middle of an outbreak of plague just when it suited him, but she had not believed him capable of such a thing, of sending her there deliberately at that time. Now she knew better; now she knew that not only was he capable, but he was quite likely to have killed her himself then covered it up by the illness. Nobody will look too closely at a corpse in a plague house.

  Bethany’s life was in danger, she knew that. One false step and he would dispose of her the same way he had disposed of the wife beater, or his first wife. She was not afraid of death but she could not bear to think of him doing it himself, with his own hands, those same hands that had caressed her and held her and loved her. She made sure she always had the leather purse tied to her waist, just in case.

  Eventually she slept some more, though her dreams were filled with horrors. When she woke she piled more logs on to the fire, wondering briefly what would happen when they ran out. She did not think she was physically strong enough to chop wood. She went outside and up to the church doors, sealed now so that no more souls in danger could escape through them. But in the porch, as he had promised, there was food, vegetables and meat, also logs and flints. So she was not to starve after all, but it was clear he did not want her running about the place in search of sustenance, perhaps drawing attention to her presence.