Phillip gave him a long, hard stare. “Tell your mistress any business between us is now finished.”
The last glimpse John had of Catherine was an image of her seated on her abductor’s lap, her head cradled against his chest. There was something about the way Phillip’s hands fluttered over her, touching her skin and smoothing her hair, that struck John as obscene. For a long time he stood and stared into the dark street, his eyes following the route Phillip’s carriage had taken. Coming to a decision, he put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the ring he had slipped from Catherine’s finger. He admired the diamond’s luster for a few moments before returning it to its hiding place. Back on the driver’s seat, he turned the carriage around, and headed back the way he had come. Isabel would be furious with him, but that was something he would deal with. His mouth twisted into a grim line. Perhaps it was time to remind her ladyship that the past was not always so easily buried and forgotten. Especially when it was your own.
Chapter 18
Rian groaned and rolled over. His head hurt like the devil and he cautiously ran his fingers through his thick glossy hair, halting when he reached a sizeable lump. The swelling was enough to make him wince. Opening his eyes, he was relieved to find that the rest of his head was remarkably clear. No headache or telltale throbbing from too much wine, or anything else.
He lay back on the pillow for a moment, and stared at the painted ceiling. A group of cherubim, with rosy cheeks and angelic smiles, looked down on him as they rested on white clouds in a dazzling blue sky. They all wore the same slightly naughty expression, as if telling him they knew a secret that he did not. The decorated ceiling reminded him of something else, something he felt he ought to know, something he shouldn’t have any difficulty remembering…except he did.
He groaned again as he pushed himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. A frown pulled his brows together as realized he was still dressed in the elegant attire he had been wearing for Isabel’s ball. Warily he looked about him. There was nothing immediately recognizable about the room he was in. It was a bedroom, but not one in the family townhouse. None of those boasted an angelic ceiling. Still, there was something about the décor that felt familiar. It pricked his brain like an aggravating itch that was just beyond the reach of his fingers.
The drapes at the window were partially open, and from the shadows on the opposite wall Rian estimated it was close to noon. Unfortunately he carried no pocket watch and a cursory glance revealed no timepiece in the room. Getting to his feet, he unsteadily made his way to the washstand, where he soaked a cloth with cold water and placed it carefully on the back of his head. The effect was instantaneous. He groaned and soaked the cloth again, suddenly remembering what the ceiling reminded him of. It wasn’t the chubby cherubs, but rather the blue sky behind them. An almost exact match for Catherine’s eyes. In his haste Rian turned and knocked the porcelain basin off the washstand, where it landed on the floor and broke into several pieces. But he was already out the door. He knew at once where he was, whose house he was in, and he decided this time she had gone too far.
“Isabbbelll!”
He crashed through the bedroom door, jolting her awake. Isabel sat up, trying to focus as she covered herself with the sheet. For a moment Rian was slightly flustered, her disheveled appearance halting his progress into her boudoir.
“Oh Rian, good morning, or is it afternoon?” She blinked sleepily at him, and then, noting his attire, came wide awake. “Good God, have you not yet returned home?”
“You know damn well I haven’t been home,” he snarled through clenched teeth. “What the hell did you do to me?”
“Do to you? Whatever are you talking about?” The affronted look Isabel fixed on him would have made a saint question her involvement. “Rian darling, I don’t know how much you had to drink last night—”
“Nowhere near enough to have been made insensible!” he snapped.
“But you did slip and hit your head.”
Instinctively his hand went to the back of his head.
“You were rendered unconscious,” Isabel told him.
“I wasn’t drunk!” he repeated firmly.
She shrugged. “If you insist.”
“What happened after Liam left with Felicity?”
“You went to find your wife. That’s the last I saw of you until a footman told me about your fall. As you were still breathing, it seemed prudent to find a more private place for you to regain your senses. I honestly didn’t realize you were still here.” Her offended manner turned to petulance. “And I really don’t appreciate your attitude.”
“I don’t give a damn what you appreciate. Where’s Catherine?”
Smoothing the bed sheet around her, Isabel stopped. “How would I know? If she is like most wives, I imagine she is pacing the floor in your home, wringing her hands and wondering where her errant husband could be.” Rian stared at her. Was she being truthful? Her voice held just enough indignation to be believable. “Besides, what makes you think I would know anything regarding your wife’s whereabouts?”
Without realizing it, Isabel had overplayed her hand. Now Rian knew she was hiding something. “Because the last time I saw her,” he said, “she was in this house, and I know Catherine would not have left without me unless it was by coercion.”
“Careful, Rian.” Isabel narrowed her eyes. “Do not make accusations without being in full possession of the facts. Perhaps you don’t know your wife as well as you suppose.”
“And you don’t know her at all.” His voice was low and his temper rising. “Where is she, Isabel?”
“Why do you keep insisting that I know?”
“Because I know when you’re hiding something, and you never were a very good liar. At least not with me.”
Her laugh was unconvincing. “I’m hiding nothing. Now, I suggest you return to your own home as I have no wish to continue this ridiculous conversation.”
On the surface Isabel appeared to be irritated, angry even, but the slight catch in her voice belied the sincerity of her words. Had she forgotten so quickly how well he knew her? And now Rian realized something else. Isabel was trying to conceal something from him. It had been a guess on his part thinking that she knew more than she was telling him, but it seemed he was right. It wasn’t Isabel’s voice that gave him the answer but the sudden change in her body language.
“I will give you one last chance to tell me, Isabel. Where is my wife?”
Her alabaster skin flushed angrily, her mouth twisting to an ugly line. “How many ways can I say this? I don’t know what you’re talking—”
He was on her before she had time to finish her sentence, capturing her wrist in a grip of iron. His voice became a growl. “I know you’re lying, Isabel, so perhaps I should save us both some time and just beat the truth out of you.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she shrieked, her long black hair tumbling about her shoulders as she struggled to pull her wrist free.
“Poor choice of words. You should know me well enough to know I never back down from a challenge.”
Rian had never raised his hand to a woman in his life, no matter how extreme the provocation, and he wasn’t about to start now. Not even with Isabel. But he was desperate, and it wouldn’t hurt for her to think he was not only capable of committing such an act, but that she might have pushed him far enough he would actually make good on his threat.
Tightening his hold on her, Rian dragged her out of her bed. She yelped, and awkwardly clutched the sheet with her free hand, pulling it with her while attempting to cover herself as she staggered off-balance. Isabel always slept naked, and Rian was fully prepared to see her body. He had even steeled himself against the possibility of becoming aroused. But there seemed little chance of that happening as Isabel, in an uncharacteristic display of modesty, tried desperately to cover her nakedness with one hand.
“Come now, Isabel, why so shy? It’s not like your charms are unknown to me.”
Her foot became tangled in the sheet, and hopping on one leg, she almost fell. Under different circumstances, and not so long ago, Rian would have found her antics comical. Now he simply found her behavior irritating, but concerned that she would fall and hurt herself, he stepped in to help.
Letting go of her wrist, Rian reached for one corner of the sheet and pulled. His action left him with an armful of fine linen, and Isabel standing in the middle of the floor as naked as the day she was born. His expression turned from anger to bewildered shock as his brain registered the change in Isabel’s appearance. And the only possible reason for such an alteration.
The draping panel of material on Isabel’s ball gown had effectively covered her abdomen, cleverly hiding what her current state of dishabille could not. It seemed that Rian stared at her rounded belly for an eternity before dragging his eyes up to her bosom. Her breasts were fuller, heavier, and the faint markings of blue milk veins contrasted with her pale skin. He stared at her face, waiting for her to deny his unspoken question, and realized she would not. Isabel, who was not opposed to using her body to get what she wanted, had deliberately allowed this to happen. There could be no other answer.
She walked past him, head held high, to the chaise where her robe lay. Slipping it on, she tied the sash about her thickening waist.
“When?” Rian asked, closing his eyes, his voice flat.
“Sometime this winter.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “When did this—”
Fire flashed in her emerald eyes, making them glitter wildly. “The night at Oakhaven,” she told him. “Has your memory improved sufficiently? Do you remember making love to me now?”
Rian took a step back, shaking his head. “No. It’s not possible,” he muttered.
It was only a dream.
Except now he knew it hadn’t been.
He wanted to shout his denial at her. Tell her that it couldn’t be true. It was not his seed that had brought forth the life she carried in her belly. But deep inside he knew she was not lying. Whatever had happened that night at Oakhaven, whether he remembered it or not, the consequence was now staring him in the face. Isabel was pregnant with his child.
She took a step toward him, her voice softening as she held out a hand. “Rian, I was going to tell you—”
“And just when were you planning to do that, Isabel? After the child was born?” His voice, cold as ice, cut through her. It hurt that he had said the child. Even though she saw in his eyes that he acknowledged the truth, he refused to verbally admit his part in her condition.
“It has been difficult for me since we parted.”
Rian glared at her. “The ball last night was all for your benefit, wasn’t it? I know you too well, Isabel. You had no intention of making amends. The entire night was nothing more than an elaborate show on your part.” The look in his eyes changed to contempt. “Tell me, what were you hoping to accomplish?”
“No, Rian, you’re wrong!” She came toward him and put her hand on his arm, her expression pleading. “I did want to apologize. I do want to be friends with Catherine. I—”
“Lying bitch!” The words came out as a vicious hiss, and he shook her hand off his arm.
“How can you speak to me like that when I’m going to have your child?”
Tears welled in her eyes as Rian stared at her, finally seeing the woman she truly was. Any hope of Isabel’s reclaiming his affection was now dashed by the detached indifference with which he addressed her.
“I give you my word I will not deny paternity, and, should you wish it, I will also make arrangements to take the child.”
The utter disdain in Rian’s voice cut more than his actual words. He was rejecting her a second time, and she staggered under the weight of crushing disbelief. But only for a moment. The pain quickly changed, rearranging itself into something malevolent and evil, and smoothing her face into an impassive, unreadable mask.
In that moment Isabel knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Rian was lost to her forever. The possibility of a reunion between them, happy or otherwise, had been nothing but a fool’s dream. Though he would publicly claim the child as his own, raising it as such if she asked him, for Isabel it was not enough. Even though what he offered was more than most men in his situation would have agreed to, Rian did not want her.
“I would like you to leave,” she told him.
“Isabel, where is my wife?” Rian asked one last time.
This time she answered him.
“Where she belongs. In hell.”
Chapter 19
Returning to consciousness, Catherine hurt all over. Every muscle throbbed with a pain that was far different from the ache she’d experienced as a result of imbibing too much blackberry brandy. It reminded her of the time she’d slipped and lost her footing in the barn, falling from the rafters. If Edward had seen her, he would no longer have called her Cat, but it was one of the few times he had not been with her. Landing in a pile of loose straw, Catherine had counted herself lucky not to have broken anything. As it was, she spent a full day in almost unbearable, pain before Old Ned had guessed what was wrong, and bound her ribs.
What she was feeling now was almost as bad, but it was difficult to know which of her symptoms was worse. The stinging soreness that infused her muscles, or the horrible aftertaste coating the back of her throat. Thick and slimy, it had a rotten flavor, like a piece of fish that had turned or meat that had spoiled. She struggled to recall the glass of drugged wine at Isabel’s party, but that seemed a lifetime ago, and she had no idea how much time had passed since then. It could be hours or only minutes. Either one was plausible.
The few candles that still burned offered enough light for Catherine to see she was lying on a large four-poster bed. Carefully she raised her head and peered at the gloom beyond the end of the carved bedposts. Her eyes slowly adjusted, allowing more of her surroundings to reveal themselves, and as she stared at the dresser, its shape and design struck a nerve. There was no need to describe the toiletry items lying on its surface. The silver backed hairbrush, and the two tortoiseshell combs were as familiar to her as the birthmark just above her left hip. They were all she had left of her mother, and she recalled all too clearly the last time she had held them, and where she had placed them. An icy chill skittered down her spine.
With eyes now opened wide, Catherine scanned the rest of the room. Even though she had only been within these walls for less than a single day, she could describe each piece of furniture, the exact shade of silk on the walls, and every horrifying terror that had taken place. She raised her eyes to the pink colored canopy and matching bed curtains, and felt her stomach lurch. Nothing had been changed. Her surroundings brought forth a feeling of dread that seized her by the throat and intensified with each panicked breath.
Holding her fist to her mouth, Catherine smothered the scream that tried to escape as the memory, unfettered at last, broke free inside her head. Every sadistic moment resurfaced, forcing her to suffer through it once again in her mind. And it felt just as real as it had the first time. The memory of her cousin’s touch, the feel of his hot breath against her skin, nearly made her convulse. The nightmare had returned, only the fact that she was not sleeping made it all the more terrifying.
Rian! Rian! Where are you?
Without thinking she sat up, giving a startled cry at the fiery burst of pain exploding from hand to elbow. Her arm felt unnaturally heavy, and she stared in bewilderment at the iron manacle cuffed to her wrist, its partner securely fastened to the heavy chain secured around the wooden bedpost. It took a moment or two before she understood her predicament. She was chained to the bed. Following the iron links with her eyes, she found an additional length pooled on the floor, allowing for some movement.
Rage
welled up inside Catherine and, grasping the chain in both hands, she pulled with all her strength, but all she did was fill the air with a loud clanking sound that offended her ears. These links had been forged by a master craftsman. It would take more strength than she possessed to break free. Anger was quickly replaced by a sudden overwhelming sense of hopelessness, and tears fell from her eyes.
Stop crying! For heaven’s sake, get a grip on yourself! At least this time you know what you are up against. Find a way to use that to your advantage. Rian will find you, he will come for you. You must never doubt that. All you have to do is make sure you survive until he does.
Wiping her face on the sleeve of her gown, Catherine sniffled. Her head felt a little better. The awful tightness, like a steel band around her skull, was still there, but it was beginning to fade. The foul taste in the back of her throat still lingered, and it was now joined by another sensation that was quickly becoming far more bothersome. Thirst. Her throat was dry and scratchy, and it hurt to swallow. With careful fingers she explored her jaw line, and down her neck, searching for any tenderness or bruising that might account for the discomfort. She found none, which meant the source of her irritation had to be internal.
At the end of the bed, tucked inside the shadows, stood a small table bearing a tray with a glass pitcher and tumbler. It had escaped Catherine’s notice during her preliminary sweep of the room, but she reasoned her terror at being back inside this house could make her miss any number of things. When she was calmer she would make a more thorough search of the room. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on the pitcher. It was full of water. Licking her lips, she could almost taste the cool liquid sliding down her throat and easing the burning ache. Carefully she got off the bed, maneuvering her way to the end of the iron links, only to discover the length of chain did not permit her to reach the refreshing liquid. Twisting her body, she tried reaching out with her other arm, stretching her fingers to their limit as the manacle bit cruelly into her wrist, but still the table stood beyond her reach. She was trying hard not to succumb to another round of tears when a sound came from the darkness enveloping the room beyond the bed. A giggle that was almost falsetto in tone, it made the hairs on the nape of her neck stand up. Slowly Catherine turned her head and watched as her cousin stepped into the circle of light shed by the candles.
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