“Thirsty, my love?” Phillip smirked, moving closer. Catherine scrambled back onto the bed and then off the other side, trying to get as far away from him as possible. Or at least as far as the chain would allow. Fear uncoiled itself in the pit of her stomach, exploding through her in a wave of paralyzing terror. Intuition told her this was precisely what her cousin wanted, what he needed. Her fear was the elixir necessary to fuel his sordid desires, and she could not let him see just how frightened she was. “I am told that one of the more unpleasant side effects of Lady Howard’s wine is a terrible burning thirst,” Phillip told her. “Does your throat feel dry, my pet?”
Catherine forced herself to swallow, even though her hands clenched at the raw burn in her throat as she did so. “It is not so severe that I would quench it with anything offered by your hand,” she declared bravely in a voice like ground glass.
Phillip came to the end of the bed and stared at her. An ugly smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “It soon will be, I can promise you that,” he said confidently. “Soon you will beg me for a drink of water, and in return you will agree to do anything to ease your discomfort.”
He went to the small table and picked up the pitcher. The pale flickering candlelight seemed to gather inside the glass jug as he held it up, pinpoints of radiance dancing inside the clear liquid. Catherine brought her free hand up to her mouth to stop herself from crying out in desperation, but a sound escaped her, making her tormentor laugh as he poured the water onto the floor. Catherine was aware of every drop that fell to the carpet, and was immediately absorbed by the weave. One hand trembled against her mouth, while the other circled her throat in an effort to prevent herself from screaming at her cousin.
She watched warily as Phillip set the empty pitcher on the table. He picked up the glass tumbler, balancing it on the palm of his hand as if surprised by its empty weight. With a sudden whirl he turned and threw it, shattering the glass against the wall above her head. The noise was deafening and Catherine shrieked as she covered her head with her hands, making the chain rattle loudly as shards of glass showered her head and shoulders.
“You belong to me, Catherine, make no mistake about that,” Phillip snarled. “And I will have you, willingly or not.”
“You’re mad!” she cried out, feeling a tongue of fire lick down her throat as she did so.
“Am I?” Phillip asked, opening the door and looking back at her. “Then how is it that you are the one in chains?”
Catherine waited until she was certain he had left before sliding down the wall to crumple in a heap on the floor. Why wasn’t she stronger? Why had her courage deserted her? How could it be that she had managed to escape from this nightmare once, only to be thrown back into the same cesspool?
Her weeping surprised her, because she felt sure she had no moisture in her body to produce tears. Wiping her wet face with her hand, she licked the salty drops from her fingers. She stopped crying after a while, and as she did so she became aware of a dull ache where the manacle chafed her skin. Tearing a strip from one of her petticoats, she poked it between the iron and her skin in the hope it would act as a cushion. Then she carefully shook her head and ran her free hand through her hair, removing any remnants of broken glass before climbing wearily back onto the bed.
Bringing her knees up to her chest, Catherine curled into a ball. She forced herself to take deep breaths, exhaling each one with a deliberate slowness past dried lips. As each breath passed she could feel the wild, jerky drumming in her chest begin to quiet itself. Once a calmer, more soothing, rhythm had been established, she was able to focus her mind and think.
That Phillip had totally lost his grip on reality was a certainty. It made him dangerous and unpredictable. Whatever his intentions, she would have to be prepared to expect anything. Including the probability that violating her body was only a matter of time. But it was what Phillip would do once his sexual appetite was satisfied that frightened her even more. From the maniacal glint in his eyes she had the feeling what had happened to her before would be nothing compared to the punishment he planned to bestow upon her now.
Her thoughts turned to Lettie. Was she all right? Did she even know Catherine was once more a prisoner in her home? Was Phillip aware that Lettie had helped her escape? Was he forcing her to be a participant in this recurring nightmare? This last was something Catherine refused to believe. Instead she held on to the hope that Phillip remained ignorant of his wife’s involvement in Catherine’s previous escape. Surely he would have said something if he knew? Would Lettie find the courage to help her again?
Pulling her brows together, Catherine forced herself to take a couple of deeper breaths. Panic was nipping at her, and she could not afford to give in to it. Rian would find her. He would save her from the clutches of this despicable madman. Rian would come. He had to come, before it was too late!
But what if he did not? He had no idea where she had been taken, and who was there to tell him? Certainly not Isabel. To do so would admit her complicity in Catherine’s abduction, and she would have surely thought of a plausible reason to explain her disappearance. Perhaps even now she was filling Rian’s head with her cleverly worded lies.
No! No! No!
Catherine refused to even consider such a monstrous thing. With every fiber of her being she believed that Rian was even now, someway, somehow, searching for her. It was up to her to find the strength to endure until then. This was her last thought before the sedative John Fletcher had forced her to swallow reclaimed her, pushing her back into the realm of insensibility.
* * * *
When Catherine woke again, she had no idea if it was day or night. What little light crept through the draped windows had come and gone, moving silently over the walls and across the ceiling. Still slipping in and out of consciousness, she had even less idea of how many hours had passed than before. Time had become a perception she could not grasp with any lucidity. She could have been imprisoned within the silk-lined walls of this room for either a few hours or a few days.
Someone had taken the trouble to cover her with a light woolen blanket. Unfortunately they had not released her from her restraint, and she was still tethered to the bedpost. Hesitantly, Catherine pushed the blanket aside with her free hand, and sighed with relief to see that none of her clothing had been removed, although the laces on her gown had been loosened. She had no doubt as to who was responsible for this, and wondered if Phillip had taken pleasure in seeing the scar on her back.
Uncertain whether she was alone in the room, Catherine turned her head, straining to hear the telltale sound of someone else breathing. There was nothing out of the ordinary, but through the closed and covered window she was able to hear a songbird trilling. As she concentrated, other sounds came to her. The muffled bark of a dog, followed by the clip-clop of horse’s hooves, and the rumble of carriage wheels. Although the exact hour was a mystery, Catherine knew it was still daytime beyond her window.
Sitting up, she tilted her head to one side and closed her eyes, forcing her mind to focus. There might be no other sounds from inside her room, but there were also no other sounds from the rest of the house. The odd, eerie quiet filled her with an inexplicable dread. She may not have been in this house long, but it had been long enough for her to know there were a good number of servants for a residence of this size. Why then could she hear no sounds of chores being performed? She ought to have been able to hear some movement, but all that came back to her was a deep, impenetrable silence.
Her first thought was that everyone was abed, but the sounds beyond her window said this could not be so. Catherine might be a little disoriented, but she wasn’t that confused. No, the house was unnaturally quiet because there was no one to make any noise. Which meant that Phillip wanted to be certain whatever happened to her would be a private affair with none to witness his actions.
Her eyes had already adjusted to the dim li
ght, and Catherine was able to see that the pitcher had been replaced and fresh water was once again on the small table. Another glass had been placed next to it. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if the table had also been moved, and was now possibly within reach.
Water! She craved a drink of water! The sight of the clear liquid made her throat begin to burn, and she would have licked her lips, but her tongue was thick and swollen. Positive now that the table had been repositioned, Catherine pushed back the blanket and scrambled across the bed. As she moved forward an odd, lightheaded feeling came over her, but she pushed the sensation to one side as an overpowering need to quench the dryness in her throat drove her to reach for the lifesaving liquid.
She would have wept with gratitude if she had not used up the last of her moisture in her previous bout of crying, because she was more than capable of reaching the pitcher now. The table had definitely been moved. Eagerly she filled the glass tumbler that had replaced its shattered mate, and repeating the word slowly in her mind, she put the glass to her lips and sipped the water. Catherine only managed a single sip before greedily tipping the glass and gulping the contents, feeling it spill down her chin and neck as she did so. With a sigh she stared at the empty glass, and then, as her parched throat begged for more, she abandoned it and picked up the pitcher with both hands and soothed the ragged fire in the back of her throat in a more direct manner. The pitcher was three-quarters empty when she put it back down on the table, turned her head and vomited violently on the carpet.
The awful burning sensation of acrid bile now joined the raw feeling, nullifying whatever comfort the water had provided. She continued to retch long after the meager contents of her stomach had been expelled. With trembling hands, Catherine managed to pour what was left of the water into the glass, and rinse her mouth, spitting the tainted liquid back into the now empty pitcher before slowly drinking what was left in the glass.
Finished, she climbed wearily back onto the bed and closed her eyes. She was completely exhausted. The lightheaded feeling remained, but she paid it little mind because her stomach and throat hurt more. Wearily she turned her face into the pillow, gasping aloud when she saw what lay next to her. Another example of Phillip’s mean, petty cruelty.
Chapter 20
The footman who opened the front door was knocked off his feet as Rian came crashing over the threshold. Muttering his apologies, he extended a hand to help the man back up before taking the stairs two at a time, calling out Catherine’s name as he did so. He had no idea how he was supposed to explain his absence or the fact that he had spent the night at Isabel’s house, but his only concern was to see his wife with his own eyes. He could make everything right once he knew she was safe. Nothing else mattered.
He flung open the door to the master suite, expecting to find her with an arm pulled back, prepared to hurl something at his head. Either that or curled up and weeping at his disgraceful behavior. He hoped for the former. Her anger and fury he could deal with far better than her tears, but Rian would accept either. How his wife sought to punish him was her prerogative. He deserved whatever she gave him.
What he did not expect to find was an empty room. It was now early afternoon and the chamber looked exactly the same as when they had left for Isabel’s ball. Although the room ought to have been attended to at this hour of the day, he could tell it had not. The day dress Catherine had worn yesterday was still draped across the chaise when it should have been put away, and the bed itself was still turned down. Catherine’s nightgown, waiting to be filled with her shapely form, stared accusingly at him.
“Rian, whatever is the matter?”
Turning around, he came face to face with his brother, and noted with some puzzlement that Liam was also still wearing his clothes from the night before. He appeared physically drained, with exhaustion showing in every line of his young face. It was as if he had aged suddenly overnight, and his condition was such that it made Rian pause before asking, “Where is she?”
It was obvious the younger Connor had not yet been to bed. A state made all the more obvious by the show of weary confusion on his face. “Where is who?” he asked.
“Catherine.”
Liam stared at Rian as if he had suddenly grown another head. “I have no idea. I—we—assumed she was with you.”
“She didn’t come back?” Fear seized him, cruel fingers twisting around his heart, and Rian could not hide the escalating anxiety in his voice.
“No, I haven’t seen her. I thought it strange when you did not return, but I imagined something must have kept you at Isabel’s.”
“Why in God’s name would you think that?”
Liam shrugged and rubbed his hand across his face. His fingers rasped the stubble on his jaw. “I don’t know, Rian. I wasn’t thinking.”
Something in his voice, the hesitancy, the unspoken plea for understanding, made the hairs on the back of Rian’s neck stand up. A warning that something dreadful had taken place. “Liam, has Felicity recovered?” Rian asked. “Does she know what happened to Catherine?”
The younger Connor stared at him, his mouth moving, but the ability to form coherent speech deserted him. Rian had never seen so much anguish reflected in another human being’s face. Liam’s dark eyes swam and his breath hitched as he tried to speak. “Sh-sh-she…lost the b-b-baby,” he managed to say before a torrent of grief overcame him.
“Oh, dear God in heaven, no!”
Pulling his brother into a fierce embrace, Rian offered what comfort he could as he momentarily put aside his own concern. Waiting for Liam to compose himself as best he could.
“What happened? Did Dr. MacGregor get here?” Rian asked gently, keeping his hand on Liam’s shoulder.
“Yes, Dr. MacGregor arrived almost at once. He agreed with Dr. Wilson that losing the baby was not a natural occurrence.” He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, the gesture suddenly making him look very young and vulnerable. “He asked me if anyone would want to hurt her. Hurt my darling Felicity? Why would he ask such a thing, Rian?”
The stricken look returned, filling Rian with a sense of overwhelming guilt. Liam had always asked so little from him, and the one time he had truly needed the comfort of an older brother, Rian had not been there for him. He would punish himself for this transgression at a later date. Now was not the time.
“Did the doctors say what might be the cause?” Rian asked quietly.
“They both seem to agree that somehow Felicity took some sort of highly potent sleeping draught. One strong enough to harm our baby.”
Reaching out, Rian put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “How is Felicity now?”
“She is sleeping.” Liam’s mouth twisted at the irony of his words. “She was almost insensible with grief when she realized what had happened, so much so Dr. MacGregor feared we might lose her also. He was forced to give her a very mild potion to settle her. He stayed with me all night, watching over her.” Liam allowed Rian to lead him to a chair and he sat down wearily. “He said we must keep Felicity calm and quiet for the next few days, and she is not to be moved until he says she can be.” He nodded as if making his mind up. “But then I intend to take her back to Oakhaven.” Rian squeezed his brother’s shoulder in agreement. It was the most sensible course of action. “Emily and Charles will be here soon. It was selfish of me, but I wanted to wait until Felicity had passed the crisis before sending for them.”
“They will forgive you,” Rian said, watching Liam chew his lower lip in worry. “And I’m sure they will understand your reasoning.”
“But where were you?” Liam asked, his voice suddenly cracking under the strain.
The words sounded more like an accusation than a question, but Rian was not about to color the truth no matter how painful or how much it might compound their collective misery.
“I seem to have spent the night at Isabel’s.” He turned away, unable to face the
look of disappointment on his brother’s face. “I have no justifiable reason to account for my absence, and so can give no explanation for it.” Running his fingers through his hair, he winced audibly as they made contact with his wound.
“What’s wrong?”
“I have quite a sizeable lump on the back of my head.”
“Let me see.” Getting up, Liam made Rian take his place on the chair. “That’s quite a knot you’ve got there,” he remarked with concern.
“I’m sure it played a part in why I was not here, where I ought to have been,” Rian told him grimly. “I’m positive someone hit me from behind although, according to Isabel, I slipped and struck my head on a stair. She also said I was drunk.”
“Nonsense!” Liam retorted emphatically. “You were as sober as a judge when you helped me get Felicity into the carriage.”
“What did I say to you, Liam?”
“You said you were going to find Catherine and then come straight home. But this is the first I have seen of you since then.” He shifted a little as embarrassment colored his next question. “When you awoke this morning, whose bed were you in?”
“I was in one of Isabel’s guest rooms.”
“And were you…alone?” Liam’s face turned pink.
“Yes,” Rian answered somberly, adding, “and I was dressed as I still am.”
He saw Isabel again in his mind’s eye, her rounded belly proclaiming the presence of his child. She would not be able to hide her condition for much longer, and then the race would be on to see which tongue could spread the gossip fastest. If he were a betting man, his money would be on Charlotte Maitling.
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