‘What are you doing?’ she implored, as Sir Edward looked down at her. ‘I don’t want him in here.’
‘You’re living under my roof and this is my bedroom,’ he replied. ‘You’re in no position to question what I do.’
‘But this is all wrong,’ she persisted desperately. ‘Why do you want him to have me?’
‘Because it amuses me.’
‘Well, it doesn’t amuse me,’ she shouted, suddenly losing her temper. ‘I don’t want him. Do you understand? I don’t want him and I won’t have him!’
Immediately the sound of her voice began to die away, the room started to fade and Sir Edward’s features grew dim. For once Marianne didn’t mind. To be violated in that way by him was one thing, but to allow him to watch while another man did it to her was entirely different and she knew she couldn’t have borne the humiliation.
‘Why do you always spoil things?’ she heard Sir Edward saying softly. ‘You must learn to want what I want, Marianne. That way lies your happiness and your salvation.’
His words were still ringing in her head when she opened her eyes and found she was lying in the king-sized bed she and Steve had brought to Moorhead House. In a moment of terrible clarity, she wondered if his words were true.
For the first time Marianne was in a different room to the one she’d been in when she left the modern day. And, since sunlight was clearly visible through the window, time had moved on. Did this mean the past and the present were becoming more closely entwined? An icy finger slithered down her spine as she wondered what effect this might have on her in the future. Until now she’d been able to witness scenes from the past even when people were with her, and without them knowing. But if she were to start moving physically into the room she was seeing, then it would be obvious that something incredible was happening. Perhaps, she thought, this was what had happened to Judith Wells. Total isolation from outsiders would have to become a necessity if she was to keep her secret.
As she climbed off the bed she realised she was aching. She was sore between the cheeks of her bottom, as though her recent violation was still affecting her, and her flesh felt sore from the beating she’d received with the cold towel. Suddenly anxious to see if there were any visible signs of her torment she hurried into her great-aunt’s old bedroom where there was a free-standing full-length mirror. There she took off her clothes in order to study herself carefully.
At first glance there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with her. She ran her hands down over the sides of her body, lingering at her waist and hips, remembering the way the doctor’s hands had pressed inwards there. She had an excellent figure, she thought indignantly, gently voluptuous without being in the least fat. In the nineteenth century women’s waists had been tiny, fiercely laced in order to keep an hourglass figure, and she could tell that by those unnatural standards she would perhaps appear overweight. As she recalled the way she’d felt when the doctor had touched her she saw her nipples harden and stepped nearer to the mirror, cupping her breasts together, pushing them close so they jutted forward proudly.
It was then, as she stared at her naked body, that she noticed the tiny red marks beneath her breasts, marks where the stinging corner of the towel had caught her tender flesh. Startled, she ran a finger over her skin and felt the slightly raised welt. This was worrying. If she was now bringing back visible proof of what had happened to her then how much longer would it be before she started to change in other ways?
With a frown she started to dress, and a feeling of melancholy crept over her like a heavy blanket. Now she was back in the safety of her normal life she was beginning to wish she’d remained behind. She’d missed the opportunity to see how Edward would have responded to watching her being buggered by the young gardener, and suddenly that was important to her. And how would she have responded? Would she have submitted without a fight?
‘I’ll never know,’ she said miserably. ‘Why did I choose to come back?’
The answer was that she’d been afraid, and rightly so, but she knew the more trips she took back to join Sir Edward the more lost she’d become in that world until, eventually, it was possible that all prudence would vanish. ‘I must be careful,’ she muttered. ‘He’s dangerous.’ But even saying the words excited her. Yes, he was dangerous. But that was why she was falling in love with him. Realising there was little chance of seeing him again in the immediate future, she decided to use the experience in her book.
The newspaper lying on the hall mat confirmed that it was now Monday morning, and thirty minutes later her fingers were flying over the computer keys as the words poured in a torrent of erotic description. Although she’d changed the names of the characters and slightly altered the situation, she was describing in minute detail the erotic torments she was suffering at Sir Edward’s hands. By writing them down she was able to relive her experiences, bringing them vividly to life again and she knew that, despite Steve’s criticism, her writing was more powerful than it had ever been.
When the phone rang she was immensely irritated. Certain it was Steve she snatched at the receiver. ‘Yes?’ she said curtly.
‘Is that you, Marianne?’ asked her agent, Angela.
Marianne quickly changed her tone. ‘Angela, it’s you. I’m sorry, I thought you were someone who lives nearby. She keeps trying to come over when I’m working and it’s infuriating.’
‘So you’re working, are you? That’s good news. How much have you done now?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Marianne. ‘Quite a lot.’
‘You must know how many pages.’
Marianne glanced at her computer screen. ‘Um, a hundred and fifty,’ she confirmed.
‘Excellent,’ said Angela. ‘You normally take months to write a book. At this rate you’ll be finished in a few weeks.’
‘It is going well,’ admitted Marianne.
‘And is it an erotic historical novel or the one you originally promised to deliver?’
‘It’s an erotic book, the one I told you about.’
Angela sighed. ‘I really don’t think that’s your kind of thing, Marianne. You’ve never done anything like it before and when you’ve had to put small sex scenes into your books they haven’t been particularly convincing.’
‘Well, they’re certainly convincing now.’ Marianne smiled to herself.
‘Do you think you could fax me a sex scene?’ asked her agent. ‘Send the pages through now and I’ll have a quick look at them. Then I’ll call you back and let you know what I think.’
Marianne hesitated. ‘I don’t want anyone to see this until it’s finished,’ she said at last.
‘What’s got into you, Marianne?’ Angela asked, her tone suggesting she was losing patience with her author. ‘You’ve always been so easy to deal with. You know perfectly well that I’ve got to look at it. It isn’t as though you’re writing the book you’re meant to be writing. How can I go to your editor and tell her you’re writing an incredibly steamy novel if I haven’t seen any of it? I’ve got to sell this thing, you know. In fact, you’ve put me in a very difficult position. The least you can do now is let me have a look at it, and quickly.’
Marianne knew Angela was right. The problem was the book felt private, like a diary. She didn’t want other people snooping around looking at it, reading about the things she and Edward had done or the things she’d seen him do to Tabitha.
‘Well?’ demanded Angela.
Marianne sighed. ‘All right, I’ll fax you some of the work I’ve done today. It’ll take me a few minutes to run them off the computer so I hope you don’t mind waiting that long.’ She couldn’t keep a note of sarcasm out of her voice.
‘I think I can accept that,’ said Angela. ‘I’ll be in the office for the rest of the day.’
After exchanging a few strained pleasantries the conversation ended and Marianne was left to run off her most rece
nt work. When she read it through her cheeks turned pink. By anyone’s standards it was an extraordinarily explicit piece of writing and she knew it would be difficult for Angela to believe that she, Marianne Kay, had really written it. Nevertheless, she eventually faxed six pages through to her agent’s office and then went to make herself a coffee while she waited for the phone to ring.
She had to wait for over an hour and was just wondering whether or not she could go for a walk on the moors when the call came.
‘I’ve read the pages you faxed me,’ said Angela, her voice carefully controlled.
‘What do you think?’ asked Marianne eagerly.
‘If you want to know the truth, I’m shocked. This isn’t acceptable, Marianne. Robertson and Hall don’t publish this sort of filth.’
‘It isn’t filth,’ protested Marianne. ‘It’s erotica.’
‘Really? And how would you know?’
‘I—’
‘Look, I think I can guess what’s happened,’ said Angela briskly. ‘You’ve moved house, for all I know you’ve got yourself a new lover, and you want a change. Fine, but wait until you’ve delivered the original book. After that you can write what you like if it makes you happy. Not that I’m going to be able to place this anywhere, but if it’s what you want to do—’
‘What do you mean; you won’t be able to place it anywhere?’ Marianne interrupted. ‘This is an incredibly arousing story.’
‘Marianne, it’s horrible,’ said Angela. ‘We’re not living in Victorian times. Women are emancipated, in control of everything – including their sex lives. They don’t want to read this sort of thing.’
‘How do you know that?’ demanded Marianne. ‘I thought erotic novels were all the rage now.’
‘Even if this is the sort of thing that’s selling in that particular area, it’s not something I want to deal with,’ said Angela firmly. ‘It may be something you need to get out of your system, and that’s fine by me, but I’m not sending it around a series of publishers. I do have a reputation to consider and so do you, Marianne. You’re a very well respected romantic novelist. You’ll shock your readers.’
‘I’ll use a pseudonym.’
‘You can’t use a pseudonym for this contract. They want a Marianne Kay book, and that’s what you’ve got to deliver.’
‘Are you saying you’re not going to take this book?’ asked Marianne.
There was a long pause. ‘I don’t think I can. Do you want to cancel your contract with Robertson and Hall?’
‘God, no!’ exclaimed Marianne. ‘I need the money.’
‘In that case I need the book. Write your new one when you’ve finished it.’
‘When have I got to deliver this romantic novel by?’ asked Marianne.
‘You’ve still got four months.’
‘But, I don’t know if I can write it now.’
‘You told me your new house and the surroundings were perfect for writing a rollercoaster of a romantic novel. That’s how we got such a large advance. Has the house changed or something?’
A chill ran through Marianne. Without realising, it Angela had put her finger on the real problem. The house had changed: it was no longer a cosy retreat from the world, the ideal place for a writer to work. The house was possessed, and so too, was she.
‘Marianne, are you still there?’
‘Yes, sorry, I was miles away. No, it’s not the house that’s changed, it’s me.’
‘You’ve found someone, haven’t you?’ asked Angela, with a knowing laugh.
Marianne hesitated. ‘In a way,’ she said slowly.
‘Goodness! Well, have we got an agreement then?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Excellent. Fax me the first chapter as soon as it’s done and then I can tell Elaine that you’re well on with it. A slight exaggeration, but what else are agents for?’
‘I suppose I ought to thank you,’ said Marianne.
‘Not if you don’t mean it,’ said Angela crisply. ‘Oh, Marianne, I’m beginning to wish you’d never moved out of London.’
‘Sometimes, I wish the same,’ said Marianne slowly. ‘I must go now, there’s someone at the door,’ she lied, before hanging up.
Would it have been better if she hadn’t left London? It would have been safer, certainly, but then she’d never have known the incredible pleasure, the wonderful, frightening sensuality of Sir Edward Sharpe, nor witnessed the incredible scenes of punishment and humiliation that Tabitha and John were forced to endure at the hands of their employers. No, it wouldn’t have been better because she knew that this was a world that excited her. But it was a world that no longer existed and, in order to satisfy her craving for it, she had to keep letting Edward possess her by taking her back in time.
‘I wonder what he really wants of me,’ she mused. ‘Are we just replaying scenes from the past or is he looking for some kind of ending?’ There were no answers. She could make educated guesses but, in the end, only by going further along the path that Judith Wells had trodden before her would she find the truth.
After lunch, Marianne tried to concentrate on the commissioned book. She read through her first attempt and threw it aside in disgust. It seemed feeble, so lacking in truth and depth. The characters were simply playing at romantic love with no understanding of what obsession meant. Before she’d moved to Moorhead House, Marianne would have thought the book well up to standard, but now she was different and less easily satisfied.
Deciding that the best thing to do was start again she gritted her teeth and once more began her modern equivalent of Wuthering Heights. She worked away for the entire afternoon, only now she wished someone would ring her to give her a break. As was always the way at times like this, no one did. However, just before tea Steve finally called.
‘I thought you’d like to know I’m in London,’ he said cheerily. ‘I’m going to take in a film at Leicester Square tonight. I wish you were here, Marianne.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ she snapped.
‘Come on, you must miss the bright lights a little bit,’ he teased.
‘I don’t,’ she said truthfully. ‘I wouldn’t go back there if you paid me.’
‘You’re still angry about what I said before I left, aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m not angry, I just think your reaction was rather pathetic.’
‘I didn’t know you had that sort of imagination, that’s all,’ he said, defending himself. ‘Does that kind of thing really turn you on?’
‘You know what turns me on.’
‘I thought I did, but lately you’ve been showing me a whole new side of yourself. I admit I’m enjoying it, but that stuff you’ve written is nothing like what we’re doing. It’s so extreme. Your hero’s an absolute sadist. No woman would want a man like that.’
Marianne wanted to scream ‘I do!’ down the phone at him, but she bit her tongue. ‘It’s a fantasy.’
‘If you want the truth, I don’t like it because it’s too realistic.’
‘What do you mean, realistic?’
‘I get the feeling you’ve really done those things, Marianne. Your descriptions of the way the heroine responds to everything that happens to her – you couldn’t write that if you hadn’t felt it.’
‘Now you’re being utterly ridiculous,’ she said, wishing he hadn’t been so perceptive. ‘When have I ever mixed with those sort of people?’
‘I don’t know...’
Marianne laughed dismissively, but without conviction. ‘Surely you can’t think I’ve got a lover, Steve?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ he muttered. ‘How do I know what you do when I’m away? You’re always wandering off on the moors. Perhaps you’ve met some stranger there and you and he indulge in weird games together.’
‘You’ve no idea how ridiculous you sound.’
; ‘Has Angela seen any of the book yet?’ he asked.
‘Yes, she has.’
‘And what did she think?’
‘The same as you,’ she admitted.
‘Then what are you going to do?’
‘I’m trying to write the book I was meant to write in the first place, and I’m loathing every minute of it,’ she said with feeling.
‘If you have got someone else, Marianne, if you’re messing around when I’m away, I’ll find out and believe me I’ll make him sorry,’ he said calmly, but she could detect his simmering rage.
‘There isn’t anyone,’ she said. ‘If there was I’d tell you. We’re not married, I don’t have to stay with you. I stay with you because I want to.’
‘Is that true?’
‘Yes,’ she assured him, and in a way it was true. There wasn’t any other flesh and blood male she wanted to be with; she’d been seduced away from him by a spirit, and for obvious reasons that was something she could never talk about – not even to him.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps it’s not such a good idea, me travelling around so much and leaving you alone. Maybe I don’t give you enough attention.’
‘I need solitude for my work, I always have done. You travelled when we were in London.’
‘I know, but we had more friends down here. Now everything’s changed.’
‘Nothing would have changed if you hadn’t read the manuscript. Perhaps that’ll teach you not to go poking and prying into my work.’
‘I never shall again,’ he said contritely.
Marianne wished she could tell him the truth, but she couldn’t change things. Sir Edward Sharpe and his household were steadily staking their claim on her, taking her away from Steve, her work and reality. This possession seemed inevitable, utterly beyond her control, but she felt that if she could only get to the end of her journey of discovery, learn what it was Sir Edward wanted of her and experience the full extent of his desires, then perhaps she’d be set free. Maybe, after that, real life would seem more attractive again.
Slave of Darkness Page 13
