by Cheryl Holt
"The Lord will protect me, you spawn of Satan."
Ophelia laughed. "Satan didn't spawn me, Edith. You did. It's all your fault."
"Not my fault," Edith declared. "I knew nothing! Nothing!"
"Are there any bats left in your belfry?"
Ophelia walked on, and Edith began spewing Bible verses, which set Ophelia's teeth on edge. Edith had always been peculiar, but she hadn't really fallen into the abyss of madness till the day she'd stumbled on Ophelia and Percy immersed in a particularly raucous session of fellatio.
She hadn't been the same since.
The old lunatic was growing more deranged by the second, and she should have been committed eons ago. Ophelia had no idea why she was delaying the inevitable, but something had to be done.
She slipped into her bedchamber and was about to lock the door to keep Edith out, but she stopped, stunned to discover a bevy of maids packing her belongings.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded.
Appearing guilty and terrified, the group curtsied as the most senior among them stepped forward to explain, "It's Jamieson Merrick, Lady Ophelia. He commanded us to prepare the suite for Miss Carstairs."
"He what?" Ophelia was so enraged that she was surprised she didn't collapse in a swoon.
"He made us do it, milady," another added. "He told us, himself. We didn't see as how we could refuse."
"Was the impertinent swine kind enough to clarify where he's moving me to?"
"Off to the other wing, to the room next to your brother's."
She was being demoted to a spot reserved for the lowliest, most unimportant guests.
"He said you'll be leaving shortly anyway," the maid continued, "so we should keep out some things for tomorrow but pack the rest. We picked out several gowns for you, but if milady would like to ... to—"
The woman recognized that there was no proper way to end the sentence, and mercifully, her idiotic voice screeched to a halt.
Ophelia stared them down, worried that the top of her head might simply blow off. Then she spun and stormed into the hall, bellowing, "Percy! Percy! Where are you? I need you!"
Her mother was still fluttering about. "Damnation, Ophelia! Damnation! The fires of Hell are nipping at your heels."
"Shut up, Edith!"
Ophelia swept by, looming like a Valkyrie, shouting and carrying on till someone pointed her toward Percy's tiny bedroom located on the far side of the house.
How had this happened to them? Was there no humiliation Jamieson Merrick would fail to inflict? Was there no limit to the indignities Percy would tolerate?
She stalked in like a tempest on the wind, only to find him brooding in a chair and feeling sorry for himself. She slammed the door so hard that the windows rattled.
"I want him dead!" she seethed.
"What's he done now?" Percy's tone was placating, as if he were speaking to a bothersome child.
"He's taken away my boudoir and given it to Anne!"
"Without asking me first?" he stupidly said. He couldn't accept that he no longer had any authority.
"It was my room! Mine! You gave it to me, and he's taken it away."
He chuckled meanly. "Are you finally riled? If he's seized something you cherish, then you know how I've felt for months. You've lost a petty bedchamber, but I've lost everything else."
"I want him dead," she repeated. "Today!"
"And how am I to accomplish it? Have you a magic gun that will automatically hit its mark?"
"I don't care how you do it, just do it."
"Don't order me about, Ophelia. I've told you I won't slay him anywhere near the manor."
"Then I'll deal with it myself," she wildly vowed. "I'll stab him or pour some poison into his soup."
"You won't. / shall have the pleasure of murdering him—but in my own good time."
"You've persuaded Anne to proceed with the wedding!" she accused.
"Of course I have."
"I won't have her as countess. I won't! I won't!" "Darling, Ophelia, I believe the matter is out of your hands."
"If she becomes countess, I'll kill you. I swear it." "Your threats are tiresome, and I'm weary of listening to you. Why don't you put your mouth to better use?" "You wish to fornicate? Now?" "Yes. Lie down on the bed." "No."
"I command you to lie down." "No," she said again.
His passions were inflamed, and his gaze dropped to her bosom. After her race through the house, her pulse was elevated, and her breasts strained against her corset. Their sex was most enjoyable when he was enraged, so as he grabbed her arm and threw her onto the mattress, she fought just enough to make it difficult for him.
They'd been lovers for so many years that she often felt they were naught more than an old married couple, and their wrestling brought a rough edge to their ardor that pushed it to new heights.
He held her down, but she scratched and clawed at him, so he captured her wrists and pinned them over her head.
"If you won't murder him," she taunted, "then I'll marry him, myself. I'll never let Anne wed him and rise above me."
"You would marry my bastard half brother?" "Yes—if that's what it will take to keep Anne in her place."
He was aghast, and she was tickled to have astounded him. He always thought he knew best, always thought he had all the answers. Well, if he didn't make a move, and soon, she would make some moves of her own. And they wouldn't include him!
Her remarks pitched him to a higher level of ferocity. He yanked at her skirt, and impaled himself, and he took her like a harlot, like a scullery maid caught in the kitchen late at night.
He loosed her wrists to clasp his hand around her throat, and as he thrust, he began to squeeze, tighter and tighter, so that she struggled to breathe. It was the most dangerous, most erotic thing they'd ever done, and as his lust spiraled, she grew frightened, worried that—for once—he might not stop, and her fear enhanced the excitement.
He came with a bellow of fury, his seed shooting into her, and as his flexing ceased, he lifted his palm from her neck. She sputtered and gasped, drawing air into her lungs.
"You'll never have him as your husband," he vowed.
"Then you'd better kill him for me, hadn't you?"
She shoved him off and stood, disgusted and seriously questioning why she kept on with him. Had she finally goaded him sufficiently that he'd respond as she wanted? Would he prove his mettle?
If he didn't buck up and assume control, she knew how to spur him on. She'd dabble with Jamie until Percy was provoked into a jealous, homicidal frenzy, which would solve all their problems.
She grinned, deciding that the prospect of seducing Jamie again wasn't repugnant in the least.
Edith watched Ophelia storm into the hall, swaying her hips like the whore she was. Ophelia couldn't have been more sinful if she'd worked in a brothel.
Edith smirked, relishing Ophelia's distress at losing the bedchamber she'd stolen from Edith so many years earlier. Edith had suffered constant disregard from her dreadful children, and it was her deceased, loathed husband who'd entrapped her.
In his Last Will, he'd granted total authority to her wicked son, leaving Edith unprotected and at Ophelia's mercy.
She'd never had any power or influence, and she'd endured her horrid plight for three decades. Was it any wonder everyone deemed her mad?
But silent revenge was so sweet.
Ophelia was gradually realizing that her whoring days were coming to an end. Percy had been brought low, too, rendered as insignificant as a man ever could be, and Edith gloated over every degradation Jamie Merrick imposed.
Unnoticed and unobserved, she sneaked after her daughter, aware of where Ophelia had gone and what she'd do when she arrived.
Edith halted outside Percy's door, and she pressed her ear to the wood, eavesdropping as her two children argued, then copulated. She usually let them finish, humored to have them add to their list of sins. The more they transgressed, the greater their damnation,
the more potent God's ultimate wrath would be.
"You'd better kill him for me, hadn't you," Ophelia nagged, and Edith had had enough of their antics.
She flung the door open. Her daughter was over by the window, her breasts bared, her gown askew. Edith's slothful, evil son was on the bed, his clothing messy, too, his wormy little phallus hanging out of his trousers.
They both jumped to cover themselves so that she couldn't view what she'd seen a hundred times previous.
"Fornicators," Edith charged, using the taunt that angered them the most.
"Oh, for pity's sake!" Ophelia seethed.
"Will you be ready to meet your Maker? What lies will you tell Him? Do you think they'll save you?"
"Get her out of here," Ophelia hissed to Percy.
Percy sighed and rose. "Come, Mother. You know you're not allowed in my room."
"Fornicators," Edith hurled again as Percy led her out.
"I've had enough, Mother," Ophelia threatened. "Do you hear me?"
"I hear, but I am not afraid," Edith replied. "The Lord will look after me."
"I doubt it," Ophelia said. "He has to be as weary of your harangue as I am. He'll let me do whatever I want to you, and He'll be glad about it."
"Ophelia! Mother!" Percy snapped. "Shut up!"
He dragged Edith out, as Edith smiled, delighted with her afternoon's effort.
Nine
“What are our plans?" "I don't know yet." » "Will we return to London?'
"I'm sure we will." "How soon?"
"Probably directly after the wedding. Why?"
Jack studied his brother, wondering how he could be so cavalier about Gladstone. Jack was tired of traveling. He yearned to settle down, to give up his nomad's life, but Jamie couldn't wait to get moving again.
"When you go," Jack said, "I think I'd like to stay here."
Jamie gaped at him as if he'd pronounced that he enjoyed diving into shark-infested waters. They'd always been together, just the two of them against the world, and Jack couldn't imagine an existence where Jamie wasn't smack in the center of it. Maybe Jack would join him later, but for the moment, Jack wanted to hold still.
"Of course you won't stay at Gladstone," Jamie scoffed. "You'll come with me—as you always have in the past."
"To do what, Jamie? What's in London that's so bloody important?"
"My ship. The crew. The women, the food, the parties, the gambling. What would you suppose?"
"So what? You have all this now." Jack swept his hand from horizon to horizon. "Forget about the ship and the crew and the rest of it."
They were loafing on the verandah, talking and sipping whiskey. The sun had set, and the sky was an indigo blue, the green colors of the park so vibrant that it hurt to look at them. As far as the eye could see, the land was Jamie's. It was rich and fertile, the sort of place that represented the very bedrock of British wealth and class.
What more could he possibly want? What more could he possibly need?
"Forget about the ship! Are you insane?" Jamie asked. "What would our men do if we didn't come back? And the ship! You know what it means to me. Should I just abandon it?"
Jamie had never had anything to lose, so nothing scared him; nothing worried him. He was the luckiest individual Jack had ever met, and he was unafraid of any fate, even death, itself. He'd almost been killed so many times that the notion of him actually succumbing was laughable.
They didn't remember how they'd been spirited away from Gladstone or how they'd ended up at sea. Their first memories were as indentured boys, with no history, with just their names to link them to what might have been if they hadn't had a despicable, callous brute for a father.
The adults who'd populated their lives were blackguards with no ethics or scruples. Jack and Jamie had been beaten and starved and worked to the bone, betrayed, tricked, and abused. The few relationships they'd established were fleeting, so they'd stopped caring, had stopped reaching out, deeming it better to be alone.
After years of struggling to survive, Jamie had latched onto their ship like a drowning man. He'd been a brash, wild adolescent, and he'd won it with a toss of the dice. He'd cheated to be allowed in the game, then had wagered what he didn't have to steal it from a drunken captain.
The ship was their foundation, their only constant after a life of chaos and turmoil.
For their sailors, they'd hired the most ruthless criminals, picked for their ability to complete any task without balking. The men were unusually loyal, their allegiance purchased with the large amounts of money they made following Jamie, who would risk any dangerous venture if the price was right.
"Give them each a farewell stipend," Jack suggested, "and let them hire on with other crews. Then sell the ship. It would bring a pretty penny."
"Never."
Jack could read his brother's mind. Deep down, Jamie didn't believe he'd get to keep Gladstone. If they awoke some morning and discovered it had all been a peculiar whimsy, the ship would be all they had.
"Then have the crew carry on without us," Jack said. "We can remain here—where it's safe and easy—and they can send you your share of the loot."
"What fun would that be? Are you hoping I'll die of boredom?"
Jack stood and went to the balustrade, staring out at everything he'd ever wanted. As a cold and hungry boy, he'd dreamed of this very spot, though he was positive he hadn't seen it as a baby. So how could he have pictured it so vividly?
He couldn't have described where it was located, or how he'd ever get to it, but throughout his turbulent childhood, the vision had haunted him.
When he and Jamie had first turned off the lane and ridden up the drive to the manor, it had been the strangest impression, but Jack had recognized every fork in the road, every tree in the woods. Now that he'd arrived, he didn't wish to ever leave.
"Get down," Jamie suddenly murmured, cutting into Jack's reverie.
"What?"
"Get down!"
Jack ducked as he heard a loud bang, as a gun flashed out in the forest. In the increasing dusk, he'd resembled Jamie enough to make a good target, but the person who'd shot was too far away to do any damage. Still, it was disturbing to be fired upon.
Jack straightened and raised a wry brow. "You might have warned me a little sooner."
"That's the second attempt in a matter of days. Would it be remiss of me to point out that you're failing in your obligation to watch my back?"
Jack scrutinized the shrubbery, searching for movement. "Should I have a look?"
Jamie considered, then shook his head. "No. I'm sure he's gone. And it's too dark to see anyway. We'll check his tracks in the morning."
"Is it Percy?"
"Most likely." Jamie shrugged, casual as if they'd been discussing the weather.
"I wouldn't have thought he'd have the nerve."
"He might have hired a local miscreant."
"That sounds more like it." Jack gazed at Jamie over his shoulder. "How can you be so blase? Don't these attacks bother you?"
"Yes, but what would you have me do? Shall I call him out? Beat him to a pulp? Have him whipped in the public square? What?"
"He's a pompous ass. Why not? What's stopping you?"
"It's all mine now, and he's about to lose it forever. Why not let him vent his wrath?"
"What if his aim improves? If he accidentally kills you, when you're not paying attention, it will really piss me off."
"If he manages it, you have my permission to avenge me."
"I will—if I'm not busy."
"Thank you, Brother. You're too, too kind."
They both laughed, a companionable silence growing.
"There's a young lad, about ten or so," Jack abruptly said, when he hadn't realized he was going to speak up. "He's living out in the woods in one of the shacks."
"And ... ?"
"He's an orphan; he reminds me of you and me at that age. I'd like to invite him to the manor, maybe teach him to work in the stables. T
hat way, I can be certain he's fed and clothed."
"Fine. I don't give a shit what you do around here. You know that."
Jamie's flip reply was typical of his slapdash attitude, so Jack was used to it, but on this occasion, he was uncharacteristically annoyed. He couldn't figure out if he was so touchy because the boy was Sarah's or because he hated to see another child suffer as they had suffered.
Jamie's nonchalance was so aggravating. When would something matter to him? Would there ever be anything in the world that he loved?
Jack understood that Jamie's detachment was a result of their wretched upbringing. They'd learned— early on—to establish no ties, but their destiny had changed. Jamie could afford to care and bond. It was all right for him to let down his guard.
That's what Jack intended. He would let down his guard, would trust and hope. He was excited to remain at Gladstone, where he had such a sense of belonging. How could Jamie fail to feel their powerful connection to the estate?
"I don't want to go back to London," Jack asserted.
"So you've said. But I've already decided, and I won't argue about it."
It was the tenor of their relationship that Jamie was the boss, that Jamie chose what they would do and when. Jack had never yearned for a path different from Jamie's, so they'd never bickered. When their existence had been so precarious, one place had been much the same as another, so it would have seemed silly to protest.
Jack would do anything for Jamie, even lay down his life, but he wouldn't do this.
"Not this time, Jamie. When you go, I'm staying behind."
Jamie was aghast, as if the spot were Hell on earth. "You're mad."
"No. I want this. I've always wanted this." "You have not."
"I have," Jack insisted. He'd never told Jamie of his verdant dreams of Gladstone, hadn't mentioned how appropriate it had felt when they'd ridden up the lane.
"I belong here," Jack persisted.
"You might, but I don't, and I'm heading out as fast as I can."
"If you find it so distasteful, why did you fight so hard to claim it?"
"Because it's mine, and I wasn't about to let an ass like Percy keep it."
"And that's the only reason?"
