“Trapped?” she asked, baffled. Disbelievingly, she stared up into his eyes that had helped to reveal her captor’s identity during the long hours she had had time to think in the wave-walled prison. If he was being honest, Nicholas must have sought out Clarisse to ease his sorrow. It was the strangest turn of events she could have imagined. Nicholas loved her. The warm sentiment in his eyes and in his kiss could not have been false.
He laughed. “He admitted it boldly, my dear Rebecca. How you convinced a chaplain to marry you so you could inherit his riches and fine title. Certainly you remember that!”
A smile crossed her lips. Instantly she understood what she should have realized from the beginning. Nicholas was trying to convince everyone that he had been forced into a loveless marriage in some plan he was effecting to try to gain her release. For some reason, he acted as if he did not really love her so her captor would release her and go after Clarisse to bend Nicholas to his will. She had to trust him to play out whatever plan he had formulated.
“He’s touting that publicly?” she asked in feigned outrage. Her actions must match his tale. Trying to imagine how such a woman would act, she snarled, “What else did he think I would do? He was an enemy, but he didn’t let me know that until I had saved his life. I wanted something in return for betraying my country. He had money. He had power. He had a woman he wanted to return to. I decided that I would be the woman to share that money and power, and I would take away his chance for happiness with Clarisse.”
Her captor’s eyes filled with puzzlement. This was not the Rebecca who had seemed devoted to her husband He wondered which one was the real one. His eyes grew wide as she smiled flirtatiously at him.
“What’s wrong, sir?” she asked in a tone she borrowed liberally from Clarisse. “Are you so upset you have been bested by Nicholas that you have no more threats left? We should not be enemies. While I have been here, I have thought long on it. I believe we want the same thing. We should be working together.” She put her arms around his waist. “Together,” she repeated in a breathy voice as she leaned her head against his chest.
His arms tightened around her to feel her slender body so close as he had longed to feel it for the many months she had been at Foxbridge Cloister. When he ran his hands along the back of her gown where few of the hooks remained in place, his fingers slipped inside the rips to caress her bare skin. Instead of pulling away, she murmured softly and moved seductively against him. In shock, he pulled away. Rebecca Wythe was no different from Clarisse Beckwith. She just had an alternative way of getting what both women as well as he himself wanted.
Smoothing her tattered dress along her body, knowing his eyes followed the movement as her hands outlined her form, she moved toward him. Her eyes widened with disappointment. “Have you changed your mind? I thought you wanted me. I’m willing to be most cooperative in exchange for a share of what you intend to exhort from Nicholas.” In a vicious voice, she added, “I will be glad to see him suffer for refusing to make a settlement on me in America so I could marry the man I truly loved. For the last months, I have had to suffer in his bed so he could have the heir he wanted.” Her laugh became glacier cold. “Let everyone wait. I made the decision I would make sure Nicholas Wythe has no heir until he sees fit to give me what I want.”
“What is it you want, Rebecca?” he demanded as he tried to understand this sudden change.
“What do we all want, sir? Money, power, control over our inferiors. Are you interested in getting it with my help?”
He chortled with delight as he drew his gun. Seeing her face blanch, he laughed harder. “I don’t trust you, Rebecca. I don’t trust your husband either. It seems that both of you are chameleons. Which are the real ones? The devoted spouses or the ones suffering in the contrived marriage?” He raised the gun and held it directly in front of her face. Her sharp intake of breath echoed eerily along the tunnel. “It seems odd to me that, if you hated each other so much, you would go through that remarriage at Foxbridge Cloister.” He smiled broadly at the emotions rippling across her face, knowing she could not see his expression of triumph. “You, my dear Lady Foxbridge, are not a very good liar. It is a shame, however, you did not consider a career on the stage. Behind the footlights, you would have been the scene-stealer every time you walked on the boards.”
“I’m not acting. I …” Her voice faded away as his thumb drew back on the hammer.
He chuckled. “Your game is done, my sweet. I know you love your husband dearly. I’m not so sure of him, so I think I will be bringing you some company tonight after my visit to Foxbridge Cloister.”
Knowing she had overplayed her hand, she cried, “Stop this insanity before it goes any further. Please, don’t hurt Nicholas.” As she saw the glitter of amusement in his eyes, she said in a near whisper, “You are right. I love him. I do not want him to die.”
“What you want is of no importance to me, Lady Foxbridge,” he stated as he replaced the pistol under his coat. “What I want is of utmost importance. I want you and the things you tried to pretend were your desires as well. I shall have both before the week is out.” He grasped her and spun her back into his arms. “When I decide that the time is right, you will be mine, Rebecca. I will take your unwilling body until I tire of you.” He ran his hands along her. “It won’t be soon that I grow fatigued of your charms, my pretty little lady.”
“Let me go,” she screamed. “I won’t submit to you!”
His infuriating chuckle filled the cavern. “I know, Rebecca. That will make it all the more fun to force you to surrender. Farewell for now, my Lady Foxbridge. I will see you this evening.”
Helplessly she watched as he scurried across the plank and pulled it back to the far side. She had tried her last idea to escape him, and it had failed. While he walked away, she wondered how long she would be able to survive his tortures. Knowing who her captor was only made the whole situation more of a nightmare. If he discovered her knowledge of his identity, he would destroy her immediately.
How betrayed Nicholas would feel when he learned the truth!
Rebecca viewed her prison impotently. She had to escape before he could return with Clarisse. There was no choice. If she remained then, her fate was sealed. She would be that disgusting man’s mistress to be used whenever he tired of his wife, but only until he grew bored with her. Then she would die.
She had to flee.
But how?
The plank was too far away. Thoughts of making a rope to try to snag it and bring it across the chasm were useless. She had no way to rip the thick blankets to braid them into a strong rope. Nor did she have time to waste on worthless projects. All she possessed were the heavy crate filled with only her captor knew what and the cot.
With a sudden smile, Rebecca moved to her bed. Tipping it over, she examined it. Yes, it was a folding cot like the military used. Perhaps she could get the legs to the proper position to lengthen it enough.
She had to exert all her strength against the hinges, which had rusted in the salt air. It would appear that her captor had not been the first to use this prison. Finally she had to stand with one foot on the inverted bed while she pushed with the other against the obstinate legs. She nearly cried with despair as she felt the metal crosspiece that connected the two straight legs begin to bend with her efforts. Then, abruptly, the legs were lying flat on the ground.
Rubbing her right leg, which ached with the force she was having to expend, she moved to the other side. This set she managed to move with just her hands. She stood to measure the chasm with her eyes. Would the bed be long enough to fit across it? It would have to, because it was her final hope.
She shoved the bed frame to the edge. Then she returned to push the heavy crate forward. Sweat ran along her body as she strained to move it. It would not slide, so she tried lifting it end over end. A delighted smile brightened her face as she heard the crash of glass as she tilted it. She released it quickly, and the crate dropped onto its side. From it
ran a dark fluid she did not have to be told was illicit brandy smuggled from France.
It was difficult to be patient and wait until all the liquor had emptied from the broken bottles. When the golden river had slowed almost to a stop, she pushed on the box again. It was so much lighter, she could move it with ease.
“All right. This is your last chance, Rebecca. Pray it works,” she said aloud to the emptiness of her prison.
Once she had dropped all the other items in the small cave over the side of the split in the floor, she turned to the task at hand. Carefully she balanced the heavy crate on the end of the bed farthest from the rim. Even more cautiously, she began to push the cot over the open space.
At first it was not so difficult, but as the bed hung farther and farther out over the pit, she had more trouble holding it steady. The box helped as it acted as a counterbalance. When the legs hit the far side, she struggled to raise them over the rim. Only her determination to escape kept her from giving up what seemed to be hopeless. It took her nearly a dozen arm-wrenching tries to lift the legs onto the opposite side. Inch by inch, she pushed the bed forward until it was perched precariously over the chasm.
Rebecca sat for a minute on the crate as she tried to summon up the courage to cross on that unsteady bridge. She unbuckled her shoes and tossed them into the hole. Her stockings followed. It did not take long to remove the remains of her dress and petticoats to throw them away as well. When she shivered in her underclothes, she gingerly put her foot on the canvas which filled the space between the wooden slats of the bed frame.
She nearly pulled her foot away, but if she did not try soon, she never would. Even if she slipped and fell, that death was preferable to what she would face when her captor returned. Taking a deep breath, she raced across the shaky surface of her impromptu bridge.
Tears of joy rolled unstopped down her cheeks as she jumped to solid ground on the other side. She could not contain the victorious shout that rang off the walls of the cave. She was free!
With a laugh, she turned and pulled the legs of the bed sharply. Her motion jerked the case of broken glass to fall forward into the hole. Her feet shoved the bed frame in to crash to the bottom of the broken earth which would imprison her no longer.
She had no idea what time it was. Although she had been awakened by her captor, she had no idea whether it was morning or night. It was some time before the ball. She had to get to Foxbridge Cloister before disaster struck again. Nicholas could not sacrifice himself when she was free.
Racing along the tunnel, she paid no attention to the sharp rocks cutting into her feet. She did not get far before she met rising water. A cry flew from her broken heart to her lips. She had beaten one prison wall, but she had another one to best. The water was high along the floor. Could she swim out of the cave? She could not remember how far it was to the exit. Dipping her toe into the chilly water, she knew that, as before, she had no choice.
Rebecca waded out until the pulsating water reached her chest. At that point she struck out, kicking her feet to propel her forward. Half the time she had to fight the motion of the water, then it would aid her as the undertow sucked her toward the exit. Every few inches she would pause and reach up to try to feel for the low entrance of the cave. If she ran into it in the dark, she could hurt herself badly.
All her precautions were well thought out, but she did not take into consideration the strength of the water trying to find its way through that narrow opening. The pull of the water going through that slit caught her in its power and forced her head underwater. Desperately, she fought her way to the surface. Her hands clawed at the slimy walls of the cave. Her chest ached with her need to breathe. Her scream of pain was simply bubbles of air lost among the foam of the waves as her head hit against the stone. All fight left her body which followed the water’s flow.
“Ready, my dear?” Nicholas held out his hand to Clarisse. He did not seem to notice the strangled expression on his sister’s face as Clarisse put her gloved fingers in his. Tenderly, he lifted them to his lips as he stared into the possessive glitter of her green eyes. She considered herself inviolate as his future lady of Foxbridge Cloister. For a moment, he felt guilt at the sacrifice he might be asking this woman to make unknowingly. Then he knew there was no alternative.
He looked at the ones gathered in a room near the ballroom. Clarisse was an overaged Juliet, pretending to be the sweet maiden she had ceased to be years ago. In her flowing white gown, Eliza was lovely as the Grecian beauty. It was a costume perfect for her slender form. Next to her, Curtis was a blond colonial backwoodsman, dressed in buckskins. Although Nicholas wondered where he had obtained such an outfit, he did not question him. His mother wore a dress dating back a hundred years, which he knew came from the trunks in the attic. His own outfit came from a far earlier time. Dressed as his Elizabethan ancestor, he thought it ironic that tonight it would appear that Sybill was the one betrayed by her spouse. Rebecca, who should have been in that role, was gone, and it was Lord Foxbridge who had his reputed lover by his side. As he had told Rebecca, they had rewritten history. This was not the way they had intended it to be. When they had joked about being Sybill and her husband, they could not have guessed that this tragedy would invade their lives.
They walked in silence into the ballroom. As the guests came along the receiving line, Nicholas greeted them tersely. Questions of how the Wythes were doing or if there had been any news about Rebecca’s whereabouts faded into silence as they saw the woman next to him. Even with her mask, no one could mistake the auburn hair Clarisse purposely had left unpowdered. A pall settled over the room, taking the lilt from the music played by the orchestra in the minstrels’ gallery and dulling the gaiety of the conversation.
All eyes remained on the stone-chiseled face of Nicholas Wythe, who had spurned a mask this evening as host of the ball. He wanted to be sure that Rebecca’s captor would be able to find him readily. There was no emotion showing on his features to tell his guests whether he was hurting or simply relieved to have the embarrassment of his colonial wife gone from his life. It had not taken long for the story to circulate the shire that Rebecca had tricked her husband into a marriage he did not desire. Although there had been some disbelief that Lord Foxbridge would not want his lovely wife, it was understandable he would have preferred to have her as his paramour, not as the mother of his heirs.
His surprise companion was not so taciturn. Clarisse displayed her delight at being beside the man she had waited for. Nobody could miss the joy in her voice as she slipped her arm through Lord Foxbridge’s and chatted lightly with the guests.
When the chords were struck to announce the opening dance of the ball, everyone watched as Lord Foxbridge led his substitute lady onto the floor. Many of those who had most loudly denounced Rebecca Wythe as a simple Yankee and her marriage to Lord Foxbridge a horrible mistake suddenly sympathized with the absent Lady Foxbridge.
For a long, uncomfortable minute, nobody moved to join the two in the center of the room. Then, her face still glistening with the tears she had not been able to halt since Rebecca’s kidnapping, Eliza took Curtis’ hand and walked out to stand with the other couple. Slowly, the floor filled for the first number.
As they danced the ever-popular minuet, Nicholas noticed that his various partners treated him as if he was inflicted with a dread disease. It was obvious they did not want any more contact with him than necessary. His heartbroken sister refused to take his hand as they went through the pattern of the dance. “Eliza!” he snapped. “Act as if you are enjoying yourself. This whole ball is necessary to satisfy Rebecca’s kidnappers.”
She gave him a withering stare. “Is that so? I do not remember any instructions from Rebecca’s abductor that ordered you to treat that trollop as if she was your wife. I hope you two had a grand time this afternoon when you were alone together in the room you once shared with your real wife.”
“It’s not as you think, Eliza.”
“Isn’t
it?”
Before he could answer her, she swirled away in the pattern of the dance to join Curtis. Once more Clarisse faced him. Unlike the others, she smiled as she took his fingers in hers. When they came together in the dance, she pressed closer than respectable in an offer she was surprised he had not yet accepted. They had spent the afternoon together in that lovely room upstairs, but he had not done anything but talk to her. When she had made her desires obvious, he urged her to be patient, for the servants were constantly parading in and out of the room.
She gazed up at his face through the wide holes in her domino, which was lace-covered to enhance her large, green eyes. Yesterday Nicholas had seemed so eager to hold her close in his bed. Although he still acted enthralled with her, he had not attempted so much as a kiss when she had been dressing in Rebecca’s room. Suspicions stirred in her mind. Nicholas told everyone that he had been forced into this unloving, unwanted marriage, but when she had checked the closet and dressers in the lady’s room of the suite, they were empty. Sneaking into the main bedroom, she found Rebecca’s gowns neatly hung next to his coats in the large dressing room. There was only one reason why their things would be together like this. They slept together each night.
Over and over she had tried to tell herself that he was doing as he must. Rebecca was his wife. If he wanted a legitimate heir, he had to beget one with her. Many men took their wives to their beds solely for that reason. Once she had conceived, Nicholas might have turned to his devoted Clarisse. It was just made simpler by this most fortunate abduction.
Nicholas tried to maintain a nonchalant expression as he spoke to his guests. It did not take him long to notice that silence surrounded him like an aura wherever he went. His eyes narrowed as he saw his mother was absent. He signaled to one of the servants. “Collins, where is Lady Margaret?”
Rebecca Page 35
