“Discussion?” she said incredulously. “You can’t be serious.”
He walked with purpose to the east wall and lifted a thick black linen curtain, allowing sunlight to filter in and warm the room.
“Why are there bars on the window?”
“To keep vagrants out,” he answered, turning once again to face her.
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Or to keep the ladies locked inside?”
He smiled. “You’re the first lady ever allowed in my humble fishing cabin, Viola. You should feel quite proud of that distinction.”
She shook her head in disgust, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not staying here.”
“I want to know what happened in the dungeon,” he said quietly, watching her closely. “Every sordid detail.”
She fidgeted in her stays. “There is nothing I can tell you that you don’t already know, Ian. I wish you would understand that.”
“I don’t know how you coerced me into getting you pregnant. That’s something I’d like to discuss.”
She swallowed, uncertainty washing over her. “I never coerced you into anything.”
Her stubbornness would likely be the death of him, but he was too tired to argue or to put his own plan of coercion into action. It was time to leave her to think. And worry.
“Are you having your monthlies?” he asked abruptly.
She gasped.
He brushed over her surprise. “I suggest you answer truthfully.”
“I . . . that’s none of your business.”
He sighed loudly. “The cot is clean, and there’s a chamber pot beneath it. You might want to sleep for now—”
“You’re not leaving me here,” she said, suddenly alarmed.
“You cannot win this battle, Viola. Think about that until I return.”
She blinked in total disbelief. Then she lunged for him.
He stepped onto the porch and quickly shut the door, locking it and slipping the key back into his pocket as she banged on the wood with both fists.
Disregarding her shouts of anger, and feeling far more worried and far less smug than he thought he should, Ian walked away from his fishing cabin and began the mile-long trek to the main house—discouraged, irritated, and uncertain how in hell he was going to get her to tell him anything, least of all the truth.
Viola stopped banging on the door almost immediately, knowing perfectly well that he had every intention of letting her rot there for a time. Screaming would do nothing, and since he’d locked her up in a remote area on his land, nobody was likely to hear her anyway.
Glancing around the cabin, she took in her surroundings. The air smelled stale and musty, and her first thought was to open the window. It took her three shoves before it finally lifted an inch, just enough for the slight breeze to make its way inside. For now, she just felt drained, more tired than frightened or even angry. He obviously expected her to remain here, uncomfortable, alone, and suspicious of every little sound.
Her stomach growled and she kicked the wooden wall, which did nothing but remind her that she would remain trapped in this hovel without food or water until he felt the need to check on her. And he forced her to use a chamber pot for the first time in years. That was indignity enough for the moment. Thank God her monthlies had only just ended, though now that she considered it, she felt mightily relieved that she hadn’t discussed her cycle with him. She couldn’t believe he’d asked her about it, though it made sense if he wanted to bed her and not get her with child. If she played on her fear of another pregnancy, maybe he would leave her alone. Or maybe not.
Insufferable man.
Exhausted suddenly, Viola stared down at the cot for a moment before lifting the battered quilt and shaking it of bugs or other sundry undesirables that might be hiding in the folds. At least it and the sheet beneath it appeared clean.
She sat upon the surprisingly soft mattress, fluffed the feather pillow, and, after deciding no rats had gnawed through the cotton to make it a home, lay flat upon her makeshift bed, covered her body with the quilt, and closed her eyes.
Chapter Fifteen
His body responded to me again today. I was so frightened, afraid of being discovered, but he needed me, begged me, and I couldn’t resist the desire to be with him. I’ve never felt anything so intense and wonderful, and doubt I ever will again. . . .
The hazy vision of warm lips and soft breasts stirred him to semiconsciousness. He vaguely knew he lingered in that state where sleep and wakefulness mingle and blend, yet he wanted to remain for just a while longer, to explore the dark image of the woman at his side, inhaling her sweet scent, absorbing her warmth, listening to the whispered sound of her steady breathing, relishing everything from the soft hair between her legs that caressed his thigh to the intimate closeness of her face nestled in the crook of his neck, feeling tenderness and anticipation fused with hot, agonizing desire. . . .
Touch me . . .
Let me feel you . . .
Make love to me . . .
Please—
Ian sat up at once, blinking hard, confused and momentarily uncertain where he was. Then memory collided with what remained of the fantasy, jarring him back to reality. He shivered from the cold perspiration that bathed his body, then scrubbed a palm down his face and swung his legs over the side of the leather sofa, recalling suddenly why he’d come back to Stamford and now found himself in his drawing room. At his arrival at the house he’d eaten a full meal, discussed a couple of estate matters with his butler, then only thought to lay his head down for a few minutes before planning the night ahead and returning to Viola. Clearly he’d been more exhausted than he’d realized. With a quick glance to the mantel, he checked the time on the clock: half past three. He’d been sleeping for more than six hours—and she had gone without food and water for nearly a day.
Viola. She was, without question, the woman in his dream, nude and willingly lying beside him, either before or after eagerly making love to him. What he didn’t know, however, was whether his fantasy had been created from forgotten experience, a situation that had actually happened in the dungeon, or illusion borne of lust, his mind playing tricks because of the painting she’d created, because he wanted her sexually and she remained so close in thought and presence. The uncertainty nagged at him, and because doubts and desire lingered, it was time to take control and put them to rest.
Standing, all traces of the fog in his head finally cleared, he quickly left his drawing room. After washing up, changing into casual clothes, gathering a few supplies, and requesting a basket of foodstuff from the kitchen, he headed toward the cabin, this time on horseback. Silence loomed when he approached the small enclosure, and even if she heard him she didn’t make a sound as he slipped the key into the lock and turned it. Of course he hadn’t intended to deprive her of sustenance for any length of time, and although he tried to tell himself she deserved it, when he’d gone without everything but tainted beef broth and bread for five long weeks, he still felt a bit contrite over leaving her alone for so long.
Ian opened the door, allowed his eyes to adjust for several seconds, then spotted her sitting on the cot, her hands in her lap, her attention focused on him, though he couldn’t read anything in her placid expression. He decided to attempt civility.
“Good evening, Viola.”
“Is it evening already? I wouldn’t know.”
So she had a sour mood. He certainly wouldn’t let that bother him. Placing the food basket and bag of supplies on the wooden floor, he left the door open so he could better see the room as he stepped inside.
“Would you like tea?” he asked, walking to the stove and lifting the tin of matches from the shelf beside it.
“Did you bring the china, your grace? Or am I to sip it from my hands?”
Clearly her mood went be
yond sour to livid and sarcastic. It almost made him smile. For some odd reason he enjoyed bantering with her when she was angry with him.
“I brought two mugs. They’re old, not worthy of the dining room or parlor, but they should do.”
She huffed without reply. He closed the stove’s iron door, allowing the coals to heat, then picked up the old teakettle from the shelf and a bucket beneath it, and strode back to the door. “I’m going to the well behind the cabin. Don’t bother trying to leave—”
“Why on earth would I want to leave before tea?”
Suppressing a laugh, he nodded once and stepped outside. At least she was wise enough to know she had nowhere to go and if she tried to run he’d find her anyway. And hauling her back would make matters worse, he supposed.
Moments later he returned, and after closing the door and bolting it, he placed the kettle atop the stove and the full bucket beside it as the room began to warm.
“Did you also bring a tub so I could bathe?”
He turned to face her. “Viola, darling, did you bathe me while I lay chained in the dungeon?”
She eyed him candidly, her features as taut as her form was rigid. “Of course I did, and you very well know it.”
Ian tried not to gape at her as that confession hit its mark. He’d never expected such an honest, forthright answer when he’d only been trying to exasperate her. And although he didn’t exactly remember being bathed, he knew he hadn’t been completely filthy and foul-smelling when he’d been rescued. There was something about being unclothed and cared for intimately by her that left him not only bemused but also deeply mollified.
“Is that how you got me aroused enough to get you pregnant?” he asked matter-of-factly as he picked up the basket of food and began to walk toward her.
Unmoving, she held his gaze as he approached.
“Did you bring a lamp, or do you expect me to answer all of your ridiculous questions in darkness after the sun sets?”
Her fearlessness in attempting to engage him in a fight when she remained at a clear disadvantage, even desperate for his care, continued to amuse, even charm, him in a manner—especially since she didn’t seem at all frightened of him physically at this point. He wasn’t sure if he should feel thankful or annoyed.
“My, you’re certainly spirited today,” he said, lowering himself to sit beside her on the cot.
She backed away slightly from his closeness, ignoring his comment as she tipped her head toward the basket. “I’m assuming you brought food?”
“I did,” he admitted easily. “Are you going to answer my questions?”
“You’ll find that a hostage responds better on a full belly, I’m sure.”
“Something you learned from experience, no doubt.”
“No doubt.”
He smirked, opening the basket for her view. “I have cold chicken, apples, cheese, and a loaf of bread. Nothing warm but tea, I’m afraid.”
“It’s summer, your grace,” she retorted, reaching for a slice of cheese with dainty fingers. “I’m starving, but hardly freezing.”
“Ah, forgive me. I suppose I was thinking of the time you held me captive in winter and I was freezing.”
She sighed, slumping into her stays, which she likely found incredibly uncomfortable after having them affixed to her ribs for nearly twenty-four hours.
“I never held you captive,” she said, her tone slightly softer. She took a bite and chewed, then, after swallowing, added, “I tried my best to help you endure it. Why can’t you understand that?”
He didn’t reply for a moment as he spread a small tablecloth across the quilt between them and began removing the items from the basket, including two small plates, linen napkins, and the mugs, tea, and strainer. She watched him as he dished out servings for both of them, her outrage radiating from her like a tangible thing, though she began to eat with gusto the moment he handed her a plateful of generous portions.
They supped in silence for several minutes until finally, between bites, she asked, “How long do you intend to keep me here?”
The kettle began to steam. “Until you tell me everything,” he answered without pretense as he lifted the mugs and tea and returned to the stove.
“So we are at an impasse.”
He didn’t comment on that obvious fact. “Sorry, but there’s no milk or sugar.”
Voice lowered, she maintained, “You can’t keep me here forever, Ian.”
Instead of arguing a point that clearly would get them nowhere, he poured the water, moved the strainer back and forth while the tea steeped, then turned at last and walked back to the cot.
“I’ve had dreams about you, Viola,” he said very softly as he handed her a steaming mug.
She stopped chewing in midbite, then swallowed. “Dreams?”
He nodded as he sat next to her again, watching her closely. “Several dreams through the years, actually, though for a long time I had no idea I was dreaming of you.”
That acknowledgment clearly troubled her. Frowning deeply, she placed her mug on the floor beside her, then turned her attention to her food once more, pulling a piece of bread apart with more force than needed.
“In fact,” he added, “some of them were quite erotic.”
A small mewl escaped the back of her throat, but otherwise she didn’t comment or look at him.
“Can I ask you a question?” he prodded after a moment.
She swallowed. “I don’t suppose I can stop you.”
“No, I suppose not.”
She shot him a quick, sideways glance. “What is it?”
He took a sip of tea. “If you didn’t feel safe to have me rescued, but were instead, as you say, trying to help me endure my captivity, why didn’t you bring me more food?”
A question so simple yet profound, and so unexpected that she stilled her movements as its significance dawned. Seconds later she licked her thumb, and after tapping her napkin across her lips, she lowered her plate of chicken and bread remnants into the basket. He waited, scrutinizing her as she reached for her tea, knowing he had cornered her but deciding to give her the chance to respond as she could, at her discretion.
Finally, staring down at her mug, she replied, “I did bring you food, Ian. I brought what I could, when I could, but since you were drugged most of the time, I found it hard to feed you when you had very little appetite, and I could only carry so much at each visit.”
“How many visits?”
She blew across the rim, then took a small, cautious drink of the steaming brew. “Several.”
“Several?” His brows shot up. “What does that mean? Once a week? Three times a week? Daily?”
She looked him up and down, her mug at her lips. “I didn’t count.”
“I’d bet my fortune that you did.”
She almost smiled. He could see it in her eyes, at the curve of her lips. But then she hesitated, shying away from his steady gaze, taking another slow sip before continuing.
“The truth is, I tried to check on you every two or three days,” she conceded, her tone contemplative. “I didn’t want you to die. But you also must remember that I was just nineteen years old at the time, very sheltered, and under the control of a domineering mother and two older sisters, one hard and cruel, the other insane. Or so I thought. My greatest fear was getting caught and being tossed out onto the street with nothing. For a time I considered telling someone, having you rescued, but I didn’t know who, and feared I would be arrested along with the conspirators. I was a country girl with no social standing, and truly felt my options were limited. Even if I were found legally innocent, my mother would surely disown me for bringing shame on my family by accusing them of despicable crimes, and again I would have nothing.” She exhaled a heavy breath, then looked at him frankly. “I never did anyt
hing wrong, Ian, hadn’t taken part in the abduction or in the planning of the event, but at that time in my life, I truly thought I had no options. I didn’t see any way out. But I—I could help you. And that’s what I did.”
He felt a certain warmth spread within him, not necessarily from the events she described, which to him remained suspect, but from her gentle, innocent conviction. “Did your family know?”
“Eventually,” she admitted without hesitation, “when I stole the key to your shackles from my sister and left it next to you the night you were found. Hermione and Mother were beside themselves, though I was somewhat forgiven in my mother’s eyes when I agreed to marry Lord Cheshire and could support her until her death. They know I helped you escape, but none of them knew I visited you frequently, or nursed you. At least I don’t think so. I never told anyone.”
He nodded slowly, then asked, “And your sister who went to prison, do you hear from her at all? Has she forgiven you?”
Her brow creased suspiciously. “Why do you care?”
He shrugged. “Merely curious.”
She almost snorted. “Well the answer is no,” she said matter-of-factly, adjusting her sitting form on the cot and focusing once more on her tea. “Hermione was furious when she learned I staged your release, which, in her mind, prevented me from being prosecuted for the crime as she was. She despises me for many things, Ian, the greatest of which is my marriage into the peerage while she was transported to Queensland for a term of hard labor. I still put funds away occasionally for some future time when she might be given a reprieve, allowed to return and could need my financial help. But the last I heard she had attached herself to a gentleman as his courtesan, married him, and has since settled farmland. I doubt I’ll ever see or hear from her again.”
She raised her lashes to meet his gaze, hers narrowed, unyielding. “I made my choices, your grace, and must live with the consequences every single day. I truly believe I did what I could for you considering the circumstance, and I’ve paid for my family’s crimes in many ways, even if not to your satisfaction. But I’d like to think you’re alive today because I cared for you and refused to let you die.” She let out a soft, bitter chuckle. “Ironically, aside from raising a charming son, it may be the only thing I’ve ever done, perhaps will ever do, that is in any way consequential or of redeeming value.”
The Duke's Captive Page 17
