A Bouquet of Thorns (29 page)

‘You're not a very good liar, you know, Rose.'

His voice was suddenly ice-cold and she threw up her head. ‘Pardon?'

‘We weren't back twenty-four hours before you were off to see your lover.'

‘My lover?' Her eyebrows arched in derision, her mouth open in a mocking, contemptuous laugh. ‘Oh, a chance would be a fine thing with the way you keep a check on me!'

‘Well, I shouldn't have to, but first it was that convict, and now it's . . . Well, God knows who it is! Joe Tyler, perhaps—'

The fury spiralled up within her, grasping her by the throat. She could scarcely believe she had heard right. ‘Joe?' she rounded on him, her eyes flaring. ‘How dare you! Joe's like a brother to me, and he's Molly's husband! My God, your mind's even filthier than I thought!'

‘Well, you're the one having the affair, not me.'

She watched as his eyes hardened to steel, his mouth in a cruel, compressed line, and in that moment of confrontation, her heart turned to stone. ‘An affair! Good God! And suffer what
you
put me through every night at the hands of another man as well? You must be joking!'

Before the bitter words had even left her lips, he had gripped her by the upper arms and with a violence that terrified her, shook her like a rag doll so that her neck cracked in agony and for a sickening instant, she feared for her life.

‘So, it's all my fault, is it, you little whore?' his roar bellowed in her ears. ‘You're only doing your duty as my wife, may I remind you!'

‘I know that!' she yelled back at him with such anger that he at last stopped shaking her and they glared at each other like two rutting stags, Charles panting heavily while she flared her nostrils with vitriolic disdain. ‘But at least I'm
trying
to do something to make our marriage work,' she succeeded in spluttering as he seemed to be calming down. ‘I want another child as much as you do,' she lied convincingly. ‘But I do wish you'd be gentler with me. Show me that you love me as much as you say you do. And I swear on Alice's grave that I'm not sleeping with another man.'

He was glowering at her, his forehead dipped in a wary frown as he turned his head to study her sideways, his cheeks sucked in distrustingly. ‘Show me, then,' he rasped, releasing his grip.

Outrage, disgust, the triumph of deceit, pain, grief and an unfathomable despair. None of these and yet all of them were tangled about her soul as she stripped off her nightdress and stood naked before him.

Her spirit died as his hungry hands reached out . . .

‘R
ose?'

She couldn't hold the tender concern in those clear hazel eyes, and slowly averted her gaze. She wanted to lean against him, let him see her pain, soothe and comfort her wounded heart, but she must try to hide it from him, for there was nothing to be done. It was the same every time she managed to escape from Charles's jealous vigilance, meeting Seth at some pre-appointed hour, changing the venue but always nearer to Princetown now, since she could not rely on Charles's absence for long enough for her to ride to Peter Tavy and back. Ned, too, was a problem, as she had found to her cost that he would relay her movements to Charles, and it tested her ingenuity to have him out of the way, even if it meant spiking his tea with laudanum! She communicated with Seth through Molly, but often Seth would wait hours for her and she did not come. It was not always safe, and she must give Charles no grounds for suspicion. Once he had locked her in the bedroom again, but she had climbed out of the window, letting herself down on knotted sheets stripped from the bed, and then marched boldly into his study to smile at him audaciously.

The bruises had lasted for weeks.

And now she knew Seth would not be satisfied with a denial. She had winced when he had held her at arms' length as they found each other in the woods along the Walkham valley. It had been more than a fortnight since last they had managed to meet. The summer was drawing to a close, the stolen moments they snatched together the only flickering candle in the damning obscurity that her life had become. Half an hour at most they would sit and talk, no word or gesture of love passing between them. For it was impossible. A mere shaking of hands, or a natural touch of greeting, as just now, was all they allowed themselves.

But somehow, this time, the fight had gone out of her, her courage, her spirit exhausted. The memory of Charles's attack on her the previous night was too much. She had told him wearily not to bother to make love to her because her period had started, and he had lost his temper, cursing her for not being pregnant. And now she stood, her liquid eyes riveted on Seth's face as he unbuttoned her riding jacket and slid it from her trembling body, and then unfastened the shirt beneath just enough to slip it over her shoulders. Her stomach, already aching, constricted even further and her pulse beat fast but quietly as she watched Seth's eyes move downwards and he sucked the breath in through his teeth.

‘The bastard,' he muttered as he took in the livid finger marks on her arms and even around her neck, the scratches visible on the pearly skin above the neckline of her chemise, angry welts which he rightly guessed reached down to her breasts. His eyes met hers again. She thought she would drown in them, and hung her head in shame.

‘Not again, Rose.' His voice was thick, choked. ‘This can't go on. I can't just sit back and let . . .' He rolled his head with an agonized sense of helplessness, shaking his fists dementedly in the air before he let his arms drop limply to his sides. ‘You know, I was so livid that first time that I told Richard. I just had to tell someone! He flew into such a rage—'

‘
Richard?
But he always seems so . . .'

‘Yes, I know. But I think something else happened a long time ago that they never talk about. But he was so incensed that Beth and I physically had to restrain him. He was all for giving that bloody husband of yours a taste of his own medicine. Well, that's just how I feel, too. And how often has it happened since, tell me that, eh?' He shied away, his jaw clenched in maddened frustration. ‘I feel such a coward, doing nothing to protect you.'

He turned his back on her, his head tipped skywards and his eyes wildly searching the trees for an answer that simply wasn't there. Rose stepped up to him, her fingers patting the air in hesitation before she leant her cheek against his shoulder.

‘There's nothing to be done,' she whispered. ‘'Tis not your fault. 'Twill be better once I'm with child again.'

‘And what then?' he barely murmured. ‘I'll never see you once you have a family to care for. I just couldn't live, thinking of you under the thumb of that . . .' His voice faltered, and he gulped hard before he croaked, ‘You must know I love you, Rose.'

‘Yes.' The word was hardly breathed. Miserable, wretched. Lodging in her throat like a stone.

He spun round so suddenly that she started, her shoulders jerking backwards. ‘Then leave him,' he said gravely.

She blinked at him, and he watched her pupils widen. ‘What?' she mumbled.

‘Leave him. And come away with me.'

Her fine brow puckered, her eyebrows arched as she shook her head. ‘He'd find us,' she moaned piteously.

‘No, I mean
really
come away. America, South Africa. Wherever you want.'

His eyes were piercing earnestly into hers, and she felt the shiver reach down to her toes. ‘But . . .'

‘I know I'm a pretty poor catch. I've nothing to offer you but my love, but we could start a new life together. I'd work hard for you. We could travel under my real name. As Mr and Mrs Warrington. No one would know any different. We could sail on one of Adam's ships to France or Spain, so there'd be no passenger list for your husband to find us on, even if he knew what name to look for. Then we could take a ship from there. He'd never find us.'

He was speaking urgently, his expression sharp and alert as she stared at him, her eyes stretched wide. Escape. Travel. Adventure. But most of all, to be free. Her heart began to bang against her ribs, her reeling senses vibrating with each beat of her pulse. But . . . the
enormity
of it . . .

‘But . . . leave Dartmoor?' she stammered, the sadness stabbing into her soul. ‘I don't think . . .'

‘Yes, I know.' His voice was low, deep with understanding. ‘You'd have to leave the place you love. And all your friends. Without saying goodbye. It'd be best that way. We couldn't risk anyone knowing that we were leaving. Except Adam, of course, and Richard and Beth. They'd have to know.'

‘Oh.' Her white lips trembled and the world seemed to drop away as she felt herself swooning. But she was being supported, and she could hear Seth's heartbeat, strong and steady, as her head drooped against his chest. If she left, she would never have the chance to find Gospel. But was she likely to, after all this time? And she would have to leave Florrie and Joe and Molly, everyone she knew and loved.

‘The dogs?' she squealed desperately. But she knew the answer.

She felt the shock drain from her limbs, and acceptance trickled into the void. Seth was right. It was the only way, though it would break her. Shred her heart. And what did she
really
know of Seth? But
love
had touched her. And it was nothing like the uncertainty that had made her hesitate over Charles. This was so strong . . . With Seth beside her, there would be no more fear.

She lifted her head, and his dear, beloved face was there. Ready, waiting. Trusting.

‘Yes,' she croaked.

And when his lips brushed against hers with the softness of gossamer, she knew her heart was lost for ever.

Charles sauntered into his study to fetch a cigar to go with the large brandy he held in his other hand. He had to look over some papers his agent had sent him that morning, outlining an opportunity for investment in a new business enterprise in Exeter. The returns from the South African diamond mine were proving a major success, but he was always looking for new avenues to explore. It would certainly be more practical to keep an eye on something in Exeter than some of his other interests. Take the powder mills, which he knew so well now. And when he had studied the proposals, he would sit and drool over what he had in mind to do with Rose when he went up to join her in bed a little later. She was back ‘in working order' now, and he would make up for what he had missed. By God, he'd have a son out of her, and he'd bloody well enjoy the making of it!

Oh, drat it! The fire was nearly out. He went to ring the bell, but the thought of Rose's enticing, lithesome body exposed to his greedy eyes had put him in a good mood, and he supposed he was quite capable of rekindling the moribund embers. A pile of old newspapers was stored in the corner, and he languidly reached out for one and began to crumple the sheets into balls.

He stopped as if an electric charge had shot through his arm as his eyes focused on a minor headline.
Royal Pardon for Escaped Prisoner at Dartmoor
. The tiny print blurred as he forced his brain to concentrate on the short article below, and his heart jerked in his chest. He could not believe it. Yes. The very same. That damned bloody convict Rose had hidden in his own stable, under his very nose, had proved his innocence and had been released – over four months ago. Where was he? And
who
had helped him? Must have been someone on the outside, since a royal pardon was a bloody difficult thing to achieve.

There could only be one answer.

The strangling anger, the
hate
, grappled in Charles's throat and he had to tear open his necktie and collar as blood suffused into his face. Good God Almighty! That lying, cheating, whoring little harlot! He'd kill her! He could feel his fingers closing around her neck, throttling the life from her.

But that would be too good. He'd make her suffer first. Bloody well make her tell him who had helped her, since there was no way she could have done it alone! He'd deal with whoever it was later, but first of all, he'd deal with
her
! And he'd make her wish she had never been born!

‘I'm going into Exeter tomorrow,' he told Rose casually later that evening, when he had taken his fill of her raw, tender flesh. ‘A new business my agent has got wind of. I'll ride Tansy there. It's too far to go and come back in one day, so I'll probably stay overnight. I've told Ned he can take the day off if you don't need him. He can spend some time with that tart of his.'

Rose didn't reply. She was stinging and swollen from Charles's onslaught, for the mild consideration he had shown her just that once had long since been forgotten. She was so tired of it, and lay there in submission, as complaining only made things worse. How many more times would she have to suffer his attentions? Not too many, she prayed. Somehow, the notion that one day soon she might escape his clutches for good made it even worse. But she didn't feel the resentment, the fury, any more, just the humiliation and shame. Her head was full only of the plan to escape. Would it work? Was it the right decision? All she knew was that she could not possibly go on living – existing – the way she was.

So Charles and Ned wouldn't be there tomorrow. Her spirit should have soared, but it didn't. Charles had driven out the courage, the valour, that had once been Rose Maddiford. She waited half an hour after they had both departed, and then brought Honey in from the field, saddled her, and set off for Rosebank Hall. She went a different way now. The farm was a mile or so out of Peter Tavy up on the moor, and Richard had pointed out to her a more direct route following an old track now used by those men from Peter Tavy who had taken work at the new quarry at Merrivale.

Honey cantered along at a steady pace, and Rose sat astride her, devoid of all thought, her heart saddened. How many more times would she ride over her beloved Dartmoor again? Was it worth the sacrifice? Her vision misted with tears that spangled on her lashes in the early autumn sunshine, forlorn and despondent. But she would be free from Charles. She
had
to do it, but she would do it in great pain. And as time healed her, as she was sure it would, she would have Seth. Good, kind, gentle Seth, who wanted nothing from her. Who had kissed her just that one time, and fleetingly. But whose love had flowed into her in that precious moment and given her faith.