Bride (46 page)
Glory's hands sank between her legs and she gritted her teeth. She saw Buttercup lift Mr. Smith's ballocks and squeeze. And he behaved as if he loved everything she did. He dropped to push his face into her crotch, all the while pinching and squeezing her breasts as though he'd never had the best there was to have already.
Then it was Buttercup on her knees making a feast of Mr. Smith's cock. And him wearing no cundum for a kitchen skivvy the way he did for the likes of Glory Willing, who'd served him well.
He would pay.
“How would you like to make me really happy?” Mr. Smith asked.
Buttercup nodded her idiot head and allowed him to lift her on the table. Hopping up beside her, he tied her hands to a drying rack suspended from the ceiling.
The girl pretended to cross her legs and whimper.
“Frightened, are we?” Mr. Smith said.
It was a game he was only supposed to play with Glory. She opened her mouth, then covered it to muffle her panting.
The game was to see how many times Mr. Smith could watch Glory have it before he gave her what they both wanted. Only, this time he wasn't doing it with Glory.
He suckled Buttercup's pale nipples until she pulled frantically at the ropes about her wrists, and when she begged for him, he gave her what she wanted with his tongue. Then it was fingers, and more fingers.
Glory felt for a chair and sat on the edge of its seat. She would watch it all and never forget. And afterward she'd have the strength to do what she'd have to do.
Sitting between Buttercup's splayed legs, Mr. Smith gave it to her with a pastry brush, inciting fresh moans of pleasure with every sweep of those lovely bristles. He'd never been that inventive with Glory.
The glass rolling pin made the girl scream and jerk. But nevertheless she shuddered with her release.
“Ready for me now, my
dove?”
Mr. Smith asked.
Rage sickened Glory. He used their special name on this slut, treated her as if she was better than Glory.
He released Buttercup from the rack. Stretching her out, facedown on the table, he plastered himself on top of her and they heaved and groaned like filthy animals.
When Glory finally crept away, Mr. Smith was sitting on the edge of the table with Buttercup astride his thighs.
“W
hatever they want, they shall have,” Calum told Arran. “But surely we can negotiate a later delivery. I shall need to make a journey to London.”
“We must meet their appointed time for the initial payment.” Arran gazed at the night sky from the windows at the top of the Adam Tower. Too few hours would bring the dawn. “A sizable show of goodwill, as they put it. Before the sun rises. With the balance to be paid as ordered. What they ask for can be assembled within the hour. My father always believed in keeping what he termed ‘a fund for small emergencies,’ readily to hand.”
“Small
emergencies?” Calum almost managed to smile. The letter in Arran's hand scuttled the effort. “The so-called show of goodwill is a fortune. Enough to keep ten men in high style for a lifetime.”
“Let them have it. Struan and Justine are worth any price we have to pay.”
“Amen,” Calum said softly. “But we must prepare ourselves. They may already be dead.”
The obvious had been unspoken between them since Buttercup had presented them with the terrifying missive when they arrived back from their respective useless searches for Ella.
“I have a plan to unmask this devil,” Arran said. “The necessary gold and jewels are already in a form easy to transport. Loading them into a cart will be a simple enough task. But, instead of you and me making the delivery, we will send two others who will be mistaken for us. We shall lie in wait. When the bounty is recovered, we'll follow.”
Calum drew an uneven breath. “What if we are seen? They warned us to tell no one about the contents of the letter. We cannot risk angering them.”
“Do you believe these villains will keep their word?” Arran turned his clear green eyes upon Calum. “Or do you suspect your beloved sister and my dear brother may only live until their captors are certain they do not need to produce them to press the claim?”
“The latter,” Calum admitted.
Deliberate footsteps sounded on the steps from the floor below. Calum regarded Arran significantly. Arran gave a brief nod and they faced the open doorway. “I took the liberty of summoning the man I know Struan would choose.”
Brother John, his thin face bearing the lines of deep concern, came into the tower room and approached the two friends. “You wished to see me?” He clasped his hands together as if in prayer. “You are desperately troubled. I see the signs in your faces.”
“Forgive us for calling you from your bed at such an hour,” Arran said. “We have a favor to ask of you.”
“Anything. Anything at all. I take it there is no sign of the young lady? We had no good fortune by the river.”
“No sign,” Calum told him, turning away. “I agree with your plan, Arran. Explain it to Brother John. I think the sky begins to lighten.”
In a cart loaded with boxes and trunks of treasure, the monk—with Mr. Nudge, the butler from the lodge—left the castle within forty minutes of the interview in the tower room.
Mounted, Arran and Calum waited at the castle gates, counting off the interval they'd agreed should lapse before they followed Brother John and Mr. Nudge. Brother John had chosen Nudge as a companion over Robert Mercer because—by the monk's logic—Nudge had no family to cloud his judgment and the man was devout and trustworthy.
“Seems to me we should be on the heels of the cart,” Calum said. “If we're too late, they'll make away with their haul and we may never hear from them again.”
Secretly, Arran agreed, but he was reluctant to alter a plan made with Brother John when the man had so willingly accepted a potentially deathly assignment.
Uneven hoofbeats approached from behind. Calum wheeled about more quickly than Arran and let out an oath. “I don't believe it. Good God, what is
she
doing here at this hour?”
Arran crossed his arms on his horse's neck and watched his mother-in-law's ungainly progress toward them through the predawn. Swathed in great quantities of orange velvet trimmed with swansdown and with white feathers floating about the brim of her bonnet, she bore down with a determined expression upon her usually vacuous face.
“Mother-in-law,” he greeted her shortly. “I didn't know you were in the habit of taking early-morning rides—very early-morning rides—and alone.”
She brought her rotund chestnut to a jerky hah. “I prefer not to ride at all. And I'll thank you not to take a high-handed tone with me, young man, unless you wish me to complain to my daughter.”
Arran was in no mood for foolishness, but he restrained a quick retort.
“Coming to you with this matter was not a simple decision,” Blanche said, puffing at drooping feathers. “But I am a woman of conscience and conviction. When the matter of right is at stake, I have no choice but to put my own welfare aside.”
“Really?” The response was irresistible.
Calum moved restlessly in his saddle. “I think you should return to the castle, Mrs. Bastible. Riding alone is not a good idea, and I fear Arran and I have important business to conduct.”
“That is why I am here.” She shook her head. “Such a disappointment. Brother John showed promise, I thought. At first he seemed charming. I have always had a tender place in my heart for men of the cloth. You will remember that my dear late husband was—”
“Yes,” Arran interrupted. “Are you saying you have developed a
tendre
for the good brother?”
Blanche blushed appropriately. “I know monks do not marry, but I did think we might have developed a most … a most complementary relationship. One that would have brought us both a deal of comfort.”
Arran avoided looking at Calum.
“I count myself an excellent judge of character, but in this case I admit I may have been badly mistaken.”
“About Grably?” The woman never made sense.
Blanche settled herself more firmly on the chestnut. “These are not simple things to discuss, but yes. I have not been able to sleep worrying about that poor, missing child. She is a polite little thing and treats me with a respect I rarely receive from certain people.” A meaningful pause elapsed before Blanche continued. “Anyway, I happened to hear you return and get some sort of communication from that dreadful Buttercup creature. Then I saw Brother John and that fearful Nudge leave the castle with you close behind. I came as quickly as I could. Viscount Hunsingore and his wife have been kidnapped, haven't they?”
Calum put a hand on Arran's arm. “We do not have time for this.”
“You do not have time to ignore this, Your Grace. If my instincts are correct, you had best allow me to be your guide before it is too late.”
“You eavesdropped, madam,” Calum said. “And you have no idea what you're saying. No more do I.”
“I'm saying that Grably and that Buttercup
know
each other. As in they
know
each other. In the biblical sense.”
Arran regarded the woman with fresh interest. “How—”
“I saw them.” Blanche pursed her lips. “Once I realized what manner of man he was, I decided I should keep an eye on his activities. There are things about him that do not bear repeating. He also knows that woman to whom Lady Justine gave refuge at the lodge. We are wasting time. Unfortunately I had to dress or I should have joined you sooner. Follow me, please.”
She rode off.
“D'you suppose it's true?” Calum asked.
“Damned if I know. But if the man is a fake … Well, I suppose a little harmless rutting with a willing maid is to be excused …”
“Come along!” Blanche shouted. “Do you think he and Nudge—who also
knows
that young romp Buttercup—do you think they intend to deliver your precious ransom? Perhaps they do, but we should not wait to be certain.”
Justine could not bear to look away from Struan for an instant. If it was intended that these were their last hours—or minutes—together, then she would go from the world with the image of his face in her head, her heart, and her soul.
“Thank you,” she told him softly.
“For what, dearest?” Struan soaked a rag in wine and gave it to her. “Hold this. If I give the word, press it over your nose and mouth.”
“Thank you for becoming a part of my life. Thank you for sharing yourself with me and teaching me to believe I could be whole.”
“You are whole.” Gently, he pushed her down on a pile of tartan he'd placed just inside the mouth of the cave. “It is almost time. If he comes as he said he would, it will be soon. He will either enter the cave and I shall attack him, or he will set fire to the bales. If he does the first, you will remain where you are until I have subdued him. If it is the fire, then I shall make a way out for us. You will hold the rag to your face and follow directly behind me. Once outside, roll on the ground to extinguish any flames on your clothes. Do you understand?”
She smiled at him and nodded. She understood that they were probably going to die together, but Struan would try until the very end to save her.
Struan leaned against the wall, his eyes narrowed. He put a finger to his lips and waved for her to be still.
The horrible scraping noises came.
Justine kept her eyes on Struan's face and prayed. At least if it were the fire, the outcome would be predictable. A fight between Grably and Struan could not be fair, since one man had a pistol and accomplices waiting outside, while the other had only his bare hands.
The first thing to enter the cave was Grably's pistol.
The rest of Grably followed rapidly.
Struan grabbed the hand holding the pistol and hauled Grably inside, tossing him in a somersault that landed the man on his back across the trunk.
Justine screamed and promptly rammed the wine-soaked rag against her lips.
Wood splintered beneath the sprawling man's weight. Instantly Struan was upon him. The two rolled, over and over, Struan grappling to gain the pistol. Grably's sinuous fingers kept their grip.
Dragging the monk—once more in his habit—to his feet, Struan dashed him against the jagged wall of the cave and slammed his hand into a knife-sharp rock. Grably's face contorted, but he did not release the weapon.
“Glory!” Grably screamed. “Bottwell!”
Struan glanced over his shoulder—and Grably smashed his knee upward between his opponent's legs. The cry that issued from Struan sent Justine's hands to her face.
While Struan slipped to the floor and doubled over, Grably made a dash for the cave entrance. Almost at once Justine heard him pulling a bale into place.
“Struan, come on!” She looked from him to the narrowed band of light stretching from the outside and rushed for the light.
With his back to her, Grably was lighting a torch near the edge of the trail. Justine could see that the cave was tucked away above a sheer drop that fell many feet to the valley floor below.
Grably had shoved his pistol into the rope at his waist. Bottwell and Glory were nowhere in sight. The taper Grably held blew out. He cursed violently and started again.
Trembling so that her teeth clattered, Justine inched closer. With bile rising in her throat, she clambered upon Grably's back and knocked the pistol from his cincture.
“Damn you to hell!” he shouted, swinging, tearing at her skirts. For an instant they teetered between the trail and the void that would surely kill them both.
Grably staggered back. “Get off me, you hellcat! I should have let Bottwell have you last night. Glory! Bottwell! Get down here. And you, Nudge! Leave Buttercup.”
A jumble of scree dashed from beneath Grably's feet to clatter and dance into space.
No one came.
Justine held on, inching higher, then yanked his hair with one hand. With the other hand she reached around to gouge his eyes.
Grably screamed. With a savage heave, he threw her off and fell upon her, pummeling her face, ripping her clothes.
Again and again Justine's head pounded the rock-strewn ground. Still she kicked and fought him.
