Riverrun (20 page)

Her throat became dry.

Kick him, she ordered herself; but her legs would not move.

His lips touched her brow again, moved down over the bridge of her nose to her lips and clung there. Patiently. Waiting. While she groaned in frustration at the stupidity of her drinking; and knowing that she could not blame all of this on the brandy. It was him; it was Forrester, working on her primal emotions with a cool detachment that fascinated and repelled her. Her lips moved. She knew she was not made of wood. Her teeth opened to admit his probing tongue. He was a man. A serpent of a man who entrapped her with his gaze and rendered her helpless, and there was no sense in struggling or the cold side of him that conducted his “business” would lash out and hurt her. Destroy her. Murder her.

She dropped her arms and his lips moved to her breasts while his hands slid down her sides to hold her waist. She tilted her head back against the wall and felt a quivering begin that traveled from her weakened knees to the muscles of her stomach. A spark grew, born of the liquor and the touch of his tongue, grew and flared and she felt herself grow hot, grow cold, felt the press of the coverlet against her back. as he moved her from the wall and laid her on the bed.

She opened her eyes once, and saw him smiling, and would have cried out if the fire had not engulfed her.

Chapter Twelve

C
ass did not awaken until just before noon; and when she did, her eyes flashed open, her hand reached out to the bed beside her—she was alone, and the house was quiet. The press of his lips, the explosions within her. She wanted suddenly to weep—not for the aching that lurked beneath her skull nor for the sand that seemed embedded in her mouth—but for what she had done, what she had allowed to be done to her. She felt sullied, raped as surely as if those men at The Tide had done the deed themselves. She spat dryly and flung aside the sheet and coverlet, groaned loudly and padded over to the basin on a small walnut table beside the dresser. Slowly, one hand to her forehead, she poured cold water from the flowered porcelain pitcher and dipped a cloth into it, sponging herself as best she could, the tears finally breaking their hold on her eyes and spilling down over her cheeks as she washed.

My God, she thought; what have I done?

She moved sideways to stand in front of the vanity mirror. Her reflection showed no marks from Forrester’s lovemaking, only those bruises and scratches she had received at the tavern. There was nothing to show her what had happened; it was as though he had never been. She was cold. No better than a drunken whore, she told herself; like a bitch in heat, a mongrel who can’t think of anything more than rutting. The farm is where you belong, Cassandra Bowsmith, with the rest of the animals.

She dressed slowly—in a dark blue garment edged at the neck and bodice in pearly gray lace, its high neck almost a penance—and moved downstairs to the kitchen where she forced herself to eat a light breakfast despite the protestations of a rebellious stomach.

And as she ate she scolded herself, rationalized, then realized that what had been done had been done, and she would be wasting valuable time attempting to pardon a besotted sin. Forrester would no doubt believe he’d mastered her; let him, then. For all the perverse twists of her downward plunging luck, this particular event could well turn out to be a double-edged sword. One she might be able to use to her advantage.

In the meantime there was still Eric.

She recoiled instantly from the notion that he might be dead, or that he had betrayed her with another woman. There was an explanation—there had to be—and to believe anything else would mean she’d nothing to live for, no need to continue.

No. She was wrong. It could not be. If her entire life depended upon Eric Martingale, and he was either gone or had betrayed her … no! She could not yet prove betrayal. There were other things, too: Lambert, Bobbie, Cal, Josh. She added a fifth to the list—Gerald Forrester. Hadn’t she told the Briton she wouldn’t rest until she’d exacted payment for the destruction of her family, her way of life? That, she reminded herself angrily, was the fight she was engaged in, not a struggle to lash Martingale to her side. There had to be priorities, then, though not necessarily what she would have them be. Cass, she told herself, her eyes narrowing in self-accusation, you’re slipping again. Are you so damned conceited that you can’t consider the possibility he might have changed his mind altogether—that he had paid the good captain to lie to you, that he did in fact sail?

And that, too, was wrong. He did not. Though she had no tangible proof, she had a sense—and that vague instinct told her whatever had happened to Eric had not happened because he had willed it. The mysterious woman the captain had mentioned; he could have been wrong, or she could exist and be perfectly innocent. Betrayal. She sighed, knew the first thing would be to learn as much about his vanishing, and— She put her head in her hands and took a deep breath. Easy, girl, she thought; take it easy. Too many problems, too much confusion. One thing at a time. She raised her eyes to the ceiling, thinking, and reached the inescapable conclusion that to do anything—from locating Eric to avoiding Geoff’s threats—she needed money, and more than she now possessed; there would be people to be hired, to be bribed, to move where she could not.

One thing at a time, girl. Remember what your father taught you.

T
he afternoon was a gray, grim harbinger of a storm that even now whipped the wind to a frenzy. Leaves were torn from the trees in violent gusts, scraps of debris were pinwheeled from the gutters to snap and hold themselves against pillars and fence posts. The black fringe of her white shawl fluttered helplessly, and her hair was loosened from its prim bun to flail across her face. She walked steadily, however, not letting herself stumble, noting with a slightly sardonic grin that carriages passed her less frequently now, and pedestrians without destination were few and far between. A platoon of horses rode swiftly by her, its guide lines borne defiantly by the young man in the lead. Mud was kicked up dangerously close to her skirts, but she paid it no mind, thinking instead of the rumors that had both Lee and Jackson preparing another northern thrust, toward Philadelphia and the industries she maintained, the port that was so valuable to the Union cause. Cass, however, discounted them all. From what David had told her, the Confederates were still retreating into the Virginia wilderness, shocked by the turnabout of their stunning loss at Gettysburg and looking for an opportunity to retrench before they were hounded to death. She remembered Geoffrey’s grudging admiration for the South’s leader, and for a moment wished that all these men would stop playing like children and come to their senses, end it now, once and for all, and let the world find its way back to normal.

She laughed silently. Normal was something that she feared her world would not be again. But she refused to let her mood darken like the sky, and when she entered Cavendish’s offices, she gave David a bright smile to help herself along. He was behind his high clerk’s desk when she came in. He grinned and clambered down from the stool in a hurry.

“Miss Bowsmith,” he said, his eyes shining. “What a pleasant surprise! What can I do for you?”

“I must see Mr. Cavendish,” she said. “Would you mind telling him that I’m here?”

“Well,” the young man said doubtfully, “I think he’s awfully busy today. He has a number of cases coming up in—”

“Please, David,” she said.

“He’ll be awfully put out. You don’t know him when—”

“Believe me, I can imagine,” she said patiently. “Listen, David, as a favor to me, will you please tell him I’m here?”

She followed her words with a trace of a smile that broadened when he flushed and nodded quickly. He turned with a gesture for her to wait, nearly tripped over the leg of his stool in his haste, and knocked on the plain, paneled door that led to his employer’s private rooms. When a faint voice answered sharply, he looked over his shoulder, grinned, shrugged, and vanished into the office. Before she even had time for a perfunctory glance around, he returned and beckoned to her anxiously.

“He’ll see you right away,” David said, not bothering to hide his surprise. “I’m not to let anyone disturb you.”

Her eyebrows lifted, but she kept silent as she swept by him. Just take it easy, she cautioned herself; he’s only a man, you know. For God’s sake, just be calm.

But after the door closed gently behind her, she was unable to prevent a band of iron from constricting her chest and making her lungs labor with anxiety. The room was lined with glass-fronted bookcases from floor to ceiling, the floor was carpeted, and several armchairs were scattered about in what seemed to her to be a haphazard fashion. In each of the corners were tall brass-and-marble pedestals upon which squatted lamps of amber glass, and on the back wall, where a window should have been, a tapestry depicted a unicorn hunt.

Cavendish was seated behind a large oaken desk trimmed in red leather and gold-and-silver inlay. A startling array of pens and scraps of paper were piled here and there in apparent disorder, and in a near corner, a pewter snuff box sat dwarfed by a humidor whose cap had been cast in the shape of a swooping hawk.

Cass was amused. Somehow, the wealth the office proclaimed did not stand easy beside the parsimonious image the lawyer had deliberately presented to her. She might have found the nerve to remark on it, but the old man rose then, and with a generous wave of his hand offered her the nearest chair, one thickly upholstered in puffs and ridges of a rich wine leather she had never seen before. She nodded, sat, and folded her hands almost primly in her lap after taking off the shawl and setting it neatly over the chair’s left arm.

“Miss Bowsmith,” Cavendish said, mopping at the back of his neck with a brilliantly white handkerchief, “I’m pleased that you’ve come today. In fact, truth be known, I was about to send for you myself, once this wretched storm was over and it was more suitable for you to walk. Please, will you have a glass of port? It’s quite good, actually. Comes directly from Madrid. That’s in Spain.”

Cass could do nothing but nod mutely. What was going on around here? Suddenly, as though his previous conferences had not even happened, she was being treated as though she were … well, a woman of property and social standing. Her eyes widened slightly when she accepted the glass offered her, lifted it to return his silent toast, and sipped. She dared not speculate; it would be too much like dreaming.

“Now,” the lawyer said. “Ladies first, as always. What can I do for you, Miss Bowsmith?”

“No,” she said suddenly, with a shy smile. “It can wait, sir. Please … why were you going to send for me? Is anything the matter? Don’t tell me I have to leave already; I’ve barely—”

“For heaven’s sake, woman, no, nothing like that at all.” He scowled, but shrugged off her reticence with an almost imperceptible rearrangement of his features. “I’ve had a busy day, you know,” he said, leaning back in his chair and cupping his hands around his glass. “Dawn to dusk, and everyone thinks I’m getting rich on it. Isn’t so, y’know. A lot of foolish people, like your dear aunt, have seen to that. I ain’t poor, o’course, but I’m not as rich as people would have me. Well off, I reckon, but that’s—”

“Mr. Cavendish,” Cass said, her smile now strained as she fought off the impression she’d been through this before. “You were going to send for me?”

“Ai, yes,” he muttered, pushing idly at a sheaf of papers in front of him. “Yes, well, you see … first thing today, when young David out there opened the office—a bright lad he is, had to pay a fortune to keep him off the conscription, you know—first thing, there was a messenger waiting with a package. Curious. They usually don’t come by that early. Especially on such a miserable day. All this rain, and the heat stays on in spite of it. Curious.”

“I’m sure,” she said dryly.

He harrumphed, sipped at his wine and stared at it in distaste. Then he cleared his throat, loudly. “Well, Miss Bowsmith, you can imagine my surprise when I discovered the package was addressed to me. And what do you suppose I found inside it?” He paused, staring at her as though daring her to interrupt again. “Money, Miss Bowsmith,” he said in nearly a whisper. “A good deal of money. More than I have seen in a long time. There was, in addition, a sheet of precise instructions for its use.”

“From one of your clients?” she guessed, confused now and impatient.

“Indeed not,” he answered peevishly. “My clients are not the sort to sneak about like that. The instructions, however, and the weight of the gold have led me to believe that you have, somewhere in this war-torn world, a benefactor. And a most generous one, I might add.”

“A benefactor?” It was her turn to stare. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, sir.”

“Miss Bowsmith,” and he shoved several papers affixed with a series of dark seals toward her, “if you’ll just sign these now, I think I can explain everything.”

“Of course,” she said, picking up the papers, “but after I read them first, if you don’t mind.” She ducked her gaze away from his frown, praying that something would soon begin to make sense. The room was far too warm without a window, the air was stifling, and she could feel perspiration running down her spine; the valley between her breasts. She touched a thumb to her chin and scanned the papers carefully; when she had done reading them a second time, she placed them back on the desk as though they were on fire. The warmth she now felt had nothing to do with the office’s air. Cavendish was grinning when she looked up. “I—” and she swallowed. “I don’t—” She shook her head to clear it of a dizziness that startled her in its intensity.

“I felt the same way,” the lawyer said, too loudly. “Quite naturally, my first impression was that it’s all a mistake, that they—whoever it is—had the wrong woman. My second thought, to be frank, was that whoever is doing this is quite mad, like poor old Abe’s wife, if you know what I mean. But—” and he spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. “The money is real, the instructions explicit.”

“Mr. Cavendish, are you sure?”