The Duke's Bedeviled Bride (Royal Pains Book 2) (14 page)

’Twas now close to nightfall on 17 November, a full se’nnight later than he’d expected to arrive in London, but at least he was still in one piece—more than could be said for his attackers. He would call at the palace on the morrow. Tonight, he’d seek lodging and a private chapel where he might find absolution for the blood on his hands. Killing in self-defense might not be a crime by the letter of the law, but ’twas still a sin in the eyes of the Lord.
   

The area round the Strand seemed a good bet. During his days at court, several highborn Catholics in that part of town maintained private chapels, which they made available for worship and prayer to those in the know. With any luck, the practice had not rendered obsolete by the current climate of hatred.

Within half an hour, Robert had located a suitable inn with a vacancy and, once his trunk was safely inside, he dispatched the coachman and postilion to the livery yard whilst he set off to find a chapel.

The night was so cold his breath formed white clouds. The sidewalk was unusually crowded and the air reeked of rubbish and wood smoke. He kept one hand on the dagger in his waistband and the other on the prayer beads in the pocket of his heavy velvet coat. The pearl-and-silver rosary had belonged to his mother, and he would not be deprived of his most precious possession by either pickpocket or poor tailoring.

Though the horde of pedestrians slowed his progress, he eventually made it to the chapel. There was no priest about, so he knelt at the rail before the altar and, using the beads in his pocket, prayed all ten decades of the Rosary whilst meditating upon the Sorrowful Mysteries.
 

When the prayer was finished, he got to his feet, crossed himself, and left the chapel and the great house to which the sanctuary belonged. Back on the street, the crowd had grown significantly in number and boisterousness and seemed to be moving in a particular direction. Flacons of wine were being passed among seeming strangers, which struck him as extremely odd. Curiosity aroused, he followed along to discover what might be afoot.

As he walked, he racked his brain for an explanation. Then, he remembered. This was the anniversary of Queen Elizabeth’s accession to the throne. Elizabeth, a devout protestant, had executed her Catholic cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, on trumped-up charges of treason—after keeping her locked up for almost twenty years.

Mary, Queen of Scots, he realized then with a chill, had been a distant grandmother of Maggie’s.

Alarm bells sounded inside his head. Festivities marking the ascension of a staunch Protestant monarch were an imprudent place for him to be. He tried to turn back, but the crush of bodies prevented his retreat. He pushed forward instead, hoping to discover what lay at the head of the procession.

Someone started ringing a bell whilst crying out, “Remember Justice Godfrey.”

An ice-cold snake slithered down Robert’s backbone.

Justice Godfrey was the London magistrate found murdered shortly after being assigned to investigate the conspiracy charges brought by that lying snake Titus Oates, who claimed several Jesuit priests and lords were plotting to assassinate the king so his brother could accede the throne that much quicker.
 

How could anybody take that defrocked clergyman at his word when he’d never spoken the truth in the whole of his life?

Robert ground his teeth together and clenched his fists. The mere thought of Oates’ contrived allegations and the blind stupidity with which they’d been substantiated made him seethe with rage.
 

Then, something struck him like a blow to the chest. This pageant had naught to do with Queen Elizabeth. This was some sort of anti-Catholic demonstration.

God’s wounds! He tore at the lace cravat encircling his neck, which all at once felt as tight as a hangman’s noose.

As the crowd marched from Moorgate to the North of the City, pulling him along like a strong current, he pushed closer to the front. What met his gaze sickened him. Torchbearers at least a hundred strong and a parade of elaborate effigies.

Godfrey’s body followed by a Jesuit on horseback; a priest offering pardons to all who murdered Protestants; a troop of assorted monks and friars, including six Jesuits brandishing bloody daggers; eight Bishops and six Cardinals in resplendent robes; the queen’s physician (rumored to be involved in the Jesuit plot); two more priests and finally, the Holy Father himself, escorted by two devils.

From the yowling emanating from the figure’s belly, he could only deduce the effigy was filled with live cats, which the organizers undoubtedly intended to burn alive for the sound effects—a terrible noise to mimic the pope’s alleged dialogue with the devils.

The throng now numbered in the thousands. Nay, the tens of thousands, and was growing steadily more drunken and rowdy. His escape still blocked by the tightly packed mob, he marched with them through Cheapside past the Royal exchange.

They came to a stop near the new stone gateway at Temple Bar. Robert did not want to see what would happen next, did not want to be here at all. He longed for the quiet and safety of his inn, now on the far side of the city. Perhaps if he could fight his way out of this mob, he could hail a cab to convey him back to the Strand.

He did his best, feeling like a salmon swimming through a barrel of sardines. Progress took an eternity, but at last he reached the edge of the throng. He was sweating profusely despite the cold and his heart hammered with such force he feared the organ might burst from his chest. As he broke free, he took a breath to calm his frazzled nerves.
 

The crowd cheered—a riotous uproar. The air was smoke-filled and fire-scented. They’d started burning the effigies. He cared not. He only wanted to get away. As he glanced about for a hackney coach, a man bumped his shoulder. As suspicion niggled, he checked his pocket. Outrage flared when he found his mother’s rosary gone. He spun round, ready to pursue the thief. There was no need to give chase. The man who’d robbed him stood a few feet away with the rosary dangling from his upthrusted hand. With the other hand, he pointed at his mark.

“He’s a papist, he is,” the crook shouted at the top of his voice. “One of the king’s lackeys, I’ll wager, come to play the spy.”

Several men broke free of the pack and came toward him in a menacing manner. From his belt, Robert drew his dagger and jabbed the air to keep them at bay.
 

“Stay back,” he warned. “I’ve got more than enough blood on my hands already.”

“A spy and a murderer,” one of them said. “Well, well. I’d expect no less from a bloody papist.”

“I am no spy,” Robert insisted. “Only an average citizen going about his business.”

“Right,” another one chimed in. “And I’m Justice Godfrey, back from the dead. Or, better yet, Jesus Christ himself!”

“If you’re Christ, I’m doubting Thomas,” another voice jeered.

There were more of them now, coming at him from every direction. Then, three or four of them rushed toward him. For several tense moments, he held them off with his blade. Not far behind him was a street corner. He backed toward it—inch by inch.

The men whispered and muttered amongst themselves. Then, two of them rushed him whilst the others went round to cut off his escape. Terror gripped Robert by the throat. He was surrounded and vastly outnumbered. There was no chance this would end well for him.

An arm flung round his neck, cutting off his wind. He jabbed the dagger blindly at his attacker over his shoulder. The man screamed and something warm spurted over his neck and the back of his head. The arm binding him fell.
 

Two more came at him, but he eluded them with a quick turn. Stooping, he picked up a stone and hurled it into the midst of his assailants. A bellow of pain and anger rose from the group. When he bent to grab another rock, someone jumped him from behind, knocking him to the ground. The whole lot descended like a pack of hungry wolves. Boots struck him everywhere, setting fires of pain in his shins, thighs, buttocks, wame, and ribs. He curled in upon himself and did his best to cradle his head. They were mad with drink and hatred. They clearly meant to kill him, and there was naught he could do save make his peace with God.

Dómine, non sum dignus, sed tantum dic verbo, et sanábitur ánima mea.

Lord, though I am unworthy, only say the word and I shall be healed.

Robert repeated the line over and over in Latin as the assault went on and on. Then, something struck him in the head. Pain shot across his skull. Warmth seeped along his scalp. The crowd quieted. Nay, everything stopped, including time. Another blow struck his head with blinding force. A golden nimbus appeared behind his eyelids. Inside the frame of light was his mother’s visage.

“Come home, my dearest boy,” she said. “All is forgiven.”

Chapter Eight

“My brother stole you from me,” Hugh told a frightened Maggie. “You should have been mine all along—and now, at long last, you are. To do with exactly as I please.”

They were in the flagellation chamber, she trembling on her knees in naught but her shift, he lording over her in a pair of breeches with her favorite riding crop in hand.
 

“What will my duties be?” she inquired, her voice as shaky as her nerves.

“Light housekeeping, waiting on us at table, and whatever else we might need.”

“You cannot be serious.”

He laughed again, a cruel sound. “And yet I am. Deadly serious. Now, give me your hand.”

Seeing no other choice, she reluctantly gave him her hand.

Taking it in his, he turned her palm face up, stepped back, and brought the crop down.

She flinched at the sharp sting, but swallowed her cry. The nuns had done much worse with a tawse before they’d reduced her to tears.

Hugh glowered down at her as if she was an ill-behaved servant. “You will not defy me—and should accustom yourself to speaking of my brother in the past-tense. For I have reason to believe he did not survive the journey to London.”

She sank her front teeth into her lower lip, biting back the strong urge to contradict him. She must put on a brave face. God only knew what he was capable of, though she had a sinking feeling she’d find out sooner than she cared to.
 

He took her by the elbow and, after helping her to her feet, he led her to the center of the chamber, where a pulley attached to two ropes hung from the ceiling.

“What are you going to do to me?”

He pulled down the ropes. “A servant who knows her place asks no questions. Now, raise your hands above your head and hold your tongue.”

She obeyed the command without delay.
 

Standing very close, he secured the ropes around her wrists. His breath smelled of ale and his body of perfume—strong enough to make her retch. She swallowed the urge, fearful it might tip him off to her condition. At this point, she would put naught past this new Hugh.

He stepped back and gazed at her with an unsettling mixture of loathing and lust. Or, was triumph what she read in his eyes? Whatever she perceived, his expression made her feel as helpless and vulnerable as she had at the convent.

“You look tempting like this, Maggie.” He walked a circle around her suspended form. “I am starting to see the appeal of my dearly departed brother’s vices.”

Standing before her again, he hooked a finger into the neckline of her shift and pulled hard enough to break the drawstring. The soft linen neckline fell down to expose her bosoms. Taking one breast in each hand, he squeezed hard enough to make her flinch before dragging his thumbs over her nipples.

“How do you like being under my power?”

“I dislike it exceedingly,” she bit out through clenched teeth

He stepped slowly around her, encircling her waistline with the tip of the crop. On the second turn, he stopped behind her and pushed the handle betwixt her thighs. Slapping the whip to and fro, he said, “Widen your stance.”

When she did as instructed, he withdrew the whip and brought it up with a snap—against her sex. She gasped and pulled against her restraints as the shock of the blow careened through her body.

“How dare you!”

He raised the whip in a threatening manner. “Hold your tongue or I shall beat you into submission.”

He brought the crop down on her nipples, one after the other.

She gritted her teeth and thrashed her head. He could do as he pleased to her body, but she would not let him break her spirit. The sisters of St. Teresa’s had failed in the effort and so would he.

He dragged the soft leather flap of the crop down her body to the hem of her shift, which he lifted to the apex of her thighs. Pushing the whip betwixt her legs, he bent to capture a nipple with his mouth. As he sucked and teased the erogenous flesh with punishing vigor, he rubbed the whip’s hard handle against her vulva. She felt only scorching affront.
 

He let go of her breast and returned to his full height. “Did you enjoy that?”

“No.”

Withdrawing from her, he moved around to the rear and slapped the crop against her buttocks. “You are a liar as well as an upstart. And a very slow learner. I am beginning to see why my brother did not take the trouble to educate you properly. And speaking of my brother, I must know why you married him after I warned you not to.”