The Duke's Bedeviled Bride (Royal Pains Book 2) (15 page)

“Because I love him.”

The whip bit her flanks, making her grimace.

“You mean you lusted after him—and what you could gain from the union,” he said accusingly.

“That is untrue,” she protested. “I never gave the least thought to being a duchess.”

“But you thought about his cock often enough, I’ll wager.” He pressed the whip between her legs. “Admit it. You could not wait to spread your legs for him.”

There was truth in his statement, so she held her tongue.

“Answer me, you filthy whore.”

She remained stubbornly silent.

His eyes blazed as he pushed the tip of the crop into her body. “Answer me or I shall beat you inside and out.”

“Yes,” she blurted through her escalating fear. “I felt lust for him. Are you happy?”

“Happy?” He expressed a caustic laugh. “Did you just ask me if I am happy? I might have been had you not married my brother mere seconds after my ship left the dock.”

She met his heated gaze with an equally fiery one. “What else did you expect when you left me with no understanding, no assurance of your regard, and no date to expect your return?”

He arched an eyebrow and withdrew the whip. “And, if I had, would you have waited for me?”

“I would have waited for the man I believed you to be then,” she said, “but not for the man before me now.”

Throwing back his head, he released a cutting laugh. “You think me worse than my brother? Has he not told you the things he got up to at court? The drunken debaucheries? The endless whoring? The wild and frequent orgies? My God, he was once arrested for public indecency. How can you compare my scruples to his and find them wanting?”

“Robert may have his faults,” she ground out, ready to spit in his face, “but they do not include cold-heartedness or cruelty.”

“I beg to disagree.” Hugh’s eyes narrowed. “His cruelty caused our mother’s death—or has he never told you the story?”

“He has—to some degree—and deeply regrets the things he said to her that day.”

“Does he? Well, regrets will not bring her back from the dead, now will it? Nor will pretending he yet lives do the same for him.”

Robert could not be dead. She would not listen to these lies. Would not take them into her mind or her heart. Her husband would come back to her. She was sure of it.
 

Hugh walked around her again, flicking the whip against her midsection as he circled. “You used to be so naive, so unquestioning, so trusting. What happened to that sweet, adoring girl?”

“She grew up. And grew wiser.”

“I can see that.”

He shamelessly ogled her breasts before moving in to press his mouth against hers. When she failed to kiss him back, he let her go and brought the crop up hard betwixt her legs. The shock of the blow made her gasp.
     

She bit back the urge to retaliate. He would only punish her defiance with further vindictiveness and she could bear no more. She closed her eyes, shutting out him and the room.
 

Hugh repeatedly snapped the crop against her clitoris, delivering small, sharp nips of searing pain-encased pleasure.
 

She did not want to enjoy any part of his abuse, but her body had other ideas. Each bittersweet strike of the whip drove her closer to orgasm.

When she was trembling on the threshold, he stopped. She opened her eyes in time to see him opening his banyan. His erection sprang free, swollen and purple.

Taking his organ in his hand, he shook it at her accusingly. “Do you see what you’ve done to me with your whoring ways?”

Fear coursed through her as he stepped closer. To her relief, he did not attempt to penetrate her. Instead, to her great astonishment, he untied her.
 

She rubbed her chaffed wrists. The whole of her arms felt weak and tingled from the lack of blood.
 

As she shook them out, he said, as if to a dog, “Get down on the floor on your knees.”

Everything in her wanted to defy the order, to turn and flee, but she remained where she was. The situation called for reason, not rashness. She could not give him cause to lock her in here. She needed to get word to the outside world, to find Robert and warn him of his brother’s treachery.
 

Swallowing her dignity, she kneeled down. As he took his pleasure, her mind left her body and floated toward the ceiling. From there, she watched the proceedings with voyeuristic detachment. When he finished, she forced herself to swallow his revolting semen.

“Well done,
Rosebud
,” he said as he withdrew. “My brother has taught you well.”

“May I go now?” she asked, biting back her tears.

He laughed. “Not until Juliette has her turn. She was exceedingly displeased when you so rudely ran out on her the other evening.”

Without further comment, he dressed and left her in the chamber alone. Too spent and undone to disparage her dilemma, Maggie climbed onto the four-poster bed, hugged a pillow to her chest, and let the tears she’d been choking back flow freely.

She must have dozed off because, the next thing she knew, a cold draught awakened her. Opening her eyes, she found the face of Juliette’s maid mere inches from her own. The candles were still burning—or had been relit—and, in the soft amber glow cast by their flames, she could see the dark-haired maid wore naught but a green-satin corset and white stockings. Warm hands roamed over her buttocks—hands not belonging to the maid. A quick turn of the head revealed Juliette, similarly clad in corset and stockings.

Holy Mary. She was to be the filling betwixt two slices of French toast.

No sooner had the thought crossed Maggie’s mind than the maid moved in for a kiss. As their lips met, the maid took one of Maggie’s breasts in her hand whilst Juliette trailed soft kisses down the length of her back. She had to admit, the sensations the pair provoked were exceedingly sensual, especially after Hugh’s brutal treatment of her. Her flesh was still fevered from the fall of the whip and the vile flavor of his semen still lingered in her mouth.

She’d been so wrong about Hugh she could scarcely believe he was the same man she’d known. How could she have been so blind?

Now, she saw the truth as clearly as a holy vision. Hugh was the devil and Robert the angel—a tortured, dark angel, to be sure, but still an angel. Her fallen angel in need of redemption. She needed his strength just as badly. God, how she wished he were here with her now.

Sudden longing ensnared her with such overpowering intensity she could scarcely draw breath. Breaking free of the maid’s lips, Maggie rolled onto her back with a heavy sigh. Both women came over her and peppered her breasts with kisses.

“Pourquoi si triste, ma chère?”
Juliette asked with a pout.

“Je ne comprends pas,”
Maggie replied dully.
 

“She asks why you are sad,” the maid interpreted.

Maggie met Juliette’s shimmering blue gaze. “Because I miss my husband something terrible.”

“Tu l’aimes beaucoup?”

Maggie looked to the maid for the translation. “She asks if you love your husband very much.”

“Oui.”
Maggie turned back to Juliette.
“Beaucoup.”

The ladies took turns kissing, fondling, and
gamahuching
her and each other until they tired of the game, after which Hugh returned with three dressing gowns.

Once Maggie was covered, he escorted her through the castle to the bedchamber she’d occupied whilst still a ward of the family.

The room was small and furnished with only a narrow bed set into the wall, an armchair, and a dressing table. Staring blankly into the flickering orange flames, she thanked God they’d at least had the decency to put her in a room with a fireplace.

“Why have you brought me here instead of to my own bedchamber?”

“Because, as I told you before, Juliette is now mistress of Balloch Castle and, as such, shall occupy the room adjoining mine.”

So, they’d stolen her and Robert’s chambers along with everything else. She should have expected as much. She just prayed they got their just desserts in the end. Well, Hugh, anyway. She could not wish ill to befall Juliette, who, though spoiled and selfish to be sure, had not been overtly unkind to her.

Not yet, leastwise.

But God alone knew what cruelties she might be capable of.

“I have also dismissed all your servants—apart from the housekeeper, who seems too slow-witted and docile to make trouble.”

Mrs. McQueen was anything but stupid, not that Maggie planned to tell Hugh as much. She needed an ally to help her get word to the outside world. Would the housekeeper assist her in defiance of her new lord and master? There was no knowing until she asked, assuming she got the chance. She just prayed Mrs. McQueen would put her loyalty to her real employers above her loyalty to Hugh.

“You and she are now equals in this household,” he said. “You serve me now, Maggie. You have forfeited all right to privacy or concealment. Thus, your bedchamber door will remain unlocked at all times, and you will dress in the daylight hours in a manner befitting your station. Which is that of a servant. At night, you will be restrained—to ensure you attempt neither to escape nor relieve your sexual frustration, which—if I have my way—will be considerable. If you defy me in any manner whatsoever, I shall whip you bloody, cut out your tongue, and sell you to a brothel in Paris. Do I make myself clear?”

Maggie was too dumbstruck to answer. Surely, this was a nightmare from which she would soon awaken. Though, admittedly, Hugh’s threats seemed as real as the burning in her backside.
 

He removed Maggie’s robe and fondled her breasts like she was a toy meant for his amusement. Her double-crossing nipples, already hardened by the cold, responded in a way that made her boil with loathing. The sisters had oft told her the flesh was weak and now she understood what they’d meant. The body could be too easily drawn into temptation, but she was not her body. She was the immortal being that dwelled inside the shell of flesh—the part still connected to God.

And that part was stronger than iron.

Stepping back from her, Hugh gazed upon her nude body with a smirk of disdain. “Behold the illegitimate doxy who thought herself too good for the second son of a duke.”

Before she could defend herself, he withdrew from the pocket of his banyan a pair of leather bracelets connected by a length of chain with a hook. Seizing both her hands, he clapped the bracelets onto her wrists before again reaching into his pocket. This time, he took out a piece of chain roughly the size of a choker. This, he fastened around her neck.

He then connected the hook at her wrists to the chain encircling her throat and turned her toward the bed.

Her bowels knotted when she noticed the length of chain dangling from the ceiling of the compartment.
 

He led her to the bed, helped her to lie down, and, as she feared he would, attached the hanging chain to the one she wore. The leash was so tight she could do little beyond rolling from one side to the other. She settled on her right side, choosing to face the room for now.

“Until tomorrow.”

At that, he blew out the candle and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Lying on her side, alone and frightened for herself, her husband, and her unborn child, Maggie plowed the field of her mind for ways to escape, but came up with no promising ideas. Even if she could get away from her captor, she had nowhere to go and no way to get there even if she did. Had she a carriage, she might set off for London to look for Robert herself, but, alas, she did not. And, even if she did, she did not know the way or how to drive a team of horses. She also could not ride, so attempting the long journey on horseback was equally impossible.

No, her best chance was her first thought: to attempt to smuggle out a letter. When she’d be granted the privacy to compose such a plea or hand it off to Mrs. McQueen—assuming the housekeeper would help her—was anybody’s guess.
 

Sniffing back her tears, she turned over slightly on her stomach and tried to think what she would write, but vivid memories of the indignities she’d been subjected to over the past few hours overshadowed her plotting. There was more in store for her tomorrow and naught she could do beyond praying for deliverance.

She just hoped the powers of heaven would not turn a deaf ear to her plea.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and recited the Breastplate of St. Patrick, a protective prayer she’d learned at the convent.

I armor myself today with the power of the Most Holy Trinity, in the oneness of God, Creator of the universe. I armor myself today with the baptism of Christ, his crucifixion and resurrection, his ascension and glorious second coming.

I armor myself today with God’s guidance to direct me, God’s might to sustain me, God’s wisdom to instruct me; God’s word to give me speech, God’s shield to protect me; God’s army to defend me, against the snares of demons, against the lure of vices, against all who plot me harm.

I invoke all these virtues today against every hostile and merciless power that may assail me, against the incantations of false prophets, against the black laws of heathenism, against the false laws of heresy, against the deceits of idolatry, against every art and spell that binds the soul to evil.