The Rebel Bride (27 page)

She suddenly screamed, her voice hoarse with terror. She struggled frantically, wildly, to free herself of him. He drew back quickly in surprise, for he knew he hadn’t hurt her. But his own desire was now an insistent throbbing. Though he felt her fear, he refused to withdraw from her. Slowly he allowed himself to ease deeper inside her. In the next instant he realized with undeniable certainty that she had no maidenhead.

His wife wasn’t a virgin. He jerked back, dumbfounded. No, he thought frantically, he must be mistaken. But her fear, her wild struggles, seemed to betray her. She had deceived him. Savage, uncontrolled fury swept over him. She’d given herself to another man, or was it to other men? God, how very gentle and careful he was, seducing his innocent, virgin wife.

With no further thought, he thrust deep within her, oblivious of her cries of pain. He tore through the small, tight passage, ripping her in his frenzy. He gripped her hips in his hands, his fingers digging into her flesh, and forced her body upward to take all of him. He pushed until he was touching her womb, and still the fury pounded deep within him, angry betrayal, such a sense of hopelessness that he couldn’t help it, couldn’t help himself, the hatred he felt for his own blindness, for her perfidy, for her mocking of him, which was what her coy denials all were, naught more than a harlot’s teasing. He wanted quite simply to hurt her, to punish her.

He cried out as his own release clutched at him, holding him in its grip for a brief moment. He drove into her with all his strength, spewing his seed deep within her body. Finally spent, he let himself fall on top of her, his head next to her cheek on the pillow.

As if from a great distance, he heard her crying, low ugly sobs. His fury slowly receded, and with it the cruel, animal savagery. Slowly he eased himself off her and stood staring down at her, his mind hollow with blank
despair. His wife. His innocent young virgin wife. God, what a mockery. She was no longer crying, and he thought her unconscious, so quietly did she lie, until she tried to bring her legs together in a weak, futile gesture.

He gazed bleakly at her exquisite body, wanting to laugh at his own folly, his overweening pride. Bitter laughter mixed with despair in his throat and he turned abruptly away from her. Now he knew why she hadn’t wanted him to touch her. It was not fear as a frightened virgin or a misbegotten desire to thwart him as her husband, but rather her dread that he would discover that he wasn’t the first man to be her lover. His hands clenched at his sides. He wanted to shake the truth out of her. Who had been the man to possess her? God, not that bumptious ass Bleddoes, surely not him. Kate herself had laughed at his tenacious courtship of her. But who?
Who?

Julien was shaking. Never before in his life had he so completely lost control of himself. He turned back, almost unwillingly, to look at his wife, suddenly sickened with himself. He’d raped her, Jesus, he hadn’t intended that, no never that, but he had. He’d planned so carefully to teach her pleasure, to force her to realize that she was a woman with a woman’s passions, and he had, he’d given her immense pleasure. He’d planned to reveal himself to her afterward. His jaw tightened in renewed anger at her. There had been no need to teach her passion. God, she had forced him to go to such lengths because of her lies, her deceit.

For a long moment he cursed her silently, trying to counter the nagging disgust he felt at his own actions with her unforgivable perfidy. Suddenly he became aware of the time. He thought it now impossible to reveal himself to her. He must get her back to the villa. Yes, he had to do that first, then think, then decide what to do.

Julien removed the vial and cloth from the pocket of his coat, doused the cloth thoroughly, and walked to the bed. As he bent over her, she thrashed her head wildly to avoid the cloth. He grasped her firmly and brought the soaked material over her nostrils. In but a moment
she was quiet. He held the cloth against her face for several minutes to be certain that she would not awaken too quickly.

He lifted the cloth and let it drop to the floor. Quickly he untied the blindfold and pulled it away. He stopped short, realizing that it was wet with her tears. His proud Kate. Her long, thick lashes were wet spikes against her cheeks, and her pale skin was blotched with the streaking tears. There was a small drop of blood on her lower lip, bitten in her pain.

Julien forced himself to look away. With shaking fingers he untied the silken bonds from about her wrists, wincing at the dark, mean red welts. His eyes traveled to between her thighs. Mingled with his seed were dark traces of blood. He’d used her fiercely, but why would she bleed? She wasn’t a virgin, there’d been no maidenhead. He didn’t know.

He quickly bathed her and placed the cover over her body. He shrugged himself into his clothes and drew out his watch. A sense of unreality seized him. He’d had her with him but three hours. It seemed unbelievable that his life could so change in such a short period of time. And he’d been the author of all the change, he himself, no one else.

He quickly dressed her in her riding habit, not bothering to confine her masses of tangled hair with pins. It didn’t matter now that she looked disheveled.

He lifted his unconscious wife in his arms and walked quickly from the room and out of the small thatched cottage he had secured for this one day. He lifted her over his shoulder, untied their horses, and mounted, taking the reins of her horse in his free hand. He eased her down into the circle of his arm, wheeled his horse about, and rode away.

“O
h, thank God you have found her ladyship, my lord! What ever has happened? James searched the grounds and all of the meadow where her ladyship rides.”

“She’s all right, Maria. She must have fallen from her horse. I found her on my return from the village.” He strode past Mrs. Crayton into the villa.

“James, quickly, you must fetch a doctor immediately!”

“No!” Julien said sharply. “That is, it’s not necessary, Maria. I’ve examined her ladyship and there are no broken bones. She merely struck her head, and there’s nothing a doctor could do that we cannot.” Seeing that the Craytons were unconvinced, he added with a curl of his lip, “Would you that the village doctor, a foreigner, attend her ladyship?”

“No, certainly not. What shall I do, my lord?”

“Fetch hot water, cloths, and laudanum,” he said with cool authority. He turned abruptly and carried his unconscious wife to her room. She moaned as he laid her on the bed and began to pull off her riding jacket. He set his jaw and didn’t look at her face, but he found that his hands were none too steady in carrying out their task. She seemed so very fragile, and he hated that because he knew she was strong and independent, so very sure of herself, but not now, not after what he’d done to her. He quickened, not wishing her to awaken until he’d gotten her into bed. He reflected inconsequentially that women wore too many layers of clothing. He ripped off her shift in his impatience, and as he looked down at her naked body, he felt no desire, only intense despair.
Another man had possessed her, had caressed her soft white skin. With a deep moan of animal pain he wrenched himself away and strode to the armoire. He fetched a nightgown, the one she’d worn on their wedding night.

He crumpled the soft material in his hands, remembering all too clearly how he’d been so gallant, so caring of her and her virginal fear. With jerky movements he slipped the gown over her head and smoothed it over her body. He turned at an urgent tap on the door.

It was Mrs. Crayton with the water, cloths, and laudanum he’d told her to fetch.

She moaned again as Julien eased her between the covers, this time turning her head slightly. Mrs. Crayton took a quick step forward, but Julien blocked her path. “As you see, Maria, her ladyship will be fine in but a moment. I will attend her. Don’t worry, I shall call you if I need your help.”

Mrs. Crayton cast a final glance at her young mistress, turned slowly, and walked from the room. She couldn’t help but feel that his lordship was reacting too calmly to his young wife’s accident.

Julien pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down wearily. It seemed that nearly a lifetime had passed in this one afternoon. He gazed at his wife’s pale, beautiful face and felt a numb coldness sweep through him. How he wanted her to suffer, to feel the deep, scarring humiliation he now felt. His rape of her was not sufficient revenge, for that pain she would soon forget. God, what a ludicrous bargain he’d made. He refused to accept that he’d practically forced her to marry him, that she’d never wanted to have him. No, he wouldn’t think about that, not yet anyway.

She slowly opened her eyes and blinked rapidly to sharpen her blurred vision. She saw her husband sitting next to her, his face buried in his hands. She frowned in confusion for one brief instant before her memory righted itself. She cried out as every moment of what had happened to her roared through her mind.

Julien schooled his voice into false concern. “My dear, are you all right?”

She turned wild eyes toward him. Her lips moved and she said in a strangled whisper, “How am I here? Oh, Julien, is it really you? You’re here with me? There’s no one else, no stranger, no other man, no one else?”

Julien leaned over her and said firmly, “You had a riding accident. I found you unconscious beside Gabriella on my return from the village. You will be quite all right, I swear it to you.”

“Riding accident?” she repeated vaguely, his words making no sense to her.

“Yes, attend me well. You had a riding accident. You were thrown. Nothing more.”

She didn’t notice the hardness of his voice and quickly turned her face away from him. Dear God, he didn’t know. The man must have left her to be found, not caring. At least he hadn’t killed her.

But it wasn’t right, simply wasn’t right. “Julien.” She struggled up on her pillow. “Oh, God, I must tell you, there wasn’t, that is, I didn’t have—” The words died a quick death. Her story would sound utterly unbelievable. She knew that even if he were to accept what she had said had happened, he would know that she was no longer a virgin, that another man had taken her. She choked back a sob and fell against the pillow.

“Kate, no, no.”

She cried silently now, tears coursing down her cheeks, no sound coming from her throat. Her eyes were tightly closed. Oh God, his voice was so very gentle. If only she hadn’t scorned him, fought him, but now it was too late. What had happened to her was real and she would never forget or forgive herself.

She felt her head being raised from the pillow and a glass touching her lips. For an instant she relived the cloth being held to her face, the bitter fumes plummeting her to unconsciousness. She struggled frantically, jerking her head back and forth.

“No, hush, it’s only laudanum. It will make you sleep, nothing more.”

She quieted at the sound of his calm voice. Sleep, yes, she welcomed the opportunity of forgetting, if for only a while. She opened her mouth eagerly and swallowed the water.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, really but a shadow of a whisper, so low did she speak, “please let me never awake.”

He jerked back at her words. With trembling fingers he set down the empty glass. He wanted her to suffer, to know regret and shame. But that she could whisper with such hopeless despair of death tore at his very being. The burden of guilt that he’d fought against consumed him relentlessly, and try as he would, he couldn’t dismiss the enormity of what he had done.

He watched her fall into a deep sleep and settled back in a chair to keep silent vigil.

It was shortly before dawn, as he was building up the dying fire, that he whirled around at the sound of a low, piercing scream. He was at her side in a moment. She was writhing, her body tangled in the covers, in the throes of a nightmare. Julien grabbed her shoulders and shook her, but the effects of the laudanum seemed to hold her from consciousness, and she cried out again and again. In desperation he slapped her face until a tremendous shudder passed the length of her body and she opened her eyes and stared up at him, her pupils dilated with fear.

She threw her arms around his shoulders and hurled herself against his chest. She was trembling violently, low sobs racking her body. Julien froze for a moment in shocked confusion. Without conscious thought he closed his arms about her and held her tightly against his chest. He scooped her up, pulling her covers with him, and carried her to a chair beside the fireplace. He could feel the strength of her terror, so tightly did she cling to him. He whispered low, comforting words, words that scarce made sense. Slowly the racking sobs diminished and she loosed her grip, as if exhausted from the effort. She lay against him quietly, her head lolling against his chest.

He said her name softly, again and again, smoothing damp tendrils of hair from about her face. She opened her eyes and met his gaze. He struggled with himself to speak to her of the nightmare, knowing full well what it must be, and realizing that to do so would encourage her to pour forth her story. He held back, suddenly aware that if she were to speak, he would be unable to hold the truth from her. She broke the long silence. In a voice vague from the effects of the laudanum, she whispered, “God, I can’t bear it. Surely I’m going mad, surely.”

“Mad?” he repeated blankly, his mind arrested at her strange words. “What is it? What can’t you bear?”

“The blackness, the voices.”

He tightened his arms about her in silent comfort and waited for her to calm. She spoke again, her voice cracking, the words jumbled. “The blackness, it’s never been so strong, so real. It covers something horrible, something evil, but yet I can’t see what it is, it was so very long ago. There is just such pain, such pain, and the voices, cruel, jeering voices, ugly grunting voices, men’s voices. They want me dead.”

He tensed, his mind almost refusing to work. Long ago, not today. What was so long ago? “You must tell me what happened? What is this blackness, the pain, the voices? What did you dream?”

“I can’t be sure, but it’s there, always there, but I don’t understand it.” Suddenly she stiffened.

She looked toward the fireplace, focusing upon something he didn’t see, couldn’t see. In a high, hysterical voice—a child’s voice—she cried, “Mama, why did those men hurt me? They ripped off my clothes, Mama, and there’s so much blood. Why am I bleeding? It hurts so very much. Why, Mama? Please make it stop. No, Father, no! Don’t hurt me! What have I done? Father, what have I done? No, no!
Stop
!”

Her voice stopped in a cry of pain. She winced and cowered, jerking her arms above her head as if to protect herself from blows raining down upon her.

Julien grabbed her arms and shook her until the cries ceased and the dull, glazed film dropped from her eyes.
She looked up into his set face, and in a voice of great weariness she whispered, “Julien, I’m so very glad you’re here with me.” She nestled her face against his chest. “Please don’t leave me. I couldn’t bear it if you left me.” But a moment later he heard her even breathing and knew that she slept.

Early-autumn sunlight poured into the room before Julien raised his eyes from his wife’s still face. His arms ached but he didn’t move, not wishing to disturb her. She was in a deep sleep, a healing sleep. He was aware that he felt extraordinarily humble, his bitter anger and wounded pride stripped from him. He understood her fear of him now, why she hadn’t wanted to marry him, even though she herself hadn’t understood her reasons. He remembered the day when they’d ridden to the small copse, and the look of blank terror on her face. A place of evil, she had said. She had not been able to fathom her reaction, and he hadn’t considered it important, so intent had he been on his gentlemanly offer of marriage.

How could he have been so damned blind? He felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck at the thought of Kate as a small child being attacked. Good God, what kind of man would rape a child? His hands clenched and unclenched in black anger as he pictured in his mind a small, helpless girl at the mercy of men who cared for nothing and no one. All too clearly he saw Kate’s father, cursing at her, blaming her, beating her.

She whimpered softly and he tightened his arms about her. It occurred to him, as he gazed down at her peaceful face, that his life had been singularly uncomplicated up to this time. He tried to weigh the enormity of the problems he now faced. Although he couldn’t explain why, he felt certain that she wouldn’t as yet remember her nightmare, even though his rape of her had penetrated the cloak of forgetfulness that had protected her all these years. He could well understand how a child’s instincts for survival had forced her to lock away what had happened to her, to bury it so deep that there were only vague shadows, images that faded quickly, blackness that
vanished with the blink of an eye. But now it could be only a matter of time until she remembered, and, he thought bleakly, such devastating knowledge could easily be too much for her. And it was his fault, all his fault.

He rose slowly, careful not to disturb her, and gently laid her in her bed. Then his own physical exhaustion overtook him, and with a deep sigh he stretched out in the chair and soon fell asleep.

Kate awoke, her mind alert and clear from the long hours of sleep. She sat up in her bed and looked about her. She was startled to see Julien sprawled in a chair beside her, his clothing disheveled and his head resting against his hand. She frowned in confusion, vaguely remembering being held by him. He had comforted her, had soothed away an awful fear. She shook her head to focus the jumbled images, but they melted away from her. She slipped out of bed and felt a sharp pain between her thighs. She stilled. All that had happened to her came rushing back. Her eyes flew to her sleeping husband. He’d told her that she’d had a riding accident. Her mind clung tenaciously to this fact. No one, save her and that man, knew what had passed between them, and she grimly resolved that Julien must never know. She walked to where he slept and shook his sleeve to wake him. Somehow it didn’t seem important that she was dressed only in her nightgown.

He awoke with a start and bounded out of the chair. He stared down at her, silent and pale. He pulled her gently against him. How very strange, she thought wonderingly, that she found his closeness and strength comforting. They stood thus for some time, until Julien drew back and with a gentle hand smoothed back her tangled hair from about her face.

“You are all right?”

She lowered her eyes, and he wanted to cry out at her look of anguish. Oh, God, he couldn’t bear it. “Kate,” he began. He felt so bloody helpless.

She looked up at him, her face now impassive, and interrupted him quickly. “I’m quite fine now, Julien. I
wasn’t gravely hurt in the riding accident. Gabriella must have been frightened again. It’s over now. Yes, all of it is over now.”

He was relieved at her decision not to tell him the truth. If she were to tell him of her rape, he wouldn’t be able to keep silent, and what he told her would destroy her newfound trust in him. Somehow he must find a way to banish the terrible fears from her childhood before telling her.