Chapter 19
Returning to consciousness, Catherine hurt all over. Every muscle throbbed with a pain that was far different from the ache she’d experienced as a result of imbibing too much blackberry brandy. It reminded her of the time she’d slipped and lost her footing in the barn, falling from the rafters. If Edward had seen her, he would no longer have called her Cat, but it was one of the few times he had not been with her. Landing in a pile of loose straw, Catherine had counted herself lucky not to have broken anything. As it was, she spent a full day in almost unbearable, pain before Old Ned had guessed what was wrong, and bound her ribs.
What she was feeling now was almost as bad, but it was difficult to know which of her symptoms was worse. The stinging soreness that infused her muscles, or the horrible aftertaste coating the back of her throat. Thick and slimy, it had a rotten flavor, like a piece of fish that had turned or meat that had spoiled. She struggled to recall the glass of drugged wine at Isabel’s party, but that seemed a lifetime ago, and she had no idea how much time had passed since then. It could be hours or only minutes. Either one was plausible.
The few candles that still burned offered enough light for Catherine to see she was lying on a large four-poster bed. Carefully she raised her head and peered at the gloom beyond the end of the carved bedposts. Her eyes slowly adjusted, allowing more of her surroundings to reveal themselves, and as she stared at the dresser, its shape and design struck a nerve. There was no need to describe the toiletry items lying on its surface. The silver backed hairbrush, and the two tortoiseshell combs were as familiar to her as the birthmark just above her left hip. They were all she had left of her mother, and she recalled all too clearly the last time she had held them, and where she had placed them. An icy chill skittered down her spine.
With eyes now opened wide, Catherine scanned the rest of the room. Even though she had only been within these walls for less than a single day, she could describe each piece of furniture, the exact shade of silk on the walls, and every horrifying terror that had taken place. She raised her eyes to the pink colored canopy and matching bed curtains, and felt her stomach lurch. Nothing had been changed. Her surroundings brought forth a feeling of dread that seized her by the throat and intensified with each panicked breath.
Holding her fist to her mouth, Catherine smothered the scream that tried to escape as the memory, unfettered at last, broke free inside her head. Every sadistic moment resurfaced, forcing her to suffer through it once again in her mind. And it felt just as real as it had the first time. The memory of her cousin’s touch, the feel of his hot breath against her skin, nearly made her convulse. The nightmare had returned, only the fact that she was not sleeping made it all the more terrifying.
Rian! Rian! Where are you?
Without thinking she sat up, giving a startled cry at the fiery burst of pain exploding from hand to elbow. Her arm felt unnaturally heavy, and she stared in bewilderment at the iron manacle cuffed to her wrist, its partner securely fastened to the heavy chain secured around the wooden bedpost. It took a moment or two before she understood her predicament. She was chained to the bed. Following the iron links with her eyes, she found an additional length pooled on the floor, allowing for some movement.
Rage welled up inside Catherine and, grasping the chain in both hands, she pulled with all her strength, but all she did was fill the air with a loud clanking sound that offended her ears. These links had been forged by a master craftsman. It would take more strength than she possessed to break free. Anger was quickly replaced by a sudden overwhelming sense of hopelessness, and tears fell from her eyes.
Stop crying! For heaven’s sake, get a grip on yourself! At least this time you know what you are up against. Find a way to use that to your advantage. Rian will find you, he will come for you. You must never doubt that. All you have to do is make sure you survive until he does.
Wiping her face on the sleeve of her gown, Catherine sniffled. Her head felt a little better. The awful tightness, like a steel band around her skull, was still there, but it was beginning to fade. The foul taste in the back of her throat still lingered, and it was now joined by another sensation that was quickly becoming far more bothersome. Thirst. Her throat was dry and scratchy, and it hurt to swallow. With careful fingers she explored her jaw line, and down her neck, searching for any tenderness or bruising that might account for the discomfort. She found none, which meant the source of her irritation had to be internal.
At the end of the bed, tucked inside the shadows, stood a small table bearing a tray with a glass pitcher and tumbler. It had escaped Catherine’s notice during her preliminary sweep of the room, but she reasoned her terror at being back inside this house could make her miss any number of things. When she was calmer she would make a more thorough search of the room. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on the pitcher. It was full of water. Licking her lips, she could almost taste the cool liquid sliding down her throat and easing the burning ache. Carefully she got off the bed, maneuvering her way to the end of the iron links, only to discover the length of chain did not permit her to reach the refreshing liquid. Twisting her body, she tried reaching out with her other arm, stretching her fingers to their limit as the manacle bit cruelly into her wrist, but still the table stood beyond her reach. She was trying hard not to succumb to another round of tears when a sound came from the darkness enveloping the room beyond the bed. A giggle that was almost falsetto in tone, it made the hairs on the nape of her neck stand up. Slowly Catherine turned her head and watched as her cousin stepped into the circle of light shed by the candles.
“Thirsty, my love?” Phillip smirked, moving closer. Catherine scrambled back onto the bed and then off the other side, trying to get as far away from him as possible. Or at least as far as the chain would allow. Fear uncoiled itself in the pit of her stomach, exploding through her in a wave of paralyzing terror. Intuition told her this was precisely what her cousin wanted, what he needed. Her fear was the elixir necessary to fuel his sordid desires, and she could not let him see just how frightened she was. “I am told that one of the more unpleasant side effects of Lady Howard’s wine is a terrible burning thirst,” Phillip told her. “Does your throat feel dry, my pet?”
Catherine forced herself to swallow, even though her hands clenched at the raw burn in her throat as she did so. “It is not so severe that I would quench it with anything offered by your hand,” she declared bravely in a voice like ground glass.
Phillip came to the end of the bed and stared at her. An ugly smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “It soon will be, I can promise you that,” he said confidently. “Soon you will beg me for a drink of water, and in return you will agree to do anything to ease your discomfort.”
He went to the small table and picked up the pitcher. The pale flickering candlelight seemed to gather inside the glass jug as he held it up, pinpoints of radiance dancing inside the clear liquid. Catherine brought her free hand up to her mouth to stop herself from crying out in desperation, but a sound escaped her, making her tormentor laugh as he poured the water onto the floor. Catherine was aware of every drop that fell to the carpet, and was immediately absorbed by the weave. One hand trembled against her mouth, while the other circled her throat in an effort to prevent herself from screaming at her cousin.
She watched warily as Phillip set the empty pitcher on the table. He picked up the glass tumbler, balancing it on the palm of his hand as if surprised by its empty weight. With a sudden whirl he turned and threw it, shattering the glass against the wall above her head. The noise was deafening and Catherine shrieked as she covered her head with her hands, making the chain rattle loudly as shards of glass showered her head and shoulders.
“You belong to me, Catherine, make no mistake about that,” Phillip snarled. “And I will have you, willingly or not.”
“You’re mad!” she cried out, feeling a tongue of fire lick down her throat as she did so.
“Am I?” Phillip asked, opening the door and looking back at her. “Then how is it that you are the one in chains?”
Catherine waited until she was certain he had left before sliding down the wall to crumple in a heap on the floor. Why wasn’t she stronger? Why had her courage deserted her? How could it be that she had managed to escape from this nightmare once, only to be thrown back into the same cesspool?
Her weeping surprised her, because she felt sure she had no moisture in her body to produce tears. Wiping her wet face with her hand, she licked the salty drops from her fingers. She stopped crying after a while, and as she did so she became aware of a dull ache where the manacle chafed her skin. Tearing a strip from one of her petticoats, she poked it between the iron and her skin in the hope it would act as a cushion. Then she carefully shook her head and ran her free hand through her hair, removing any remnants of broken glass before climbing wearily back onto the bed.
Bringing her knees up to her chest, Catherine curled into a ball. She forced herself to take deep breaths, exhaling each one with a deliberate slowness past dried lips. As each breath passed she could feel the wild, jerky drumming in her chest begin to quiet itself. Once a calmer, more soothing, rhythm had been established, she was able to focus her mind and think.
That Phillip had totally lost his grip on reality was a certainty. It made him dangerous and unpredictable. Whatever his intentions, she would have to be prepared to expect anything. Including the probability that violating her body was only a matter of time. But it was what Phillip would do once his sexual appetite was satisfied that frightened her even more. From the maniacal glint in his eyes she had the feeling what had happened to her before would be nothing compared to the punishment he planned to bestow upon her now.
Her thoughts turned to Lettie. Was she all right? Did she even know Catherine was once more a prisoner in her home? Was Phillip aware that Lettie had helped her escape? Was he forcing her to be a participant in this recurring nightmare? This last was something Catherine refused to believe. Instead she held on to the hope that Phillip remained ignorant of his wife’s involvement in Catherine’s previous escape. Surely he would have said something if he knew? Would Lettie find the courage to help her again?
Pulling her brows together, Catherine forced herself to take a couple of deeper breaths. Panic was nipping at her, and she could not afford to give in to it. Rian would find her. He would save her from the clutches of this despicable madman. Rian would come. He had to come, before it was too late!
But what if he did not? He had no idea where she had been taken, and who was there to tell him? Certainly not Isabel. To do so would admit her complicity in Catherine’s abduction, and she would have surely thought of a plausible reason to explain her disappearance. Perhaps even now she was filling Rian’s head with her cleverly worded lies.
No! No! No!
Catherine refused to even consider such a monstrous thing. With every fiber of her being she believed that Rian was even now, someway, somehow, searching for her. It was up to her to find the strength to endure until then. This was her last thought before the sedative John Fletcher had forced her to swallow reclaimed her, pushing her back into the realm of insensibility.
* * * *
When Catherine woke again, she had no idea if it was day or night. What little light crept through the draped windows had come and gone, moving silently over the walls and across the ceiling. Still slipping in and out of consciousness, she had even less idea of how many hours had passed than before. Time had become a perception she could not grasp with any lucidity. She could have been imprisoned within the silk-lined walls of this room for either a few hours or a few days.
Someone had taken the trouble to cover her with a light woolen blanket. Unfortunately they had not released her from her restraint, and she was still tethered to the bedpost. Hesitantly, Catherine pushed the blanket aside with her free hand, and sighed with relief to see that none of her clothing had been removed, although the laces on her gown had been loosened. She had no doubt as to who was responsible for this, and wondered if Phillip had taken pleasure in seeing the scar on her back.
Uncertain whether she was alone in the room, Catherine turned her head, straining to hear the telltale sound of someone else breathing. There was nothing out of the ordinary, but through the closed and covered window she was able to hear a songbird trilling. As she concentrated, other sounds came to her. The muffled bark of a dog, followed by the clip-clop of horse’s hooves, and the rumble of carriage wheels. Although the exact hour was a mystery, Catherine knew it was still daytime beyond her window.
Sitting up, she tilted her head to one side and closed her eyes, forcing her mind to focus. There might be no other sounds from inside her room, but there were also no other sounds from the rest of the house. The odd, eerie quiet filled her with an inexplicable dread. She may not have been in this house long, but it had been long enough for her to know there were a good number of servants for a residence of this size. Why then could she hear no sounds of chores being performed? She ought to have been able to hear some movement, but all that came back to her was a deep, impenetrable silence.
Her first thought was that everyone was abed, but the sounds beyond her window said this could not be so. Catherine might be a little disoriented, but she wasn’t that confused. No, the house was unnaturally quiet because there was no one to make any noise. Which meant that Phillip wanted to be certain whatever happened to her would be a private affair with none to witness his actions.
Her eyes had already adjusted to the dim light, and Catherine was able to see that the pitcher had been replaced and fresh water was once again on the small table. Another glass had been placed next to it. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if the table had also been moved, and was now possibly within reach.
Water! She craved a drink of water! The sight of the clear liquid made her throat begin to burn, and she would have licked her lips, but her tongue was thick and swollen. Positive now that the table had been repositioned, Catherine pushed back the blanket and scrambled across the bed. As she moved forward an odd, lightheaded feeling came over her, but she pushed the sensation to one side as an overpowering need to quench the dryness in her throat drove her to reach for the lifesaving liquid.
She would have wept with gratitude if she had not used up the last of her moisture in her previous bout of crying, because she was more than capable of reaching the pitcher now. The table had definitely been moved. Eagerly she filled the glass tumbler that had replaced its shattered mate, and repeating the word slowly in her mind, she put the glass to her lips and sipped the water. Catherine only managed a single sip before greedily tipping the glass and gulping the contents, feeling it spill down her chin and neck as she did so. With a sigh she stared at the empty glass, and then, as her parched throat begged for more, she abandoned it and picked up the pitcher with both hands and soothed the ragged fire in the back of her throat in a more direct manner. The pitcher was three-quarters empty when she put it back down on the table, turned her head and vomited violently on the carpet.
The awful burning sensation of acrid bile now joined the raw feeling, nullifying whatever comfort the water had provided. She continued to retch long after the meager contents of her stomach had been expelled. With trembling hands, Catherine managed to pour what was left of the water into the glass, and rinse her mouth, spitting the tainted liquid back into the now empty pitcher before slowly drinking what was left in the glass.
Finished, she climbed wearily back onto the bed and closed her eyes. She was completely exhausted. The lightheaded feeling remained, but she paid it little mind because her stomach and throat hurt more. Wearily she turned her face into the pillow, gasping aloud when she saw what lay next to her. Another example of Phillip’s mean, petty cruelty.