Chapter 25
The carriage came to a halt at the entrance to a secluded square where half a dozen elegant houses sat back from the street. The destination took Rian by surprise. Hearing John Fletcher calmly discuss the manner of man his wife had been turned over to, Rian had expected the surroundings would be as filthy as the man’s intentions. But this was no squalid hovel.
It had been almost impossible for him to sit and listen to Isabel’s brother speak without wanting to reach out and crush the breath from him with his bare hands. Each word that fell from John Fletcher’s lips was another drop of poison turning his world a little darker. Rage burned through him, making him curl his hand into a fist. If such knowledge was having this effect on him, how much worse had it been for Catherine, experiencing it firsthand?
Only Liam’s words, falling like a cool spray of water, had kept his temper in check.
“Remember, he knows where Catherine is,” Liam had cautioned though his tone was urgent and fierce. “Getting her back safely is the only important thing.”
The carriage came to a stop. John Fletcher leaned forward and pointed out the house where Phillip Davenport lived. “He brought her to his home?” Rian asked skeptically.
“Of course, why would he not?” John answered. “He believes he is safe. The only people who know he has your wife are as guilty as he. Betraying him would mean revealing their own involvement.” The matter-of-fact manner in which the explanation was given grated on Rian’s already taut nerves. Leaning forward, John opened the carriage door. “I trust we will never see each other again,” he said, pushing the door with his foot until it swung open.
“There’s just one final thing I ought to mention.” Rian paused, the muscle in his jaw working furiously. Liam would have recognized the warning sign that said his brother’s temper, while not at the exploding point of uncontrollable fury, had nevertheless reached the point where release of some kind was needed. John Fletcher, for the first time in his life concerned with another’s safety, had no idea the jeopardy his words had put him in.
“Yes, what is it?” he asked irritably, oblivious to the danger sitting across from him.
With lightning fast reflexes Rian reached out, and slammed him against the back of the seat. His fingers closed around John Fletcher’s throat, threatening to crush his windpipe. “Be assured that if I ever see you again, I will snap your neck and throw you in the gutter to rot like the filth you are,” Rian snarled, flexing his fingers. He squeezed, and then shook the helpless man, much like a terrier with a rat. “Do I make myself clear?”
The frantic, panicked look in John Fletcher’s eyes was all the answer Rian needed. Releasing his hold, he climbed out of the carriage and walked quickly away. He didn’t look back, but waited instead for the sound of fading hooves to tell him Isabel’s man was gone. Turning his attention to the other houses in the square, he noted the similarity of architecture. All were comparably proportioned, and in more than one he saw a few illuminated windows. It was not so very late, but the day was beginning to wane, and soon the last hour of the afternoon would give way to twilight.
The Davenport house was cold and uninviting, with no windows offering a warm glow. It seemed to Rian an air of abandonment lingered over the house, and in a strange way it reminded him of his first impression of The Hall. But with Catherine’s home he had felt a residue of happiness. This house, despite the elegant brick and decorative ironwork, spoke of nothing but darkness and sorrow. He proceeded with caution, not knowing what might lie in wait for him. Catherine was so close yet still so far away, assuming Isabel’s brother had not lied to him.
Isabel’s brother!
Rian found it difficult to believe, but Liam was convinced of the truth and that was the only confirmation he needed. As he stared at the solid front door a frown wrinkled his brow. Had John Fletcher lied to him? With a decisive grunt, Rian knew he had not. Isabel meant too much to him. Any deceit on his part would put her safety at risk, something Rian knew her brother was not prepared to do. Else why would he have come to them in the first place?
But now he put all thoughts of Isabel Howard and John Fletcher out of his mind, so he could focus on the house and its surroundings. He kept to the lengthening shadows, using them to hide his movements should one of the square’s occupants happen to glance out of a window. It did not occur to him that he might not be the only watcher in the square. Skirting the perimeter of the Davenport house, Rian made his way around the back, and then nimbly climbed over the brick wall and dropped soundlessly into the garden on the other side. Undetected, he made his way toward the rear of the house, hoping to gain access through the scullery or washroom.
He listened for signs of movement, and hearing nothing out of the ordinary, advanced to the sturdy looking door that admitted entrance to the lower level of the house. Convinced it would be an exercise in futility and the door would be locked against him, Rian turned the handle anyway. He was surprised when it moved easily in his hand, swung open and revealed the room beyond. He never heard the sound of footsteps behind him, but he felt the whisper of air next to his ear just before an arm came crashing down. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours he took the full brunt of a leather blackjack. This time it struck him above the temple.
With a grunt, the man caught Rian, turned and hoisted him over one shoulder. After kicking the door fully open, he carried Rian through the kitchen, past the startled cook and scullery maid to the main floor of the house, where he deposited his burden at the feet of his employer. Phillip’s faith in Isabel’s ability to take care of Catherine’s newly acquired husband was nonexistent. It now appeared his intuition had been right. Kneeling next to the prostrate body, he grabbed a fistful of Rian’s long hair, lifted his head and looked at the chiseled features.
“How wonderfully predictable,” Phillip said, barely able to contain himself before dropping Rian’s head back to the floor. He turned to the man waiting in the doorway. “Secure him, and then bring him to the room,” he instructed.
Phillip had often wondered how it would feel to have another watch as he satisfied himself, but his potential audience was limited and, for the most part, as depraved as he. Having Catherine’s husband watch as he took her again and again was going to be a thrill beyond his wildest imaginings. Just the idea was making him hard.
* * * *
Catherine sat like a statue in front of the dressing table mirror. Wrapped in the filmy silk robe Phillip had told her to put on, she tied the sash firmly around her small waist. She could do nothing but rub her shorn head dry. With an odd prick of feminine vanity she wondered if Phillip might allow her some scissors so she could tidy up the appalling job he had done of cutting her hair.
“Do you really suppose he’s going to allow anything sharp to fall into your hands? You might get ideas about cutting something else,” her reflection admonished.
The perfume bottles and pots of powder and rouge remained untouched. She was not going to decorate herself for his pleasure. Whatever Phillip had planned would test her sanity as much as her physical stamina, but what happened to her mattered not. The child was the tool he would use as coercion, and Catherine would do whatever he asked of her if it would spare Grace, even though, deep in her heart, she knew it might not be enough.
Catherine would have to strike while she still possessed the strength and mental acuity to do so, and before Phillip was able to restrain her. She couldn’t allow him to break her physically, which meant she had to be ready to seize her moment. And as certain as she was that the chance would come, she was equally positive it would only happen once. Her cousin would not make the same mistake twice.
Taking advantage of the quiet, Catherine thought back to happier times in her life. Moments from her childhood when her mother was still alive, and her father was full of joy. She recalled family picnics on days filled with the warmth of the summer sun, the thrill of her first pony ride, the sweetness that flooded her mouth from strawberries picked with Ned long before he was ever called old.
And then her thoughts turned to Rian, and an unexpected gratitude flowed through her. She was grateful to know what it was to love, and be loved in return, by a man who filled her life with happiness in ways she could never have imagined. He gave her life meaning, a sense of purpose that resulted in a deep and abiding contentment. Accepting her completely for who she was, Rian was more than a husband. He was an adoring lover who delighted in showing her how to give and receive pleasure. A mentor encouraging her to fulfill her potential. A confidant she could share her deepest secrets with. He was all these things and so much more. He was her friend, and her soul mate.
Catherine closed her eyes so she could imagine him standing before her. She pictured the sun highlighting the strands of copper in his dark hair, the crinkles that appeared at the corner of each eye whenever something amused him, the flash of his even white teeth as he laughed out loud. Her days with him were a never-ending adventure of discovery, overflowing with plans for their future. She had no idea what quality she possessed to make him love her with such passion, but she was thankful for whatever it was that bound him to her, and her to him. Visions of him making love to her began to fill her mind, but she quickly shut them away. She would not allow such intimacies in this room, this house. No matter how much she craved the comfort of such moments. She forced herself to lock Rian away in a secret place in her heart.
Madness, Catherine concluded, was the only explanation for Phillip’s need to hurt her so terribly. Inflicting pain on another living being for no reason other than that he could was beyond her comprehension. Carefully she thought back to everything that had happened from the moment she’d first set foot inside this house. Examining every gesture she had made at that time, every word she had spoken, Catherine tried to determine when or how her actions had offended her cousin. There had to be a reason for his behavior, but if it existed, it was too complicated for her to grasp.
A small gasp of pain made Catherine whirl around to see Phillip standing behind her with Grace at his side. His fingers were digging into her thin shoulder, and it had been her voice that had startled Catherine.
“Just a precaution if you will, my dear,” Phillip told her as he relaxed his hold. “While a certain measure of resistance on your part will be delightful, I need to make sure that you remember the consequences should you go too far.”
Catherine watched as Phillip directed Grace to a seat across the room. Already revolted, she found her disgust for him descending to a new level of abhorrence that made her skin crawl. Wanting another to bear witness to whatever sexual depravity his foul mind conjured up was one thing, but having that witness be a child was the worst type of corruption. Phillip wanted Grace to see Catherine’s fall into total degradation, to witness her complete and utter humiliation at his hand. And it would be complete, for Catherine would not risk any physical harm being inflicted on Grace as a result of her own insubordination.
“Let the child go, Phillip, I beg of you. She does not need to see this,” Catherine pleaded.
Phillip looked at her in surprise. He had expected her to beg, but not on behalf of a street urchin she barely knew. “Oh, you are quite mistaken, my dear. It will serve as a valuable lesson for her.”
“She’s a child. What lesson is to be learned?”
“Your absolute submission at my hands will reinforce the worth of her own life.” The smiled he gave was repulsive. “Which is, of course, absolutely nothing.”
Catherine hung her head as Phillip walked past her, his fingers idly stroking the smooth skin of her shoulder through the light fabric of the robe she wore. She shuddered, unable to curtail her physical reaction to his touch, and so missed seeing the cruel gleam in his eyes. He walked over to the bed where her shackle lay on the pillow and picked it up, playing with the length of chain that pooled on the covers. Hearing the now familiar clink of iron, Catherine got to her feet. With one hand holding her robe closed, she held out the other to be secured by the metal restraint.
Phillip snickered. “This will not be necessary,” he said, stepping close enough to assault her with his decaying breath. “I have something far better to guarantee your obedience.” Her eyes flicked to Grace sitting quietly across the room with her head bent.
Motioning toward the open door, Catherine watched as the men who had struggled earlier with the hip bath, now brought something else into the room. A chair. Ornately carved, it reminded her of a throne, and like a throne, it appeared solidly built. It would have been heavy by itself, but the addition of a figure in the seat was cause for red faces and much panting from both men. It was obvious the figure was male, but his head was covered, and his features hidden. Catherine could only assume the seated man was another of Phillip’s equally perverse acquaintances. Someone desiring to witness a display of deviant behavior, but wishing to keep his own identity a secret. Why, she couldn’t imagine. It wasn’t as if she was going to be permitted to reveal his identity to anyone. Perhaps the hood was part of the game. The voyeur’s groan as the chair was placed none-too-gently indicated he had not enjoyed his journey.
“My dear, we have a special guest tonight,” Phillip said, adopting a playful tone. “Someone who has agreed, albeit reluctantly, to share our pleasure with us.”
Suddenly fearful, Catherine turned her head, refusing to look at the hooded figure in the chair. Cruel fingers grabbed her by the chin as Phillip forced her head around. She closed her eyes, not wishing to see another disgusting, leering face, lips already wet with anticipation.
“Think of Grace,” Phillip murmured as his fingers tightened.
Catherine snapped her eyes open, and glared at him before following the finger he pointed. Her brows pulled together when she saw the ropes which bound the hooded man to the chair. Phillip had mentioned reluctance, and there was something terribly familiar about the man. Something she recognized …but didn’t want to believe.
One of the henchmen pulled the hood away and Catherine gasped. She had no need to see the handsome chiseled features to know who was tied to the chair. She would know him anywhere. “Rian!” Her hand flew to her mouth as if she wanted to deny the truth, but it was too late. She could not recapture his name and push it back down her throat, and even if she could it wouldn’t change his identity. Her head swam, and a wave of nausea rolled through her.
Rian was unconscious. Muscles slack, his body sagged against the heavy bindings securing him to the heavy wood framework. Tears filled Catherine’s eyes, and Phillip sniggered as he watched the full range of her despair flood her face. She could stomach anything, anything at all, but not this. She was in some unknown level of hell, caught between two fires and two horrors—a child, and the man she loved, both being forced to witness her debasement.
Catherine sank to her knees and prayed fervently, silently, for God to intervene. She begged him to spare both Grace and the man who was the center of her existence, and the love of her life. She cared nothing for herself, unless there was a way she could be used to destroy the evil that had manifested itself in the form of her only blood relative. Seeing her lips move, Phillip sneered.
“Prayers, Catherine? What makes you think God can hear you, or that he will answer?”
One of the men suddenly poured a pitcher of water over Rian’s head. It brought with it an immediate response as Rian jerked up and began spluttering. He was disoriented, and took a few moments to stare uncomprehendingly at his surroundings while also testing his bindings. A trickle of blood ran from a point in his hairline and dripped into his left eye. Blinking rapidly, Rian shook his head, staining his shirt with droplets of blood.
Catherine rose and took a half step forward before Phillip caught her arm and pulled her back. His grip was such that her skin bruised at once, but she did not care. Instead she balled the hand of her free arm into a fist and swung at her cousin, punching him squarely in the face. Shock and surprise allowed her to land three good blows in quick succession before Phillip, snarling like a rabid dog, punched her back, dropping her to the ground.
Fury rolled through Rian at seeing his wife struck. His muscular arms strained against the ropes holding him. Thinking Catherine was unconscious, he was relieved to see the flutter of her eyelids. Unsteadily she pushed herself to her knees, her hands shaking violently as she tried to wipe away the moisture on her face.
“Clean yourself!” Phillip barked, throwing a cloth at her.
Catherine couldn’t help the smile that stretched her mouth. Her hand was on fire, but judging from the anger, and the odd thickening of her cousin’s voice, at least one of her punches had been successful. She wiped her mouth, cleaning as much of the blood and mucus mixture as she could, but the sound of Rian calling her name was too much. Dropping the cloth, she threw herself at him. With her arms around his neck, she covered his face with kisses that were a mix of blood and tears.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” she managed to say as she pressed her lips desperately to his, needing the taste of him in her mouth.
A slight nod of Phillip’s head brought one of his hired henchmen forward to quickly jerk Catherine’s arms free of Rian’s neck, pull her away, and dump her on the floor at Phillip’s feet as Rian roared like a man possessed.
Ignoring him, Phillip pulled Catherine to her feet and pushed her to the center of the room, turning her so she could look at her husband. The sheer silk robe clung to every curve of her body. Catherine, in a feminine gesture of self-consciousness, put her hand to the nape of her neck, acknowledging the loss of her hair. To Rian it did not matter. She looked beautiful. As beautiful as she had that night in his room when she had first given herself to him. The memory of that moment came flooding back and it electrified his senses.
The love that Catherine felt for him, that they shared, poured out of her like a beacon welcoming him home. If his life were to ever reach a point where agonizing despair became his only companion, where his future was nothing but an endless sea of hopelessness rolling before him, Rian knew all he need do was reach for her, and he would find his haven.
He watched as she raised a finger to her lips, begging him to remain silent. He struggled to keep his face impassive. To not give her bastard cousin anything he could use against either of them. Exhaling softly with relief that Catherine was alive, Rian allowed his attention, which had been riveted on his wife, to focus on the other people in the room. His head pressed against the carved back of the chair, he looked about him guardedly while ignoring the steady throb of his earlier encounter with the blackjack.
The two burly figures in the doorway had come from the docks, judging by their clothes and overall appearance. Though taking on two at a time might require some effort on his part, Rian was certain he could overpower them once he was free. Being tied up was definitely a disadvantage. Turning his head slowly in the other direction, Rian was startled when he found himself caught in the stare of a child who sat, immobile, hands in her lap, staring back at him. Her expression was that of a terrified rabbit caught in a snare. As Rian continued to stare, her eyes, too big for her small face, became even more terrified, and he wondered how she would ever give her trust to any adult again.
There was one other person in the room. A figure that Rian had studiously chosen to ignore because acknowledging his presence would put a strain on his control. It would help no one if rage caused him to make a mistake, and Catherine would pay the price. He prayed he had not already crossed that line. It was Phillip, however, who decided to make the first move.