Читать книгу Season of The Shadow - Bobbi Ph.D. Groover - Страница 8

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Fletcher rode into town unnoticed amid the hustle and bustle of thriving Crisfield. Along the crowded street, ladies and gentlemen leisurely strolled in and out of the various shops. Little seemed to have changed in the ten years that he had been gone. The subtle changes were noticeable only because he was now looking at them through the eyes of an adult and not those of a wild restless youth who believed he was immortal and could slay dragons and who had the prestige, power and money to do it. He'd had it all, and it had been taken from him—without warning and without cause.

It had been six months since he had regained his memory. It had taken that long for the bits and pieces to fall into place and give him a clear picture of what had happened to him. He had wanted to be sure of himself before he confronted Buck. And now he would face Kyndee, too. They were married!

After leaving the Mathew twins, he lay stunned for days, not leaving his room, drinking himself into a pickled stupor. It was the only way he could deal with the pain of his father's death and his mother's blindness. But as with everything else he had survived for one reason—revenge; he would have his revenge.

In the distance, the whistle of the train spooked Whiz causing him to prance and jig, but Fletcher quieted him with a gentle hand and a soothing word. He remembered how unsettled he had been the first day he'd heard the whistle of the train that brought his cousin, Buck, to live with them. Buck's parents had been burned to death in a tragic fire which had claimed their home in western Virginia as well. Being his closest relatives, Fletcher's parents had offered to give him a home.

Though the same age of twelve, much to everyone's surprise, there had been an instant animosity between the boys. To please his parents, Fletcher made several offers of friendship, but Buck had scoffed him again and again, preferring to remain with the older generation and win their praise. Refusing to make further attempts, Fletcher had gone on with his life, treating Buck's presence as nothing more than a mere inconvenience.

As he rode past the silversmith and the jeweler, he thought of browsing for a gift for his mother, but he resisted, deciding he could wait until he was settled. The confectionery was tempting; he had not had good chocolate bonbons in years.

Bonbons. Lady Bonbon. Kyndee.

His brows furrowed with the feelings that coursed through his veins, and he shook his head. Best to move on quickly. He chirruped, and Whiz broke into a trot.

The first person he was going to see was his boyhood friend, Caleb Jenkins. He chuckled to himself when he thought of him, for Caleb had been as reckless and wild as he. Together they'd been in and out of more scrapes, covered for each other more often, and told more tall tales than any two red-blooded youths had a right to. But in those days they were young and dauntless and had terrorized and exasperated their respective parents as well as the county at large.

He turned off tree-lined Kynlyn Street and started winding his way through the many side streets. On his right he viewed the elegant home of the pompous and somber Mr. Lowell Geddy. The stodgy old dolt had scared the wits from Caleb and Fletcher as they were coming home from a delicious evening, having spent it in the company of two vixens from Madam Louisa's House of Ladies.

The fact that they'd had to bribe their way in had added an extra bit of spice to a truly lascivious night. Of course he'd had to convince Caleb to accompany him, but once Fletcher had shoved a large roll of bills into the bodice of Madam Louisa's meager shift, Caleb had lost everything: his clothes, his inhibitions and his innocence, in that order.

Later, Fletcher had grasped Caleb by the shoulders and was attempting to usher him home lest he should be seen in his condition, when Mr. Geddy walked up behind them. The older man had been outraged by their appearance and their state of intoxication, declaring he would be sure to mention it to their fathers.

Caleb had been too embarrassed to speak. He had simply stood in seemingly silent agony, gripping Fletcher's shoulder in a desperate attempt to keep from falling and lending truth to Mr. Geddy's accusations.

Fletcher had had enough lucidity and audacity to mutter a cockalane, ending it with a greeting from Madam Louisa to Mr. Geddy himself. The man's instantly stiff scarlet mien assured Fletcher the bluff had hit its mark: he and Caleb could sleep well that night and, casting him a devilish grin, Fletcher bade the corpulent Mr. Lowell Geddy do the same.

Fletcher drew the gelding to a halt. He stretched and shifted in the saddle. He had changed to the flat English tack when he entered Virginia. Whiz fought the different feel of the new bridle and saddle but graciously accepted the difference in weight. Glancing in every direction, Fletcher tried to get a bearing on exactly where he was and where he wanted to go. He was heading more by instinct than by memory.

Despite how close they had been, it was not without trepidation that Fletcher Stedman approached the door of the Jenkins' home. He was about to lift the knocker when the door swished opened and, without warning, he was face to face with Caleb himself.

"Yes, sir. May I help you?"

He was the same Caleb, a little older, a little more polite but his chestnut hair was still slightly tousled, the knot in his neck cloth not quite perfect, and his nose a trifle to the left side of his face from having broken it at least five times.

Fletcher stood speechless. In the powerful silence, the clever remarks he was going to make, the teasing he was going to do when Caleb didn't recognize him, even the mundane hello he was going to use if all else failed, were frozen inside his head. He could not force them through his brain and out over his lips. He simply stood mute.

"Sir, are you all right? May I help you? Direct you somewhere perhaps?"

Fletcher overcame the urge to embrace him. "Caleb?"

"Yes? Do I know you, sir?"

"Caleb...it's...I'm...I'm Fletcher," was the most he could force out.

The warm welcome he expected was not forthcoming. Caleb appeared indignant. He slapped his gloves on his hands and straightened his back. "How dare you, sir!"

"How dare I what? Use my own name after having another forced on me for ten years?"

"Sir, I don't know who you are or what you want. But it is a cruel jest you make, and I must ask you to leave immediately."

Fletcher reached out his hand to his friend, "It's no jest, Caleb."

The other man slapped away the proffered hand. There was a flash of anger in his face as he answered. "Not that it is any business of yours, sir, but Fletcher Stedman was my closest and dearest friend. When he disappeared ten years ago, I mourned him as one would a brother. Surely I would know him again should he come upon my door. Now be gone from here before I call the authorities."

Call the authorities, would he? "And when the authorities come should I tell them of the cat you buried under the arbor so you wouldn't have to explain to Mrs. Bonner's daughter that you mistook it for a squirrel and shot it?" Some of his tension had eased, and Fletcher was grinning.

Caleb studied him with a fierce scrutiny as though not willing to believe what his brain told him might possibly be true. It was Caleb’s turn to be tense. "You could have found out about that through dozens of people," he protested, his voice taut as a strung bow.

"Then perhaps I should tell them how you rode your father's stallion without permission and that your broken arm was caused by your unscheduled flight from his back and not from the river as we'd claimed. Or perhaps I should tell them—"

Caleb's mouth dropped, his eyes opened wide, and his eyebrows squeezed together. "It’s not possible.” His face paled. “No!” He shook his head and stepped back. “No. This is a cruel game you’re playing, and I demand you leave, sir!”

Fletcher’s grin disappeared and his heart sank. He scoured his memory for another shred of proof, any shred. He yanked the thought from the back of his mind just as Caleb stepped inside and attempted to shut the door. “What if I tell you the mystery of the mare?”

His friend stopped short, visibly shaken. “The mystery of the—? No one...only...my God...Fletcher? You old rascal, take off your hat. I want to see your face." He took Fletcher by the shoulders and stared intently into his eyes. "It can't be!"

"Have I really changed that much?"

Caleb blinked his eyes hard, shook his head. "Frankly, yes! Your voice is so different, so raspy." He brought his face closer and peered into Fletcher's eyes again. "Dear God, Rasc, is it really you? You've got so much hair on your head and your face, it's hard to tell who's in there."

Fletcher was heartily laughing now. "I remember when you once told me you were jealous that I had something to shave and you didn't."

"Rascal!" Caleb shouted and threw his arms around him, pounding him on the back with his hands. "How? Why? Damn it, what happened to you? It was horrible when the word came that you'd been kidnapped—"

Passersby were staring at the commotion, and Fletcher indicated the door. "It's a long story, a very long story. But I'd rather not start it here on the street. I want to keep my return a secret, at least for now. Am I invited in?"

"Of course, of course. After you, old boy." He beat Fletcher on the back and playfully shoved him.

Fletcher arched his eyebrow. "Old? You always did take that two month difference in our ages too seriously. Well then, stand aside and allow this tottering old man to reap the privileges of his station."

The two of them walked through the entryway of the Jenkins' home and into the paneled library. Although sizable and elegant, the room was warm and comfortable. Gracing the library was an oversized desk of darkest mahogany. With the exception of the fireplace, the entire room was filled with shelves and shelves of books.

Fletcher remembered this room. It felt familiar and natural to be here—where they had first been tosspots on Mr. Jenkins' brandy, where they'd tried their first cigars and coughed until their throats were raw, where being young and cavalier, they'd planned their strategies as to how they were going to talk Kyndee into dancing every waltz with them at the next social gathering.

When he entered the room, Caleb sank into the nearest chair as though exhausted by Fletcher's sudden reappearance. "Rasc, I don't understand this. What happened to your voice? The rasp...it’s so damn—” He cleared his throat. “Where have you been all this time? There was no word. We gave up hope years ago. Have you been to Seabrook? God, Rasc, do you know about—" He stopped and sucked in an anxious breath. "Do you know about your father?" he asked, visibly sorry he had to be the one to break the terrible news.

"Yes, I know," Fletcher said with bitterness. He walked to the fireplace, leaned his arm on the mantel and rested his chin on his hand. "I know about my mother's blindness, too."

"I'm sorry, Rasc," Caleb said, his voice heavy with compassion. "I know how much you loved your father and how much he loved you. He tried everything to find you. Must have been horrible for you to hear that after coming back from— Where the hell were you anyway?"

Fletcher groaned and ran his hand across his eyes. "Let me pour myself a glass of sherry and get comfortable. It's been a long ride and an even longer ten years." He pointed to the tray. "May I?" He poured them both a glass from the decanter and held up his glass to toast his friend. "God, it's good to see you, Caleb, and it's good to be home."

* * *

It was late into the evening before Fletcher finished his tale, and Caleb finished his questions.

"That bastard!" the sandy-haired man shouted as he shot from his chair and paced the room. His brown eyes darkened; his face wore a black scowl. "How could he have had the nerve to weep as he told the tale of your kidnapping, as he begged forgiveness of your parents for coming back alive when their precious Fletcher had been taken." He shook his head in distinct disbelief. "The son of a bitch kept saying over and over, 'It should have been me; it should have been me'." Caleb snorted in disgust. "I remember how your distraught parents had comforted him as he had clung to them like a frightened child. What an actor! When all the while it was him—plotting and scheming." He smacked his fist into the other palm. "I want to kill him!"

"I know, Caleb, I know," Fletcher said, quiet and pushing back deeper into the Chippendale chair. He pressed his glass to the side of his face because exhaustion suddenly wearied him. He had forced himself to tell Caleb everything, at least almost everything—some parts he could never tell, not ever. But having finally shared those hellish years with someone who understood him, having shared the heavy burden of his hate, he experienced a long sought after yet fragile and fleeting moment of peace and drank it in like nectar. "Would it be possible to stay here with you for a few days? Sorry I didn't give you any advance notice," he chuckled, "but it didn't seem quite the thing to do under the circumstances."

Caleb pushed the hair from his forehead. "Blasted! Of course, you old rascal; stay as long as you want. There's plenty of room, and anyway we've a hell of a lot of catching up to do. Tomorrow, I'll tell you about what's been happening around here while you've been gone." He grunted. "The political folderol and hand-dipping are enough to make you madder than a hornet, but I can see by your face that you're beyond rational thought."

"That I am," Fletcher answered. His close friend, and a glass of fine sherry...yes, it felt good to be there. Closing his eyes and yawning, he exhaled a deep breath, and laid his head against the wing of the chair.

"Come on, Rasc, don't fall asleep here. You're too big and heavy, and my back's too weak to carry you up the stairs the way I did that one night when I found you...ah...shall we say...indisposed in the stable with a certain young lady?" He lifted his brows at Fletcher and glanced at him sideways.

Fletcher opened one sleepy eye and arched an eyebrow, casting Caleb a sly grin. "I had a lot of explaining to do the next day, but oh was it worth it!"

Caleb swung his arm around Fletcher's shoulders, and they walked to the stairs. "It's the same room; the third on the left. I think you know your way. I'll have your bags sent up and your horse bedded." He cuffed him lightly in the shoulder. "Rasc?"

Fletcher stopped on the step and turned. "Yes?"

Caleb's eyes flashed sincerity as he extended his hand. "You old rascal, I can't tell you how good it is to have you back. Damn, it's good!"

Fletcher grasped Caleb's hand firmly. "Thanks, young rascal. See you in the morning."

As he felt himself slipping into sleep, Fletcher realized they had never once mentioned Kyndee. Strange, he'd have thought it would have been one of the first things out of Caleb's mouth.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be time enough.

* * *

Brutal hands tore Kyndee from her slumber. Hands clutched at her, tearing her gown. She fought against the hands and screamed. A hand clamped down her mouth.

"Hush up, my little wife. There'll be no screaming in my house for others to hear," said Buck. "Did you think you'd have this bed to yourself forever?" He released his one hand from her mouth, but pinioned her two hands above her head with his other one.

"Buck, please. You're hurting me," pleaded Kyndee. She smelled brandy and fear crept into her spine.

"Don't play coy with me, Kyndee. I know you didn't want to marry me. You think I don't know that you still pine for Saint Fletcher—the illustrious royal pain Fletcher, everyone's knight in shining armor Fletcher? Give it up, woman; he's not coming back. You're Mrs. Stedman now, and the only male Stedman is me. I am the lord and master here. This plantation is mine, your father's plantation is mine and, my very dear Mrs. Stedman, you are mine."

For a man who probably had been drinking heavily, his words were perfectly clear. Buck always did hold his liquor well. It was his foul temper that he rarely held in check.

"Buck, please," she begged again.

"Fletcher treated me like excess baggage, some poor relation needing their charity. I didn't need their charity. I had money of my own that came to me when my parents were killed. But the Stedman name was everything, wasn't it? And I wasn't a Stedman. The Bannistre name wasn't quite as high and mighty."

He kissed her roughly; it hurt her lip as he crushed it against her teeth.

"Well, things do have a way of working out, don't they? I have the love of Fletcher's life because her family needed charity. My charity. Now I'm a Stedman, the only Stedman. I have his name, his home and you, my dear—for as long as we both shall live. Yes, things do have a way of working out."

Buck kissed her ear as Kyndee squirmed and tried to turn away, but it seemed the more she struggled, the more she played into his hands. His hands were like iron bands, strong and unyielding.

"No!" she screamed. "Don't. Buck, not like this!"

He slapped her. "I told you, there will be no screaming," he growled. "Don't tell me, 'Not like this.' Being unschooled in the matter of marital relations you, my little lady, are no judge of what this should or shouldn't be. I have schooled women better than you in what I like and dislike in my bed. I find schooling a wench a loathsome task, but since my usual tart is unavailable, you'll have to learn and learn quickly. I have little patience were my needs are concerned." His chuckle was low and ugly. "In fact, I have little patience at all."

Continuing to hold her hands captive, Buck lowered himself on her, crushing her with his weight. He took her chin in his iron grip and forced his mouth on hers. With his tongue, he forced her lips apart and thrust inside, probing, invading, hurting.

Kyndee resisted, trying to pull her head away, but he was too strong for her. She was writhing, and kicking but he pinned her down with his power. She bit his tongue and he grunted in pain, giving her a split second of release. The second was followed by a flash of pain as Buck's palm again collided with her cheek.

"You bitch. You little bitch," he rasped. "I hope you enjoyed your victory, madam, because it's the first and last you'll ever have over me. Make no mistake about who will win this fight. You are mine, remember? To have and to hold. Well, I'm holding you now, and I mean to have you now, and by God, nowhere in those vows did it say anything about how gentle or rough it had to be."

In the dim moonlight, Buck's eyes were those of some dark monster. He loomed above her, strong and rugged.

Had he been kind and gentle, his same features might have been thought of as handsome: his yellow hair, thick and curly, might have tempted her to run her fingers through it; his smooth-muscled straight shoulders and taut skin might have invited her kiss. But now those shoulders and those muscles were a threat to her, and she fought him with every ounce of strength she had.

Buck's growl was menacing. Realizing that she couldn't escape him, Kyndee tried pleading.

"Buck, please don't hurt me. I am your wife; I did vow to obey you—in all things, even this. But must you beat me to have your pleasure? Can you not be gentle and let me come to learn what it is that pleases you? Perhaps, in time, I might serve your needs well enough that you would seek no other?"

Who is saying these things? her mind asked. What happened to the rebellious, obstinate daring young woman?

She's buried, another part of her argued, buried under the yoke of a promise, heavier by far than that carried by any beast of burden.

Buck's eyes widened, and for the moment he seemed slyly amused. He capitulated by sliding off of her and releasing her hands. Supporting himself on one elbow, he gazed down at her.

"All right, my pretty wench, I can try to be gentle with you. Perchance I can have my pleasure without damaging my property."

Kyndee rubbed her wrists where his hands had chafed her. She was wary of the sudden change in her husband's mood; it disarmed her. He looked at her as would a cat with a cornered mouse, as if he intended to play with her before the kill. She knew he could see her trembling. She moistened her lips and watched his gaze follow the movement.

Slowly and deliberately, he brought his mouth to hers and kissed her delicately on the side of her lips. The touch was feather light; it tingled the bruise he had made before. Kyndee still didn't move.

His kiss moved to her ear, and he nibbled at her lobe. Shivers flew through her but she wasn't sure if they were shivers of desire or fear. He traveled over her eyes, down her cheek, and licked her neck with the tip of his tongue. His breath, heavy with brandy, was not unpleasant.

The torn shift lay open, her breasts exposed to his gaze. His eyes hungrily devoured her chest, rising and falling with shallow and rapid pants. He stared at her, watching her eyes, as he lazily drifted his hand to circle her breast with his finger, drawing it around and around until he cupped it and brought his mouth to suckle.

Kyndee squeezed her eyes tightly shut and gasped. The movement stopped; presumably he waited to see whether she would object. She continued to lie there, shivering, unresponsive, but not fighting his advance. She was afraid to move for fear of arousing his ire instead of his passion.

As he teased her rose tip back and forth with his tongue, his free hand slid along the smooth skin of her belly, around to her buttocks, and along the inside of her thigh. He wrapped his fingers in her downy curls and massaged her in rhythm with his own harsh breathing. Pushing apart her thighs, his thumb caressed the most sensitive feminine part of her that, until now, had never been touched.

Her eyes flew open with shock at the intrusion; her groping hands gathered the bedclothes into her fists.

He raised his head again and studied her expression while he teased her as if to see what would be reflected there.

Kyndee bit down on her bottom lip and looked away. She felt his gaze boring holes into the side of her cheek. It was as if she were outside of the bed, watching what he was doing to her.

Strange that I should feel no emotion, no delight in his touch. I must truly be dead inside. When Fletcher had touched me, even lightly, I had tingled and craved more. With Buck, it is fear that holds me—and a promise of honor. Oh Papa, what have you asked of me?

Her husband invaded her with his fingers, probing, groaning with a lurid satisfaction that no one had trespassed there before. He suckled again at her breast, tugging harder this time, in cadence with the penetration of his hand, and the stroking of his thumb over her feminine nub. Extending his naked body fully he pressed close to her, his breathing heavy, his turgid need obvious and hard against her.

With a taut and husky voice, he muttered in her ear. "Yes, my dear wife, I can be gentle, but you are a mountain of ice."

He bit her shoulder, gently at first, then harder until it became painful. Kyndee whimpered and curved away.

"Ahhh...the mountain moves but does not melt." His topaz eyes hardened and squinted, and Kyndee felt her blood run cold because his stare held a fire that could have cowered a dragon for the fury that raged there.

"No!" he hissed. "I have tried your gentle method, but you withhold yourself—just as your precious Fletcher withheld his friendship and his respect."

"That's not true!" The retort burst from her before she had a chance to stop it. "Fletcher tried, but it was you who declined him, preferring to stay in the good graces of his parents!" Her hand flew to her mouth as she realized what she had done: she had overstepped by merely uttering the ineffable name.

Buck didn't move. In the faint light he glowered at her malevolently with satanic eyes. The game was over; it was now time for the kill.

She didn't want to quiver. She wanted to look away, to run, to escape, but his evil glare held her frozen.

Caught. Cornered. Helpless.

Despite her sheltered life, she had known there was evil in the world, but she had never known true fear of it until she beheld its corporeal existence in the demon above her. Even so, she hated herself for being a coward.

Her husband meant for her to be afraid; she sensed it. He wanted to terrify her. His kind of evil fed on fear; it gave him power.

And lust.

With amazing speed he straddled her and pinned her to the bed by her shoulders, his tumid arousal pushing against her maiden's entrance as a battering ram ready for siege. Kyndee could feel the trembling in his arms to match the rage in his voice. His chest heaved with harsh breaths, his pale brown eyes suddenly dark and demented.

"To be gentle with you is to be gentle with his memory, and that I will not tolerate. You are my wife—mine—body, mind and soul. I will take you anyway I wish, anytime I wish, and anywhere I wish. I will drive his memory from your mind with my every hot thrust until the only memory you have is of me taking you over and over again."

He fell on her and drove into her hard, quickly, and painfully. She arched and screamed at the impact of his forward thrust. Her fists clenched, but he smothered her loud screams with his mouth, plundering her with his tongue even as he invaded her with his searing shaft. As though tormented he dug his nails into her shoulders, panting hoarsely between jagged gasps.

There was no passion, only burn and pain—in her and around her—tearing, breaking, until she was afraid she would end in fragments, never to be whole again. She had to run, leave this horror. Her mind went into itself, into its center where he couldn't touch her, where there was no pain, no sinister eyes, no ugly sounds of his pleasure.

When it was over and he finally withdrew, she never knew. For as she tiptoed in her mind back into being, she found him asleep, rolled on his side away from her. His back rose and fell with a slow, relaxed rhythm.

Kyndee rose carefully and soundlessly from the bed, went to the washstand and poured water into the basin. It didn't matter that the water wasn't warm; she relished the coolness. She wanted to wash away the scorching feel of his touch, the lingering remains of his scent, and the essence of his seed. On the cloth she saw stains of blood, her own blood and, trembling, she scrubbed herself with renewed vigor.

Her innocence was to have been given. It should have been taken with gentle tenderness and whispered endearments of love. Instead her husband seized her treasure as the ultimate trophy, fueled by his never-ending revenge and resentment of Fletcher. Kyndee grieved for her loss and her plight. Her body protested and ached from his abuse, but her mind hurt with the knowledge that she was pledged to this man forever.

When she finished washing, she curled in a blanket on the chaise and wept silently. The tears dripped from the corners of her eyes to the colorful threads in the angelic scene of the petit point pillow beneath her head.

Courage, Queen Katharine. Courage and honor.