Bride (13 page)

He groaned and leaned closer. “Why not now? We could find a place easy enough. Wait for the ‘orses ter be changed and we'll leave the village a spell. The coach is comfort enough for what we ‘ave in mind.”

Glory ignored the snickers of passing post boys. “I fancy that, too,” she said, and tucked his hand inside her straining bodice. His groping and panting quickened the need that never quite left her belly. “There isn't time. I'm expected here. Give me a way that I can get word to you. And when I do, be ready to take us away where we can be alone. All alone. I like more space than a coach. There are things I know that can keep a man very happy for as long as he can spare.”

They held still while the team from the coach was led by. Too spent to do more than blow, their hoofs clopped wearily on the cobbles. Glory wrinkled her nose at the ripe scents in the yard. Her days amid the straw in stable lofts were past, and she didn't mourn them.

“I can't wait fer ye,” the coachman said.

“You'll have to. How can I send for you in Edinburgh?”

Glory saw a shadow separate from a dim corner of the yard. A man, his right arm upraised. It was the sign.

“I have to go now,” she told the coachman. “Give me an address. Quickly.”

“The Running Footman,” he said, pinching her nipple. “Every man knows the place. Hard by the market in Old Town. ‘Ave one of the lads ‘ere bring me word and I'll come for ye in this yard four days after—of this time of a night—or as close in day and time as I can. It'd be a day later mayhap, but not a day before.”

“And you are?” She rubbed the swollen handful inside his rough wool breeches.

“Len Bottwell. They all knows me.”

With a theatrical sigh, Glory stepped away. “Until we make our rendezvous, then, Len Bottwell. Be sure you think of me.”

“I won't stop thinkin’ of ye. Who should I be expectin’ to ‘ear from?”

“A lady. You'll get a message from a lady and you'll know to come.”

“Well … Fair enough, then,
lady.
I'll be waitin’.”

Glory dimpled at him and sped lightly over the cobbles to the place where a boy stood beside her trunk. With a single backward glance at Len Bottwell—a possible boon in future plans—she waved for the boy to carry the trunk into the inn.

“Ye can go in by the front door,” the lad said in the Scottish brogue Glory found irritating. “I'll tak’ this to your accommodations direct.”

“I'd like that,” Glory told him, pressing a coin into his palm. “Tell the innkeeper it's Mrs. Smith who's arrived. Remind him that the best room in the house was reserved for me and my husband.”

Ducking his head, mumbling thanks, the boy struggled into the building under the considerable weight of Glory's trunk. She pretended to fuss with her reticule, glancing to be certain the coachman no longer watched. He was in conversation with the farrier and the two walked toward the smithy's shop.

“Come closer.”

The familiar voice had lost none of its power to thrill her. Glory stepped into the black shade close to the inn and a hand closed on her arm.

“There's a room,” she said breathlessly. “I'll go and—”

“You'll do nothing until I tell you to do so. And you will call me by no name other than the one we have used on previous occasions. And you'll offer no opinions, Glory.”

“But I—”

“Silence.” His fingers dug into her arm—jerked her deeper into the shadows. He said,
“Whore,”
and thrust her against the rough wall.

“I didn't have to come,” she whined.

“Didn't you?”

Fear, an old, never-to-be-forgotten fear, curled about Glory's heart. She tentatively said, “No. I came because I wanted to help you.”

“Liar,” he said, bringing his face close to hers. “You have no choice but to do as I tell you. You will never have any choice.
I
am your master.
I
own you.
I
can decide if you live or die.”

Glory's blood pumped in her ears. Even as he uttered the words he'd used over and over through the years, words that meant he could be planning to prove his domination over her, the place at her center burned hot and wet with need.

“They're keeping a room—”

“I have no interest in a room here, you fool. I am known.”

“Yes, but—”

“Dear God! I see I must teach you again who it is who makes decisions in this matter. There is no one in these parts who would not take note of seeing me in your company. The ends we desire would be lost forever.”

Glory trembled. She touched his sleeve tentatively. “I'm very glad to see you … Mr. Smith. I've missed you.”

He laughed, an awful, cold laugh. “Missed me so much you rutted with a foul, bloated coachman to help pass your journey?”

“No!” She tried to pull away. “No. I swear I didn't. There's no man for me but you. You know that.”

At least his blow to her mouth was delivered with an open hand—an open hand that smothered her scream and ground her head into the wattled wall.

“You rutted with him,” he said. “Nod your head and confess it.”

Stunned, tasting her own blood, Glory shook her head. She knew the rules. No matter how badly he hurt her, she must deny ever bedding another man.

“I saw you leaning on him. I heard him groan. Tell me you didn't have him by the cock. Tell me you weren't letting him touch you.”

Again she shook her head.

“Filth,” he hissed. “Filthy whore. I have no time for your lies. We have work to do. Come. You shall tell me what I want to know soon enough.”

She knew better than to argue. She also knew a moment's wild panic. He sounded—
desperate?
That was new. Mr. Smith never lost control, never made a move he didn't intend to make, and never failed to be certain he would prevail.

He pulled her arm through his and told her, “Look down. Keep your face down and say nothing until I order you to do so.”

Swelling thickened her lower lip. It wasn't like him to mark her face. While he hurried her between the main inn and an outbuilding, she kept her eyes on the shiny cobblestones.

The ground beneath her feet became more uneven, and she stumbled. A whip-tense arm shot around her waist and she was borne along at a great pace to a gig and pair tethered at the side of the deeply rutted lane.

“Mr. Smith?—”

“Get in.”

He didn't attempt to help her scramble into the open carriage. “My trunk.”

“Your trunk will be retrieved soon enough,” he said, untying the pair and leaping up beside her. “You will have no need of it tonight.”

Glory shivered, but she also smiled—and winced at the pulling apart of split skin on her lip. “We are about to come into our own,” she said. “At last. I cannot tell you how I look forward to what lies ahead.”

“I told you to be silent.”

She knew better than to press him.

The small carriage swayed and rattled, its wheels grinding over rocky earth. The pair, both black, ran gamely. There was no moon, and with only one small lantern lighted, the cattle seemed to draw their burden into a cavern fashioned from trees that met overhead and dense hedgerows that all but touched the conveyance on either side.

Glory could not guess how much time passed while they traveled. She clung to the seat with both hands, fighting off the exhaustion of days on the road since she left Bath in response to a summons she could not ignore.

What felt like many miles of lanes gave way to a track that rose steadily into hilly country. The scents were of damp earth and furze. By day the heathland would be ablaze with yellow blossoms.

“Our destination,” Mr. Smith said.

The sudden breaking of the silence jolted Glory fully awake. She looked around but could make out no dwelling. “Where?”

He chuckled softly. “Where I have made a place for my pleasure. Where I go when I am thought to be elsewhere.”

The smoke-black sky pressed the hills’ looming outlines. Glory peered, but saw nothing.

An abrupt downward drop threw her against the back of the seat. She screamed.

Her companion laughed loudly and fought to control the horses.

“Runaway!” Glory clutched at his arm.

He threw her off and worked the pair in another sharp turn, this one to the left. “Whoa,” he called, drawing back on the reins.

The horses clattered to a halt. Gasping, her heart still thundering, Glory clung to the side of the coach.

All of her questions were answered within minutes when she'd been pulled to the ground and beneath a rock ledge. “Nothing to be seen from the track above,” Mr. Smith said shortly. “There's a cave here. Abandoned hideaway. Probably a battle refuge. Meant for someone of high rank, unless I miss my mark. Whoever used it last must have left in a hurry. We won't be uncomfortable. Neither will our future guests.”

A gusty wind plucked at Glory's skirts. She saw where a black hole opened into the rock face under the cover of the overhanging ledge. “I don't like it here.”

“You'll change your mind about that soon enough. We both know you will.”

She tutted petulantly. “Does that mean you're going to be nice to me at last?”

“Very nice.” He finished securing the horses, lifted a valise from the carriage, and unhooked the lantern. “We have work to do before the dawn—a great deal of work.”

“Work?”

“Things have not progressed exactly as I expected. Unfortunate. All was perfect until a short while ago. There's been a complication. You're here to help me overcome that complication. But you must know every step to take. You'll do only what I tell you to do—when I tell you to do it. That will mean your close attention to every detail I tell you.”

Glory yawned, and touched her lip carefully. “I thought all I had to do was go to his house and tell him what we want.”

Mr. Smith held the lantern aloft. His face showed as a slanted, demoniacal mask. “Do you know what we want? Have you any idea how much we want?”

“Lots,” she told him, and giggled.

“Get inside.” He pushed her head down and thrust her into the black space. Once inside with her, he caught up a rope and dragged a bail of straw and branches into the entrance behind him. “Now there can be absolutely no danger of our being noticed.”

Glory cast about. Shapes hung on all sides. “I don't like it here, I tell you.”

“So you've already said.” Carrying the lantern, he lighted several others balanced in niches high on the sloping walls.

Wide-eyed, Glory watched yellow light leap over heaps of wooden boxes, straw pallets covered with rich tartan cloth and sheepskins, a line of dusty green wine flagons in wicker skins. More sheepskins covered much of the floor of the cave. A flattopped sea chest surrounded by moth-eaten woolen pillows bore a weight of books and a supply of writing materials.

She glanced up at the roof. “I don't like it.” They were under the hills. All that rock up there and all around them. “I don't want to stay here.”

Mr. Smith hefted the valise onto one of the rude beds. He produced a slender bottle of dark fluid, several jars of salve, white cloths, and a pair of leather gloves. He closed away the rest of whatever the case contained.

Glory's uneasiness swelled until she clamped her hands over her ears. “Let me out of here,” she demanded. “Let me out, I tell you.”

Mr. Smith faced her. “Take off your clothes.”

She giggled and hiccuped. “It's cold.” Her breath came in shallow bursts.

He crossed his arms and came toward her. “You won't be cold for long.”

Delaying would be pointless. Her gown was expensive and she didn't want it ruined by his careless tearing. Glory ran her tongue over her lips and drew off her cloak.

“Hurry. I've already told you we've got a lot to do.”

He puzzled her, confused her, but that was part of what excited her about him—the mystery. “New things?” She turned for him to help her with her dress.

“Did you pack the gray gown I told you to bring?”

She pouted and stepped out of her favorite dark-purple carriage dress. “I wore this to please you. I thought you'd like it.”

He spun her around, tossing the garment to the floor as he did so. “The gray? Is it in the trunk?”

“You'll ruin my—”

“The
gray?”
Another open-handed blow snapped her face away from him. He slapped her again and even as she cried out she tasted fresh blood. “The gray gown, Glory?”

“Yes! Stop it!”

“Soon enough. You'll soon understand why I must do this.”

Her head throbbed. His fingernails had caught the corner of her left eye and she felt more blood oozing from a stinging scratch.

“I don't like this.”

“For God's sake. Keep your mouth shut. The sooner I do what must be done, the sooner we will both be happy, my dove.”

Glory dropped her hands to her sides.
My dove.
The words had always been a sign between them. They meant he wanted her in his special way—the way he liked best.

Glory liked being his dove.

“Drink this down.” He uncorked the bottle. With one hand behind her neck, he tipped the dark liquid into her mouth. When she choked and pushed at him he forced her head farther back and kept pouring until the vial was empty. “You will be glad of it,” he told her.

Still coughing, Glory wiped at her mouth and hunched over.

While she struggled to breathe, clever hands deftly stripped her.

“Stop,” she muttered, batting at him. “I didn't like that.”

He smiled, and while he smiled he pulled on the leather gloves. “You don't like a great deal tonight, Glory. I'll just have to find something you do like—later.”

Her eye was swelling. She blinked to see more clearly. Why wasn't he touching her?

Glory supported her heavy breasts in her hands and swayed, inviting him …

“Nice,” he said. “Later they'll be nice.”

“Now,” she said. She said the word but she didn't say it. The word echoed inside her head, but the sound that came from her mouth was a gurgle.

Heat flashed. Her jaw sagged. “Can't … Can't.”

Mr. Smith's face changed shape. Eyes and mouth melted downward, and his nose. She blinked. Weakness slid along her muscles and she staggered. She was drugged.

His gloved fists, thumping into her shoulders, threw her to the ground.