Captive Splendors (11 page)

 

The tension in the Sinclair home was unbearable. Wren stayed closeted in her room, refusing to come out even for meals. Sirena snapped and snarled at anyone foolhardy enough to approach her. Regan paced Tyler's study, thinking and shaking his head. He had tried to speak to Wren and been refused entry to her room. Tyler seemed preoccupied with something he refused to share with anyone. Caleb had come to dinner and left early after a long, silent meal. Only Camilla seemed oblivious to the tension in her home. Her thoughts were fixed on her coming child, and that was her only interest now.

Sirena came downstairs after lunch the next day with orders for errands to be made. On her way to the kitchen she passed Camilla in the sitting room, busily stitching what looked like a baby blanket. “The least you can do is say something,” Sirena snapped. “Don't you know what's going on in your own home? Haven't you tried to speak to Wren and find out what she's thinking? And the baby hasn't been born who needs seventeen blankets. Don't you ever do anything else?”

Camilla raised her pansy eyes, her needle poised in midair. “Whatever are you talking about, Sirena? Is something wrong with Wren? I mean, is she ill? I already know that you two are having a squabble of some kind. And you're wrong, Sirena, this is the nineteenth blanket I've stitched. England can be quite cold and damp in the winter, and a mother can never have too many blankets.”

“Spare me your wisdom, Camilla,” Sirena answered curtly as she headed for the kitchen.

Regan had overheard the conversation between Sirena and Camilla and almost found himself ready to make excuses for Sirena's short temper. Wisely, he turned and went in the other direction. He had enough trouble with the women in his family as it was, and he didn't care to have Sirena's rage directed toward him, which was exactly what would happen if she ever discovered him apologizing for her behavior.

Upstairs, Wren paced, wringing her hands and dashing away the tears that continually formed in her eyes. Malcolm. Poor, sweet Malcolm. Pretending he didn't love her to spare her from a life of hardship. Didn't he know she loved him more than life itself and that she would rise above anything just to be with him, to be his wife? Sweet, noble Malcolm. The past two days had been a haze of heartache and tears, and looking ahead to never seeing him again was unbearable beyond belief. It was not to be comprehended. He was her love, her life. His cruelty had been a pose, an act, and he had been driven to it by his love for her. Her love for him became overpowering, and she threw herself on the high bedstead and sobbed into her pillow. “I won't let you do this, Malcolm. I won't let you keep us apart because you think I'm not strong enough to face poverty. I'd face death itself if I could be by your side.” With all the aching urgencies of young love, Wren yearned for Malcolm until she thought her heart would break. The nights she had spent in his arms, feeling his lips against hers, hearing him whisper how much he loved her, needed her, rushed back to her. She decried her silly schoolgirl fantasies about walking down the aisle to meet her husband as a virgin. Now she wished she had succumbed to Malcolm, had allowed him to make love to her; then nothing on earth could keep them apart. They would have made themselves one forever.

Suddenly, with a will and a determination she hadn't known she possessed, Wren stumbled from the bed and pushed a chair up to the clothespress. She climbed on the chair, reached for her portmanteau and pulled it down to the floor. Breathing heavily, she flung open the clothespress and searched through her wardrobe, her fingers seeking the most modest gowns she owned, automatically discarding the opulent silks and satins which had always been her vanity. A working girl couldn't wear elaborate clothing, and if she was going to help Malcolm support them, she would take only the most utilitarian items she owned.

The small trunk was heavier than the few belongings stuffed into it, and she had little difficulty carrying it. She was on her way to Malcolm, and she would make him happy, she was certain of that. If Malcolm loved her only half as much as she loved him, their marriage would be made in heaven.

Wren didn't look back, for she feared she would falter. Regan and Sirena loved her, but they didn't understand her. She couldn't allow herself to think about them. She was embarking on a new life, and her only concern could be for Malcolm and his happiness.

 

Wren placed her portmanteau by the door of Malcolm's apartment, then allowed herself a moment to catch her breath. Fortunately, she had been able to slip out of the house unnoticed and had managed to heft the trunk to the corner of the avenue, where she had hired a hack.

Downstairs, Malcolm's landlady had asked her impertinent questions and then snapped her mouth shut when Wren had stabbed her with an icy look. It was obvious the woman knew her betters when she met them. Grudgingly, she had pointed out Malcolm's door and watched as the young girl with the imperious attitude struggled up the stairs with the trunk. Arms folded across her buxom bosom, the landlady shrugged her shoulders. It was none of her business, she thought, as long as the rent was paid. And a long time coming that was, tool Perhaps the young miss would set things aright. If not, the girl's presence at least gave her a lever for having the dashing Malcolm Weatherly thrown out on his elegant ass.

As Wren sat atop her trunk just outside his door, Malcolm stood before his dressing table, holding a package. Gently he unwrapped the cloth. The black velvet slipped through his trembling fingers as he fumbled with the folds. His eyes shone with greed; his lips were slack as he spread out his treasure with tenderness. The light filtering through the worn draperies spun a halo of gold and glitter upon the King's collar. Even as he looked at it he couldn't believe it was here, in his possession. It had almost been too easy.

Because the goldsmith had assumed he was working under great secrecy and hadn't wanted to call attention to his shop until after the collar had been delivered, he had failed to hire a guard. At first Malcolm had been thwarted by the heavy iron bars on the jeweler's windows and door. But the day he had spent studying the small shop on Cheap Street had been worthwhile. Upon first inspection, it had appeared that the shop was self-contained and that the only way to the upper floors of the building was by the outside stairs. Then, shortly after noon, Malcolm had looked up and seen the jeweler pass by one of the windows on the second floor. Having kept himself in full sight of the outside stairs and not having observed the goldsmith use those stairs, he had rightly assumed that there was also an entrance to the second floor from within the shop. And the second floor's door and windows were unbarred. Late that night Malcolm had climbed to the second floor, the lock on the door giving easily under the pressure of his knife. It had been simple thereafter to locate the route to the floor below and help himself to the collar.

Malcolm was mesmerized by it. Made of heavy gold and large enough to go around a man's waist, the piece was intricately wrought and set with precious stones. Fiery diamonds were the largest of these, offset by sapphires and golden topaz. The sunlight caught each facet of the gems and highlighted their brilliance.

The sudden knock on the door made Malcolm start with such force that he found himself trembling. Guilt-ridden, he quickly wrapped the collar in the jeweler's velvet and hastily pushed the cloth into the bottom drawer of the dresser.

“Coming! Who's there?” he called, struggling to keep his voice under control.

“Malcolm! It's me, Wren!”

“Wren!”

The door swung open and Wren threw herself into his arms. “I had to come,” she cried. “I couldn't stay away any longer. I love you, Malcolm.”

“What are you doing here? I told you how it was. Please go home, Wren.”

Not to be put aside again, Wren pushed her way into the room. “I won't go away. I came to be with you, for always. No, don't say anything; hear me out first. I know how noble you're being. I know you don't want me to do without the things I've always had. But you're wrong, Malcolm. I haven't always had them. I know what it's like to do without. I know what it's like not to have enough to eat or to pay for lodgings. I didn't always live with Sirena and Regan. I was almost ten years old when Sirena found me and took me to live with her. Before that, I'd been living on the streets or worse. I had to work for my living. Only one person in the world besides Sirena was ever kind to me, and that was Lottie, a foxy old crone. So you see, darling, I haven't always been a spoiled little pet. I knew what life was like for the people in the slums even before I could walk.”

Malcolm regarded her with increasing astonishment. Not only had Wren misled him about being the daughter of the van der Rhyses, she'd also lied to him about who she was. An urchin, a street urchin born in the London slums, and now she had the audacity to suppose she might be good enough to wipe his shoes!

Before he could utter a word, Wren was in his arms again. “When will we be married, Malcolm? You can't send me back, you know. I've already told them I was coming to you. I . . . I even told them we were lovers,” she lied, hoping he would believe there was no turning back for her, desperate to convince him she had given up everything just to be with him because he was so important to her. She couldn't let him send her back now that they were together again, now that her arms were around him and she was so close to belonging to him forever.

“Did you bring any money with you?” he asked curtly.

“Only my allowance that I've been saving. Thank the Lord I didn't pay my dressmaker's bill. Altogether I've over fifty pounds,” she announced proudly. “A very nice start for a married couple. Here,” she said, holding out her purse.

“This isn't going to go very far,” Malcolm snapped. “The least you could have done was to bring some jewelry or something we could sell.”

“Please don't look so upset,” she pleaded. “Everything will work out, you'll see. Truly it will.”

“Truly it will,” he mimicked in a whining voice. “Well, truly it won't. You don't seem to understand, Wren. Go home.”

“Don't, Malcolm. Please don't send me away. You said you couldn't afford me. Well, you won't have to. I'll work, I'll do anything, only don't send me home.”

“Two days ago I said I couldn't afford you.” He glanced covertly at the dresser, where the collar was hidden. “Now I don't want you. I don't need you anymore.” He chuckled cruelly, thinking about the price the collar would bring him. “Go home, you silly schoolgirl!”

“No! I won't! I'm not a silly schoolgirl any longer. You need me, Malcolm. You do.” She was in his arms, her mouth seeking his, her lips parted, her tongue searching for his. She pressed herself against him, felt his warmth against her, was aware of a rising urgency in him.

His arms came around her, tightening, pulling her toward him. The exhilaration he had experienced over the stolen collar was emphasized by the offerings of this beautiful girl. Yes, she was right. He did need her. For the moment.

“You see, darling,” she whispered against his mouth, “you do need me. You want me.”

“You're so right, Wren. It's time I learned what you are all about.”

The harsh tone of his voice and the rough way he pulled her toward him, crushing her mouth beneath his, startled Wren. This wasn't the Malcolm she knew. That Malcolm had been sweetly passionate, tender, hesitant.

Suddenly fear gripped her as she stared at him. She had expected to see her love mirrored in his eyes; instead, she saw hot, burning coals. His lips tore heedlessly at hers while she stood frozen with terror. His hands worked at the buttons on her dress, and he grasped her breasts in a careless, hurtful way. His breathing was harsh and labored as he bent her backward, his mouth never leaving hers.

Wren knew what was happening and was powerless to stop it. All protests died in her throat, and she fought him with every ounce of strength she could summon. This couldn't be Malcolm. Not the Malcolm she knew and loved. This was someone else, a perverted creature with only lust, not love, on his mind.

The pain he was inflicting on her with his urgent thrusts was hot and searing, unlike any pain she had ever experienced in her life. She wanted to scream till her lungs burst, and yet no sound came forth. His fingers wrenched her flesh, and he sucked at her nipples until Wren prayed she would die. The agony and shame she felt were more than she could bear, but the dull void of love lost engulfed her and rendered her senseless with a force greater than any physical attack.

The torment and degradation continued. Wren's young body was stiff with shock as Malcolm drove into her again and again. Her insides felt hot, swollen, as if they were being torn to shreds by the ceaseless force of the man's deep thrust. Blood seeped between her legs as she tried vainly to beat at him with her small, clenched fists.

Her attempts were futile against his strength as he savored her smallness, savored the fact that she was a virgin no longer, exulted in his possession of Wren and the collar both in the same day. He had always wanted to do this to her, ever since the first night he had kissed her and known that one day she would give herself to him. Malcolm hadn't wanted Wren to give —he had wanted to take! When his passions had gone beyond his bearing them, she would coyly pull away from him and straighten her gown, pleading her stupid virginal morals and saying something about his being naughty. Naughty! When his loins had ached for release and his blood had refused to cool!

Half-conscious from the brutal attack, Wren felt Malcolm go limp, his deep thrusts abating as he remained inside her, his mouth on hers, his saliva merging with hers till she wanted to gag, to rid herself of him.