Dr Casswell's Student (16 page)

Amelia touched her arm. ‘Don’t try and move. Just lie still and rest. Chang gave you something for the pain. It’s not very strong, but he said it might make you a bit heady for a little while.’

Sarah closed her eyes tight. The darkness twirled and made her feel sick again. Like a glass marble the centre of the darkness had coloured twists spiralling through it, and the twists in her darkness were pure red pain.

‘Why?’ she asked at last, opening her eyes. Her mouth and lips were parched.

Amelia smiled and lifted her towelling robe to reveal a tiny brand on her own thigh. No bigger than a man’s thumbprint, it was an O overlaid with an ornate T. Sarah had seen the design earlier on the wrought iron gates leading up to the estate, on the front doors to the mansion, and even on the book-plates in the library. It was Oliver Turner’s personal mark and Amelia, it seemed, was part of his collection.

Sarah shuddered in dismay; she imagined her own brand to be as big as a saucer, the pain was so great, but guessed that the final scar would probably be just as discreet and imply just as much to anyone who saw it.

‘You are marked with the same crest that was used on Beatrice de Fleur,’ Casswell said, and Sarah jumped at the sound of his voice, not realising he was with them in the room. ‘I thought you would understand and appreciate its significance far more than any other mark we might devise.’

Sarah twisted around, trying to see him.

‘Beatrice?’ she said, struggling to find her voice. ‘How do you know what her brand looked like?’

‘It is sketched several times in the original diary. Its design was of great importance to her. I had the iron made up by a local blacksmith.’ He was moving closer to Sarah now, and the subtle smell of his cologne made her mouth water. What was this bizarre alchemy?

‘Rest now,’ he said. ‘Chang will be up later to help get you ready for dinner.’ He stroked her shoulder, and she shivered under the unexpected caress. ‘You did very well today,’ he said, leaning so close his breath danced through her silky hair, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘I’ll see you later.’ And then he was gone.

Sarah shook her head again, desperate to clear the remnants of Chang’s medicine. Had she detected a strange note of concern in the doctor’s voice?

Amelia pulled a soft woollen blanket up around Sarah’s shoulders. ‘Don’t try to fight it, my little darling,’ she purred, and just the sound of her soft voice made Sarah’s nipples tighten. ‘Sleep now. You’re going to need all the rest you can get.’

Sarah realised she had no desire or will to resist the invitation. She closed her eyes and let unconsciousness claim her, without really considering the implications of Amelia’s last sentence.

‘Well, I’m very glad your lovely young lady has suffered no lasting ill-effects from this afternoon’s performance,’ said Oliver Turner, handing Rigel Casswell a brandy. ‘But it is more important that we keep out minds focused on the business in hand. Perhaps I ought to propose a toast for tomorrow. A good luck gesture?’

It was later that evening and, while waiting for dinner to be served, Casswell and Turner were in the study. Casswell was seated comfortably by the roaring fire, reading from the list of guests that Turner had invited to join them to discuss Beatrice’s diary.

‘And they will all be arriving here tomorrow?’

Turner nodded. ‘Indeed they will. Kosford, Lassiter, some chap from Prague who Rees-Miles has recommended. Altogether, it’s an impressive gathering. Everyone should be here in time for a breakfast meeting, and by this time tomorrow evening, God willing and a fair wind, we should have all the information we require.’

‘And then?’ Casswell asked, savouring the sensation of the alcohol as its warmth eased into his bloodstream.

Turner smiled. ‘Now, now, my boy. You know that all depends on the combined results of their findings. It’s tempting to dream a little though, eh? I have information from a very reliable source that there are several other volumes of Beatrice de Fleur’s diaries in existence. Apparently, the collection was kept in the vaults of a monastery near what is now Prague for quite some time. But in the aftermath of the Russian revolution it was broken up for safekeeping. There are supposedly one or two volumes in a museum near Minsk. Another instalment is apparently being kept under lock and key in Berlin. And of course, there are countless stories of other parts of the diaries existing in dusty old libraries and vaults the length and breath of Europe. But then again,’ he added philosophically, ‘you know how these tales escalate once you express an interest, however discreet the enquiries.’ He paused to light a large cigar.

‘However, if I get the authentication we need, I might seriously consider sponsoring an expedition to try and track the other volumes down. To the right collector they would be priceless.’ Turner lifted his glass in salute to Casswell. ‘And it goes without saying that I’ll need a man on the ground to protect my interests. At my age I’m really not too keen on undertaking all that fieldwork myself.’

Rigel Casswell smiled with pleasure. It was a commission he would relish. ‘In that case, here’s to tomorrow, Oliver, and the arrival of the rest of your team of experts.’

The dancing fire reflected in Turner’s eyes as he gently tapped his glass against Casswell’s. ‘Indeed, dear boy. And here’s to the endless search for new pleasures, and the marking of your precious little slave girl.’

Casswell laughed and returned the gesture. The chinking of the crystal glasses echoed around the elegant room. ‘Talking of slave girls, Amelia looks very well these days, Oliver. Your new attraction in the museum had me completely fooled.’

The elderly gentleman preened with delight. ‘Oh yes, quite excellent isn’t it? She’s a wonderful girl, but she really does need to be kept in line. Like Sarah, she is high-spirited and needs a firm hand. I have to ensure that she’s reminded regularly exactly who is the master in this house, and who the slave. Which, of course, is exactly how it should be. I want impassioned obedience, a challenge, a lively companion with a little fire in their loins, not some snivelling little mouse.’

‘As ever,’ smiled Casswell, ‘I agree with you wholeheartedly.’

They glanced across the room to where Amelia was tied. Spread-eagled and naked except for her long leather boots and the broad, studded belt fastened tight around her waist, the slim blonde awaited the men’s pleasure.

‘Why don’t you help yourself?’ offered Turner, with a nod of his head. ‘Let me see how my favourite apprentice fares these days.’

Casswell smiled thinly, accepted the generous gesture with a curt bow from the waist, and picked up a short flexible whip from amongst the wide selection on offer on the sideboard. Whilst Sarah Morgan slept off the effects of Chang’s sleeping potion and recovered a little from her branding, he would be only too pleased to take his host up on his kind offer of hospitality. He knew he needed to satisfy the little plume of passion that lay like a coiled snake in his belly.

He flexed the whip speculatively. He could see Amelia was already trembling, and wondered how long it had been since she’d had a proper beating. Oliver Turner was robust for his age, but the years had not been overly kind to his mentor. He doubted whether the older man had much stamina these days – and Amelia liked it rough.

He saw her tense as he approached, and then she relaxed, probably assuming he would have a practice stroke or two before laying on the punishment in earnest.

How wrong she was.

Casswell swept the tasselled end of the whip back and brought it down with a resounding crack across her creamy back. He watched her struggle to snatch a breath, and then a split second later she shrieked like a banshee, her body thrashing into a wild spasm of pain, breasts thrusting forward, legs splayed wide as she struggled instinctively to escape the cruel kiss of the leather.

‘You
bastard
, Rigel!’ she hissed with gritted teeth as he swung the whip again. Casswell and Amelia went back a long way.

The whip cracked again and again, with no more than seconds between the strokes. It was relentless. If the luscious blonde had any further curses to expel they were lost in a high-pitched mewl of pain.

Sarah kept catching glimpses of her reflection on the way down to one of the living rooms. A mirror here, a glass door there – and she was totally entranced by what she saw. Chang’s innate ability to emphasise the beauty of the female form was really quite astonishing. She glanced at him; he was a true paradox, swinging between willing and gentle servant, and something far less benign.

Tonight, she was wearing a strapless black velvet evening dress, lightly boned to emphasis her full breasts and narrow waist. Beneath it she was again wearing the basque and stockings she had arrived in – one outfit complementing the other perfectly. Chang had added long black silk gloves, and around her throat her only ornament was a diamanté collar. The overall effect was perfection.

Chang had led her down through the house from the bedroom where she had slept off the effects of his painkilling potion. He walked a pace or two ahead of her, in total silence, a solicitous guide, opening doors, directing her through the quietly understated luxury of Oliver Turner’s enormous country mansion.

Despite his silence, or perhaps because of it, Sarah felt more uncertain in his company tonight than usual, although there was nothing noticeably different that she could put her finger on. While dressing her he had been as efficient as ever; but there was something indefinable and disturbing about his demeanour that unnerved her. It was as though he knew some dark secret to which she was not to be privy.

To allay her fears she tried to concentrate on her surroundings. Turner’s house was a stunning contrast to Doctor Casswell’s run-down gothic pile; plush carpets, exquisite antique furniture, glittering chandeliers.

At the door to the living room Chang paused and indicated for her to enter. She hesitated. She could hear indistinct sounds from within that unsettled her, and as she lifted a knuckle to knock on the polished oak, the evening was shaken by the sound of something swiping viciously through the air and an impassioned scream.

An icy chill stabbed down Sarah’s spine and her flesh crawled. She knew it was Amelia Cartwright. She knew she was being beaten; being beaten by Doctor Rigel Casswell. She froze, her gloved hand over her mouth.

‘Go on in,’ Chang coaxed.

Sarah couldn’t bear to witness the possible horrors on the other side of the door, but something compelling drew her like a magnet. Her hand dropped slowly to the handle, she pressed down, the door creaked a little, and she drifted hypnotically into the room. So mesmerised was she by the tableaux before her that she didn’t really hear Chang quietly close the door and leave her in the company of Casswell and the sobbing slave.

In the middle of the room Amelia hung in a purpose-built wooden frame, rivulets of sweat running down between her shoulder-blades. Her skin was pale, while across her back were at least a dozen scarlet weals that served to accentuate the creaminess of her supple body.

Casswell stood behind her, legs akimbo, cradling a whip. His eyes were feverish with gratification as he stared salaciously at the timid newcomer.

‘Well, how very nice of you to join us, Miss Morgan,’ he said with a throaty growl. ‘And how very delicious you look this evening, I must say. I’m certain Amelia would appreciate a little feminine tenderness and solace. Perhaps you would like to return the compliment she paid you earlier; a little cream for my kitten?’

Sarah reddened, but found herself drawn towards the naked slave, despite the strong desire to turn and run from the oppressive room. She realised, to her utter dismay, that part of her was jealous of the female and the sadistic attention Casswell was lavishing on her. She swallowed hard and shook her head, trying to dispel the incredible yearning.

Tiny beads of sweat glistened on Casswell’s top lip. ‘Come along, my dear,’ he snapped as Sarah reached the frame. ‘Do not keep me waiting.’

Without thinking, Sarah reached out and ran a gloved finger over Amelia’s naked shoulder. Amelia groaned softly. Sarah could smell the other woman’s body. It was a strange heady perfume; a mixture of eau de cologne, and darker, more oceanic scents.

Casswell’s expression hardened. Sarah knew exactly what he expected, and she knew that, no matter how much the prospect appalled her, she wouldn’t deny him. Without a word, despite the smart of the brand still hurting her flesh, Sarah sank to her knees in front of Amelia and pressed a single kiss to the trussed blonde’s flat belly.

Amelia gasped.

Sarah shivered and then lowered her head; a supplicant at the ancient altar of desire. And in that instant, as she ran her tongue along the naked junction of Amelia’s fragrant sex, she understood a little of what arcane magic drew men to this sacred place.

The delicate skin beneath her lips was warm, moist and salty, and trembled in the aftermath of pain and fear. It was as soft as spun silk and as fragrant as new mown hay. Any revulsion was tempered with a strange sense of resignation and wanting.

Amelia, her kohl-streaked eyes dark with need and blurred with tears, gazed down at her. ‘Please, Sarah,’ she whispered hoarsely, ‘take the pain away, set me free, I need the antidote… take me to the edge.’

Sarah shivered again; there was no going back. As her tongue parted the lips of Amelia’s quim her senses were totally overwhelmed. The act of worship was as old as time itself and beyond any rational explanation. All she could taste was the salty gossamer of Amelia’s excitement. All she could smell was the rich perfume of Amelia’s pleasure.