FLAME OF DESIRE (27 page)

Heather gave in to his whim, feeling foolish on all fours. “Yes. Yes. It is soft.” She pondered her fate as she looked at him, and was determined not to let him intimidate her as he usually did. After her experience at court she had matured and could not be so easily bullied. She stood up.

“Perhaps after you are married I will buy you a carpet.” There, he had said it. Said the word “married.” It was time to tell him.

“Father…” Her mouth had suddenly gone dry and her heart was beating faster. She cleared her throat and began again. “I will not marry Hugh Seton, Father.”

He looked at her as if she had spoken in French. “What?”

She bit her lip to keep from crying. She would be strong. “I said I will not marry Hugh Seton, Father. He is a cruel man and I bear him no love.”

His fat faced turned nearly purple with rage. “You will not! You will not? What have
you
to say about it? The marriage settlement is already drawn up.”

“Then you will have to tear it up. I will not tie myself to a man like that. You cannot ask me to do such a thing.” Without even knowing it, she clenched her fists so tightly that she had drawn blood. Now she looked at her wounds.

“I will cut you off without a farthing! I swear it will be so. I will cast you out on the streets, girl.” He pulled at the collar of his long gown as if he were choking.

“Do what you must, Father.” She was unable to hide the feelings of rebellion that she felt. Free. She felt free of all her childhood fears, of pleasing him, of causing his displeasure, of losing his affection for her, no matter how small it was. She didn’t care what he thought, or said, or felt. This man had sold her. He deserved no loyalty.

He came to her then, walking around her in circles, surveying her as if she were one of his bolts of cloth. “After all I have done for you. You ungrateful chit.”

“I am not ungrateful. You have fed me, clothed me, and taught me sums and reading, but I have repaid you time and again with my love and loyalty and by working hard in the house and with your ledgers. I will not give you myself to buy and sell. I am flesh and blood.”

“Ha. What do you know of these matters? Marriage is the same as any other business. Profit is what matters. I will profit, as will you, from this match.” He reached up to pull at the gray strands of his hair, what there was left of it. “I must admit that at first this Hugh Seton frightened me with his threats to tell Mary what I had done, but as we talked and it became apparent that it could be a profitable arrangement, I came to like the man. You will too when you get to know him better.” He tapped his head. “A keen business sense, he has. The man will succeed. He is a crafty one.”

“He is a brute and well should I know. He all but attacked me in the barber’s courtyard.” She shivered, remembering that day.

“It is just that he desires you so.” Shrugging his shoulders, he grinned at her. “You will feel differently after he has bedded you.”

“That he will never do. Hugh Seton will not touch me, nor will I be his wife. I am your daughter, not a bolt of cloth.”

Again he pulled at the neck of his gown, his rage returning. “You are no daughter of mine! That Spaniard’s brat, that’s what you are. De Vega’s spawn.” As soon as the words were out, he regretted them, touching his mouth with his fingers.

“What? What are you saying?” Her gray eyes were enormous with her surprise, yet hadn’t she always had the feeling that somehow she wasn’t his child? Deep down inside, perhaps she had always sensed the truth. Now her mother’s words made sense. That day she had found Heather with Richard in the stables, she had acted as if her outrage was for her own heartache.

“Foolish prattle, my dear. I did not mean a word of it. Of course you are my daughter.” The anger had melted away, to be replaced by unease. He knew that this was the only hold he had on Blythe. She had done as he bid to keep Heather from knowing the truth. “Don’t tell your mother. It is not true.”

Heather shook her head slowly. “No, it
is
the truth. I can feel it. I am not your daughter. No wonder you have never loved me.” She had a strange sense of calm. “But if I am not Heather Bowen, then who am I? Who is this de Vega?”

“I will not talk about it. I will not,” Thomas Bowen shouted at her, striding for the door. Turning back at her, he announced, “As for this mater of the marriage, you will be locked in your room without food or water until you decide to comply with what I have asked of you.”

Thomas Bowen took her to her room. Walking on legs that felt like wooden sticks beneath her, she reacted like a puppet, devoid of any feelings at all about her parentage. In many ways she was glad, for now she need not feel quite so guilty about not having her father’s love, nor for her lack of feelings for him. Besides, this added a touch of mystery to her identity. She heard the door close behind her, and found Saffron in the room waiting for her. She would not be totally alone.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Heather awoke to the sound of rain beating against the windowpane. The room was so muggy, so humid, that she felt damp. Damp and hungry. Her father had made good on his threat to keep her locked in her room without food, bringing her only water and some bread to keep her from starving. He jealously guarded the keys as if suspicious of everyone in the household. He knew, he said, how to deal with a daughter with “too much spirit.”

Daughter! She thought. Ha. I am no daughter to him. His words echoed in her ears, that she was the Spaniard’s brat, de Vega’s spawn. Now she understood why her mother was so meek in his presence. She felt a loyalty to him for taking her in when she was with child. For marrying her. “De Vega,” she whispered, remembering all that her mother had told her about the man she once had loved.

Rising from the bed, Heather paced back and forth, looking at the walls of this bedroom prison. Thomas Bowen had even been successful in keeping her mother away, at least for the moment, though Blythe Bowen had come once or twice to the door to talk with her daughter.

“Heather, dear, are you all right?” she now asked. Heather assured her that she was. “I have talked with Thomas on this matter, but he will not be swayed. He tells me that he is doing it for your own good, Heather. This Seton is a man of high social position, adviser to the queen…”

“I would not marry him if he were the King of England himself.”

“Heather, I do not understand you. Marriages of convenience are the rule among the nobility and landed classes.  You know that. Your father is not doing anything that any other father would not do.”

“He is not my father!”

“What?” The word was barely a whisper.

“He told me so himself.” Heather regretted her words as soon as they were out of her mouth. She had not intended to hurt her mother. Her anger was at her father. Now as the silence stretched out between them she longed to take the words back.

“How could he? How could he? He promised me.” Heather could hear the tears in her mother’s voice and for the moment understood the torment her mother had lived through all these years, the shame. Perhaps another reason she had danced to Thomas Bowen’s tune was that she feared Heather would find out the truth.

“It doesn’t matter, Mother. In fact I’m glad. Knowing the truth frees me and it frees
you
.”

“I had nowhere to turn, Heather. He took me in. We should be grateful to him for that. He gave us a home when we could very well have been homeless. In his way he loves me.”

“He loves only himself and his money. The matter of my marriage is just the same as any other business proposal to him. He cares nothing for me.”

“Heather, please…”

Heather swallowed her bitterness for her mother’s sake. “I’m sorry, Mother.” She leaned her forehead against the door, wishing that she were out of this stifling confinement. Four days. Four. She felt as if she would go mad at any moment.

“If it is any consolation, I know very well what you are going through.” Her voice sounded husky, tormented.

“I know, Mother.”

“Heather. Please think about this matter very carefully. Is it possible that you have not given this man a fair chance? Your Richard Morgan is married to another. Remember that I did not love Thomas and yet I have been content.”

“Thomas Bowen is not like Hugh Seton. He may be selfish, but Seton is a cruel monster.” Even her mother did not seem to understand.

“I must go now. Thomas is coming. My prayers are with you, child.” Heather could hear the sound of her mother’s footsteps.

“Oh, Mother. What would our life have been like if you had married your de Vega?” Heather sighed, returning to the bed to sit upon it in silence. She was hungry, so hungry. As if sensing her need for food, Saffron skillfully cornered a mouse, dropping it at his mistress’s feet.

“Thank you, Saffron. You are quite the hunter.” Reaching down, she fondled the cat, smiling at its offering. “But you take it.” She nudged the rodent with the toe of her slipper. “I hope that I never get
that
hungry.”

Again, as she had before, Heather wondered about Richard. Where was he? Would he come for her? Did he know by now that she was gone from court, that she had been betrothed to Seton? No. If  he knew, he would have come, of this she was certain.

“Oh, Richard,” she sighed, closing her eyes. She had been such a fool. Why hadn’t she talked with him that night she learned of his marriage instead of running away like a child to hide from her pain? He had stood outside her door and she had refused even to see him. And at court she had done the same, laughing all the while with Courtenay in an effort to flee her heartache. Richard had tried to tell her that his marriage had been forced upon him, just as her betrothal had been forced on her. Perhaps this thing with Seton was meant as a lesson. Henceforth she would not be so quick to judge another.

“My dear love, if only I knew where you were. There are so many things I want to say to you. Nothing matters to me anymore except you.” What if she never saw him again? The thought was too painful, and she quickly put it out of her mind. Somehow, some way, somewhere, they would find their happiness together. Let Thomas Bowen do what he might.

Heather knew that so far Thomas had been lenient with her. Would he resort to beating her when she did not comply after a time? She had heard of such things happening, in fact it was commonplace. One young woman had been shut up in her room and beaten once or twice a week, suffering severe head injuries. At last the poor young woman had agreed to marry the man her father had picked for her, a man in his late fifties, only to die of her wounds shortly before the ceremony was to take place. Heather shuddered at the thought. Surely her mother would
never
let things go so far.

“Heather.” The voice whispering to her through the crack in the door was familiar. Tabitha. Bounding from the bed, Heather stood at the door. “I have some bad news.”

“Bad news?”

“Hugh Seton. Your father has asked him to come here this morning to talk with you. He should be here at any moment.”

“Seton?” That meant that Thomas had become impatient, but feared to show her any violence himself. She could well imagine what the leering Seton would do to her.

“I must go now, though I wish that I could help you. May God be with you.”

Heather was once more alone, remembering with abhorrence that time in the barber’s courtyard when Seton instead of Richard had met her. He had shown a violence then that was frightening. The man seemed capable of anything.

“Well, he has met his match in me,” she vowed, walking over to the mirror to peer within its depths. The face that met her glance was thin and pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Perhaps he would not want her now. That was her fondest hope, but just in case he sought to harm her in any way, she armed herself with the small china basin from the table. If she struck him with enough force, he would be rendered  helpless, at least for a while. At that thought she smiled. A rose could well have thorns, or so Richard had once said.

Hiding the basin in the folds of her cotton gown, she sat down upon the bed to wait for Seton’s arrival, only to hear the heavy tread of footsteps as soon as she relaxed. The time of reckoning was approaching. Gripping the basin so hard that her knuckles turned white, she waited.

The footsteps stopped in front of her door and for endless moments she stared apprehensively ahead, waiting for it to open. Without so much as a knock, Seton threw it open, nearly splintering the finely wrought wood.

“What is this horse manure about you saying you will not marry me?” he thundered, giving her a murderous glance. “I will brook no disobedience from my wife!”

“I am not your wife,” she answered coldly. “Nor will I ever be.”

Slamming the door behind him, he stood in front of that portal as if to block any chance of her escape, and for a moment Heather nearly forgot her resolve. This man was terrifying. Satan himself could not have been more threatening.

“I ought to break your neck, but if you were dead you would be of no use to me,” he growled, taking a step forward.

Reaching behind her, Heather clutched the basin, but he did not come any closer. “You only want to marry me to hurt Richard. You have said as much. I loathe you. I would rather die than have you lay one hand on me. If you think that I will ever consent to be your wife, you are mad.”

A dangerous expression, a narrowing of his eyes, contorted his face as he appraised her beauty and her shapely form. “It is you who are mad if you think you can deny me this satisfaction.”

“Even you cannot force a woman to marry without saying the vows. A marriage under duress is not valid or binding.”

“I will not use force.” The evil grin that he gave her made her blood run cold. “You will give your consent.”

“Never. Somehow Richard will find me and stop you.”

“If he comes near you, I will kill him. What do you think of that?”

Heather gasped, horrified. She thought with fear that it was not an idle threat. Hugh Seton hated Richard Morgan. “You wouldn’t!”