Gregory, Lisa (9 page)

"Please,"
she said shakily. "Let me go; I can't breathe."

He
buried his face in her hair, his lips against her ear. "That's the idea,
my dear," he said huskily, and his breath on her ear sent the most
startling shivers through her abdomen. "Then we take off your stays so you
can breathe."

"How
dare you—" she gasped, and he chuckled.

"All
proper to the end, aren't you, Miss Devereaux?" He nuzzled her neck.
"I can feel the fire inside you. Someone should have taken you long ago,
ridden you good and hard and with a firm hand, like a temperamental mare.
Softened you, made you burn with passion, and you'd have turned into a fiery,
loving creature. Instead of the cold bitch you are today!"

"Why
you—" she fumed, unable to think of anything horrible enough to call him.

His
hands slid down her arms and they fell numbly to her sides. Then boldly he
moved his hands down her, his face staring mockingly down at hers. Roughly he
touched her breasts, slid his hands along her stomach and abdomen, then back
up. Suddenly he groaned and pulled her to him, encircling her with his chained
arms, and again he kissed her roughly. He crushed her against him; she could
feel the violent pounding of his heart against her chest, feel the hard
masculine strength of his body pressed against her. Abruptly he stopped and she
sagged against him, feeling dizzy, weak.

"I
could take you right now. Do you realize that?"

She
nodded weakly.

"I
don't intend to—at least at the present." He lifted his arms from around
her, but grasped her by the shoulders, his fingers digging in painfully.
"I only want you to know that I can defeat you. Even though I am in
chains, I am a man; I can conquer you. You may be able to have my back lashed,
to have me thrown into a dark hole for two weeks on a diet of moldy bread and
water—"

Her
eyes widened and she started to speak, but he dug his fingers into her more
harshly and said, "Shut up; just listen. You may be able to have me
punished for 'insulting' your ladylike ears. But I can still possess you, bend
you, force you to submit. Your wealth, your position, your frozen attitude
can't protect you from me." His words came out in short hard bursts; he
was panting as if he had been running. "Remember that. If I decide I want
you. you're mine."

He
released her and turned, strode across the room, unlocked the door, and left.
She sagged to the floor; her knees had turned to water. "My God," she
said, pressing her hands to her face. "Oh, my God."

She
ran into the other room, threw on her cloak and bonnet, and flew from the
office.

"Miss
Kate? Are you all right? Miss Kate?" Pegeen called through the bedroom
door.

Katherine
had entered the house and rushed upstairs to her room as if pursued by all the
demons of hell. Once inside the safety of her room, with the door securely
locked, she had collapsed into her rocker. Alarmed, Pegeen had come to see
about her, only to find the door locked. Katherine sat numbly in the chair, not
even noticing that she hadn't removed her cloak and hat

"Yes,
Pegeen," she roused herself to answer. "Please—just leave me alone.
I'll be all right."

Leaning
back, Katherine slowly began to rock. Her mind was a jumble of discordant,
disconnected thoughts. His breath against her ear. The clean male scent of him.
The slightly salty taste of his lips. She clapped her hand to her mouth. Did
men really kiss women that way? Would a
gentleman
kiss a lady that way?
No, surely not. It was awful, degrading. No doubt that was why a Southerner was
considered not to be trusted around a woman. They grabbed you and pawed you and
kissed you and—and what? Then they raped you. It was what Boston matrons
whispered about when they thought you couldn't hear them. But they wouldn't
tell you because you were an unmarried girl. It was what
he
had
threatened. But she didn't really know quite what it was.

It
must involve kisses like that, consuming, devouring kisses—and it must involve
that hot, peculiar feeling in her stomach. Rape was related to what a man did
to you on your wedding night, she knew, but being a proper Victorian girl, she
had never been told enough to ask what
that
was either—and certainly no
one had told her. One went to bed with a husband; husbands could kiss one—but
did they kiss like that? She couldn't imagine it. So that sort of kiss must be
how rape was different. If he raped her, her life was ruined—that much she
knew. She wouldn't be received in polite society; she would be shut up here
forever with Aunt Amelia, ashamed to show her face! And she would have a baby;
that was always the awful consequence.

Tears
began to stream down her face. Why did he want
to
hurt her? Why should
he hate her so much as to want to ruin her life? They had hurt him—whipped him
and put him in a horrid cell by himself. And apparently he thought she was the
one who had persuaded them to. But why did he think she would do such a thing?
And why—why did the thought of his eyes, his husky voice, his strong, brown
hands, create this trembling warmth in her? Bewildered, upset, she collapsed
into tears, the sobs wracking her body.

For
two days she didn't go to work, claiming that she was ill. She spent the two
days in turmoil. What was she to do? She would quit work, she decided. Papa
would be upset, of course, and her life would be sheer boredom, but anything
would be better than having to face him again, having to live in dread that he
might attack her. At other times she would burn with anger that he should think
her capable of such vindictiveness as to have him beaten just because he had
been rude and insulting to her, and she would decide to go right down to the
yards and inform him that he was wrong about her. But what did it matter what
he thought of her? His opinion was not of the least importance to her. It would
be so cowardly not to go back; she had never backed down from a fight before.
She had to return—she couldn't let him think that he had won.

Then,
unbidden, images would creep into her mind—she would picture him being lashed
and almost cry out at the horror of it; she would feel once again his lips on
hers, and she would become restless and begin to pace her room. If only she
could talk to someone about it! But there was no one. Aunt Amelia would
probably faint; any friend of hers would be as unknowledgeable as she; Pegeen
would be afraid for her and only urge her to tell her father. And Papa—well,
she couldn't tell him, for he would straightway have Hampton punished. And no
matter what he had done, she could not bear the thought of his being whipped
again. "At least
I
," she thought fiercely, "am not one to
beat someone because I have them in my power."

During
the afternoon of the second day, there was a knock at her door, "Miss
Kate?"

"Come
in, Pegeen."

Pegeen
opened the door and popped her head in; her eyes shone with excitement.
"Oh, miss, Lieutenant Perkins is here to see you." Pegeen was not one
to be fooled by Katherine's story of being sick. Love troubles—that was her
diagnosis; and she believed it all to be due to the unfortunate lieutenant who
had called over three weeks ago and not returned. She knew for a fact that
Henry Stephens or the Miller boy wouldn't send Miss Kate into such a high snit.
So it was bound to be the lieutenant, and though he wasn't what Pegeen would
have chosen for her—too somber by half—she wanted Katherine to have whomever
she wanted. Therefore, Pegeen had almost cried out with joy when she saw the
lieutenant standing at the door.

"Oh,
really?" Katherine brightened. "I'll be right down."

"He's
in the drawing room, miss. And," she added conspiratorially, "Miss
Amelia is upstairs taking a little nap. It's a good thing I opened "the
door. That stuffy old Simmons would have sent word up to her." Pegeen,
with a large, strict Catholic family, knew how difficult it was to get a little
time alone away from nosy relatives.

"Thank
you," Pegeen." Katherine patted her hair into place and straightened
her collar, then went down to greet her caller.

He
was standing by the fireplace when she entered, and she walked over to him,
extending a friendly hand. His eyes lit up—she seemed lovelier to him than
ever—and he grasped her hand tightly.

"Well,
Lieutenant Perkins, I never expected to see you here again," she said
teasingly.

"What?
Did you think me that cowardly?" He smiled down at her. The nearness of
her, the faint rose scent, made him suddenly aware of how much he wanted her in
his bed, and he flushed slightly at the thought.

"There
are brave men who will run at a spinster aunt's inquisition."

"Well,
I am not one of them. Unless, of course, you wish me to discontinue."

"No,
not at all."

"I
am sorry that I have been absent so long, but just after I was here, I received
word that my father died."

"Oh,
I'm so sorry." She laid a sympathetic hand on his arm.

"Thank
you. I went to Nantucket on leave, of course, and have just now returned.
Unfortunately, my ship sailed last week, and so I have been temporarily
assigned to headquarters again."

"How
terrible for you. I'm sure the time at sea would have been of great comfort to
you."

"You
are very perceptive, Miss Devereaux."

"Shall
we sit down? Would you like some tea, Lieutenant Perkins?"

"No,
thank you." He paused. "I—I hope you won't think it presumptuous of
me, Miss Devereaux, but I worried about you a great deal while I was
gone."

"Worried
about me? But whatever for?" Here was just the sort of calm, sensible
person to tell her problem to, she thought. Only he was a man, and of course
she could never speak to him on a matter so delicate.

"I
thought of you down there at the yards, particularly with those Rebel
prisoners. It's just not a safe place for you. Now, don't mistake me—I think
you're a very brave and courageous lady. I know how you feel, and I am not criticizing
you at all. But still it is dangerous. So I got you a little present."

"Oh,
Lieutenant, I couldn't accept a gift—"

He
smiled. "Now don't be hasty. Wait until you see it." He reached into
his pocket and then held his hand toward her. A little snub-nosed silver
handgun lay nestled in his palm. "It's not candy or flowers, but it is
more useful, don't you think?"

"Why,
what a funny little gun!" Katherine cried.

"Yes,
it's made to be carried tucked away in some little place where it won't be
noticed. There are gamblers who carry them up their sleeves where they can drop
them quickly into their hands in case the game gets unfriendly—excuse me, I
know I shouldn't tell a lady about such things."

"Oh,
no, please, it's quite all right. And you think I should carry one. But where
would I keep it?"

"Make
a little pocket for it in your muff. Then if you are accosted, you can just
pull your hand out of the muff—with this gun in it."

"As
long as I'm outside."

"Well,
yes, but your father and Charlie and Teddy are there in the office to protect
you."

"But
I haven't the slightest idea how to use a gun."

"Well,
this is a gun that's used in close situations. It would be hard for you to
miss—and he'll know it. Now let me show you how to load and fire it."

As
he instructed her, Katherine was thinking that unwittingly he had solved her
problem. Though she was still scared, this gun would give her the courage she
needed to return. Just let Hampton try to frighten her again. She would show
him that she was smart enough to defend herself. She looked at Perkins's intent
face, close to hers as he explained the gun, and suddenly she wondered if he
would kiss her as the Southerner had done.

"Thank
you very much, Lieutenant Perkins. You are a very thoughtful man."

"I'm
glad you accepted it. Some ladies would faint at the sight of a gun."

"Well,
I'm not so poor-hearted."

"Why,
Lieutenant Perkins!" came Aunt Amelia's voice from the doorway.

Katherine
grimaced at him and turned. "Hello, Auntie." She slipped the gun
quietly into her skirt pocket.

"You
must think it very amiss of me not to greet you when you arrived," Amelia
said, shooting her niece a disapproving look. "But the servants didn't
tell me you were here."

"I'm
sorry, Miss Fritham. I came to apologize to you and your niece for having been
so remiss in not calling on you. There was a death in my family, and I was
called away to Nantucket."

"Why,
how dreadful for you, Lieutenant!" Amelia's ready sympathy rose to the
surface, submerging her disapproval. She was also afforded one of her favorite
topics of conversation—death and funerals—and she plunged into questions and
condolences.

Katherine
finally stopped her aunt's morbid flow of words by saying, "Auntie, I fear
we have delayed Lieutenant Perkins much too long. I know he must need to return
to naval headquarters."