Helen Dickson (26 page)

Maria’s eyes blazed with outrage at the naked lust in his face, his eyes undressing her as he lumbered across the carpet to where she stood. He leaned close. She shrank back and spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me—you are disgusting.’

As he looked at her, the rage that had been gathering since she had told him their betrothal was off boiled up in him like a volcano. The fumes of it rose to his brain so that he saw her through a red mist of rage as the sole architect of all his misfortunes.

‘Disgusting, you say. I’ll show you just how disgusting I can be.’

Maria backed away, suddenly fearful of what he might do. ‘If you lay one finger on me, I’ll scream. The servants will hear me.’

Henry leapt at her and, before she could utter a sound, caught her by the throat, shouting a torrent of accusations and obscenities, shaking her like a rag doll as his hands choked the breath from her in a strangling, frenzied grip.

Neither of them heard the door being flung open, or the shout of rage as booted feet pounded across the carpet towards them.

Charles managed to drag Maria free and hit Henry on the side of the face, felling him to the carpet with one blow—he toppled over like a stout tree and fell with a heavy thud, momentarily dazed.

Charles scooped Maria up into his arms and laid her on the sofa. Hearing the commotion, one of the servants came rushing in, paying no attention to the young woman hovering nervously on the edge of the room as her eyes were drawn to her young mistress. Charles ordered her to fetch cold compresses for Maria’s bruised throat, all the while looking worriedly at the inert young woman, glad he’d risked the bridge despite his misgivings on seeing the torrent of water rushing underneath and being afraid they might all be plunged into the swollen water, and that he’d had the sense to come straight in when he’d seen and recognised Winston’s coach in the drive.

Charles’s face was white and the lines cut deep about his mouth as he looked down at Maria, the woman he loved more than life itself. When he had seen Winston with his hands around her throat, his mood was murderous; he would have killed him if he could, and even now, as he watched the grotesque figure struggle to his feet, shaking his head like a great bear, his wig awry and the makings of a bruise already marking his face, he could not trust himself within range of the man.

Breathing heavily, Maria was just rousing from her stupor. The thickly lashed eyelids fluttered open slowly, and for a moment she stared about her in confusion, then, as Charles leaned over her, her gaze turned to find him. ‘Charles?’ she murmured, her voice hoarse. His face swam before her eyes as though in a mist, one dark eyebrow raised, his light blue eyes smiling and the pain in her chest and throat eased. ‘You…’

‘Feeling better now?’ he murmured with a tender smile.

‘Charles—it was Henry,’ she whispered brokenly.
Seeing a movement out of the corner of her eye, she looked towards it, panicking when she saw her attacker. ‘He’s still here…’

Charles stared down at her, his gaze probing hers and finding fear and distress within the translucent depths. ‘I came in time. He can no longer harm you, Maria. Try to calm yourself.’

‘No, I won’t calm down,’ she cried, the pain in her throat a horrible reminder that Henry had tried to strangle her. ‘I won’t rest until this—this beast has gone from my home.’ She never took her slitted, catlike green eyes from Henry, who was now upright, his face crimson with anger. He was regarding Charles with active hatred and corroding resentment, looking ready to swing his fists at him in his frustrated rage.

His jaw set, his brow furrowed, Charles glared at him. ‘How dare you contaminate this house with your presence, and how dare you attack Maria?’ he snarled. ‘You want horse whipping. Attempt to touch her again and, by God, I’ll kill you. Now get out before I have the law on you or before I throw down a challenge to you. And be assured, Winston, that this time I shall not delope.’

Breathing heavily, Henry took a step towards him, his eyes bulging in their sockets. ‘I’m going, damn your eyes, Osbourne. I’ll leave you to enjoy each other—although considering the time you’ve spent together, I suspect you’ve done so many times.’

With a cry of rage, Charles hurtled across the space that separated them, knocking Henry to the floor, going with him and taking a small table as well. He was too refined in his habits to be a brawler, but his fists were loaded with his male hatred of the man who had hurt Maria.

‘Charles!’ Maria shrieked, seemingly unaware of the woman who cowered across the room as she dragged herself off the sofa in a desperate attempt to separate the two men, but they were like a couple of snarling dogs, teeth bared, eyes glaring, fighting over the same bitch, oblivious to everything but the need to kill.

‘Charles!’ she repeated, not knowing what to do. ‘Please stop it.’

Servants burst into the room, and in a moment the two men were dragged apart. Henry had blood streaming across his face from a wound that was not yet discernible. Shrugging himself free of the man that held him, he backed to the door, glowering at Charles, ready to lash out again if required, but Charles, his madness dissipating, stepped back.

‘Get out,’ he said flatly, ‘and don’t you ever come here or attempt to approach Maria again.’

Without further ado and not wishing to stay and have the law brought down on him for attempted murder, Henry hurried out of the room and across the hall. Blindly he stumbled down the steps and across the drive to his waiting coach. A cold wind was blowing, mingled with rain, which struck him with full force. Cursing loudly and ordering the driver to drive on and to be quick about it, ignoring the warning shouts of one of the gardeners who was running towards the coach yelling something about the bridge, he hoisted himself inside. He was flung against the upholstery as the driver did exactly as he was bade, the wheels sending up gravel in their wake.

On reaching the bridge, where the stream was now a brown, turgid torrent swirling and thundering beneath its timbers, the driver pulled on the reins in an attempt
to slow down the racing horses, but too late. The structure, already weakened by the force of the water, creaked and swayed precariously.

Inside the coach, a sense of fear seized Henry as the coach lurched and seemed to tip on to its side. Looking out of the window, he was suddenly slammed against the door with the point of his shoulder. It swung open and he was thrown out, and in a fractional second before his head struck against the boulder on the bank, he heard his collar bone snap as he went down into the murky darkness.

Inside the room everyone stood rooted to the floor. Instinctively, knowing their place, the servants left. Charles was still seething. He was striding about the room, smacking his right fist into the palm of his left hand. He could not bear the images that formed in his mind, violent and sickening, of Maria being attacked by that brute, but he could not seem to blot them out and it appalled him, as did his own reaction to it. He would be appalled by any attack on any woman by any man, but this, what Winston had almost succeeded in doing to Maria, filled him with a savagery that would not be appeased until he had ground the perpetrator down.

Maria looked at Charles and went to him and gripped his arm, her face stricken by what had happened.

‘It’s all right now, Charles. Henry won’t come back.’

Only then did she become aware of the black-clad woman standing across the room like a frozen pillar of ice, her bowed head covered by a woollen shawl. She stared, recognition slow to register, and then she found her feet going slowly towards her, her arms outstretched.

‘Constance? Oh, Constance! It is you.’ Slowly the
woman’s head came up and Maria saw that it was indeed her cousin. Uttering a cry of thankfulness and relief, she went and gathered her into her arms, holding her tight.

Constance didn’t say a word until Maria held her at arm’s length, and then she smiled. It was not one of the sneering, supercilious smiles Maria had become accustomed to when she had lived at the chateau, but a sad, almost despairing smile, her eyes full of the tortures she had suffered since the mob had stormed the Chateau Feroc. What she had been through had almost changed her beyond all recognition. She was much thinner than she had been, her face pale and gaunt, and she was desperately in need of a bath and a change of clothes.

Tearfully Maria turned to Charles. ‘Thank you, Charles. You have indeed done Constance a great service. How can I ever repay you for what you have done?’

His eyes narrowed and he threw her a roguish grin, rubbing his sore knuckles. ‘Be assured, Maria, that I’ll think of something.’

‘But—how did you get here?’

‘I had my coachman travel to Dover.’ His gaze settled on Constance. ‘Look after your cousin, Maria. She’s had a hard time of it. In fact, she was lucky to escape what happened at the Chateau Feroc with her life.’

‘I will.’ Taking Constance’s hand, she led her to the sofa, where she drew her down beside her, taking her in her arms once more.

She didn’t notice when an anguished servant appeared in the doorway and Charles left.

‘I’m so glad you’re here at last,’ Maria said. ‘Ever since I got your letter I’ve been so worried about you.’

‘Sir Charles found me easily enough. I can’t tell you
how relieved I was to know that you had received my letter—how relieved I was to leave France. The mob—those people—many of them known to us, were like crazed beasts. I saw some terrible things I will never forget. But…’ Her eyes filled with tears and she said brokenly, ‘Poor Mama. If—if only we had left the chateau with you she—she would still be here.’ Her expression was bleak. ‘I’ve lost everything, Maria. Everything I had went in the fire. Not only that, I am homeless.’

‘No, you are not,’ Maria uttered firmly. ‘You still have me. My home is your home for as long as you want it to be. It’s the least I can do. I shall never forget that your mother took me in when my father died.’

Constance’s tears overflowed at her cousin’s kindness. ‘You’re too good to me, Maria. I don’t deserve it.’

Maria gripped Constance’s hand. ‘Stop it, Constance. There’s no need for any of this.’

‘Yes, there is. You can’t gain someone’s trust unless you are prepared to be perfectly honest.’

‘You are my family, the only family I have. I’m glad you’re going to stay with me because now I won’t feel so alone.’

Constance took her hand and squeezed it affectionately. ‘You are the only family I have, too, Maria, so I suppose we shall have to make the best of it. Charles told me a little of what has happened between you and Colonel Winston. Was—was that him I saw…?’

‘With his hands round my throat? Yes. Henry—he was only marrying me for my money, Constance. Charles tried telling me what a terrible person Henry is. I didn’t believe him—I didn’t want to believe him, but on meeting Henry I soon saw Charles had been telling
the truth. He came here to try to extract some money out of me. When I refused, he attacked me. Thank goodness Charles arrived when he did.’

‘Yes, thank goodness, and I only hope Colonel Winston doesn’t bother you again.’ Constance smiled, beginning to look more like her old self. ‘Now, are you going to feed me or must I starve to death?’

Already several horrified watchers had gathered at the shattered bridge. The horses and the driver with the broken coach had managed to reach secure ground on the other side, but there was no sign of Colonel Winston. The driver and terrified animals were led away to be taken care of. Charles joined others walking up and the bank, littered with debris, searching for any sign of the missing man, but to no avail. After two hours, soaked to the skin and with the light fading, they gave up, intending to resume their search at first light.

Maria was curled up in an overstuffed armchair before the fire when Charles entered. Having been informed about what had happened at the bridge and that Henry was missing, presumed drowned, she had no wish to go and see. Instead she ministered to her cousin, installing her in the guest room that had been prepared, where she was bathed and put to bed.

Now, looking at Charles, she saw with a pang of remorse how tired he looked. The lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes seemed deeper, his face leaner. His journey to France at her request had clearly taken its toll.

Charles went to stand in front of the fire, placing
more logs on it before spreading his hands before its warmth. ‘I was told I would find you in here.’

‘This was my father’s study,’ Maria told him. ‘I like to come and sit in here where he spent so much of his time.’ She sat up, absently rubbing her bruised neck. ‘Is there any sign of Henry?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s too dark to go on searching. We’ll begin again at first light—but it’s not looking good.’ He turned his head and looked at her. ‘How are you, Maria? Does your neck pain you?’

‘A little. It could have been worse.’

‘Thank God I came when I did. How is Constance?’

‘Sleeping. She was exhausted. She’s been through a terrible ordeal I know, but she’s strong and healthy and I am sure that given time she will recover. But what of you, Charles? How was your journey?’

‘There were moments that were difficult, when I was unable to locate Jaques, but for a tidy sum I managed to secure passage across the Channel on a fishing boat.’