His Beautiful Wench (20 page)

“I need a new cook, I see.” Graham huffed out a breath and cut into his meat. “She has never proven her worth. I’ll see to her employment termination tomorrow.”

Amelia stared at the countryside painting then picked up her knife and fork. “Don’t do that on my account.”

“Oh, but I must,” Graham said, chewing loudly. “Her fare isn’t fit for you. For anyone.”

She nodded, resigned to the fact he would get rid of the woman regardless of what she said. The pork like gristle, she chewed, her thoughts on Emmett to enable her to eat some of the meal. Finished, she prayed no dessert would follow and laid her cutlery on her plate. Amid the sounds of Graham chomping, she imagined Emmett had regained possession of the sculpture and now made the long walk toward the castle. Did he trust the lord, or would he suspect something might go amiss? She hadn’t had a chance to gauge his feelings, Graham having brought her here before she could talk to her lover.

Graham’s cutlery clattered and as if that were a signal, the cook bustled in, collected their dirty plates and left. Silence lay heavy between them, broken by the cook’s return, her face stoic, the tray thumping onto the table. A delicious-looking fruit flan occupied the tray. The cook’s bony fingers grasping a cake slice reminded Amelia of tree branches. She leaned back as the cook placed a slice into a bowl and set it before her. After serving Graham, the cook trounced out. Amelia held back a burble of laughter at the cook’s obvious dislike of either her or the lord.

“Something amusing?” Graham asked, shoveling a large spoonful of flan into his mouth.

“No.” She tasted the dessert, found it surprisingly delicious, and ate the rest in silence. Once finished, she said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to retire for the night.” She patted her lips with a napkin and laid it beside her bowl.

“But we haven’t had a chance to talk,” the lord said, dropping his spoon and rising. “I happen to enjoy a drink after dinner and had hoped you would join me.”

Amelia stood, nauseated. “I’m not one for imbibing alcohol, but thank you for the offer.” Her pleasantry stuck in her throat and she swallowed.

Graham’s eyes turned to slits and he moved to stand beside her. Leaning forward, he whispered in her ear, “It wasn’t an offer but a veiled order.”

His hot breath caressed her cheek and she wanted to run, to get away from him. He clasped her elbow, preventing her escape, fingers biting. A lock of his oiled hair brushed her neck and God, how she wanted to shove him away.

“This way, dear Amelia,” he said, steering her to a door beside the cook’s entrance.

Her gown hem caught beneath her foot and she stumbled forward, hands splayed out ready to break her fall. Graham’s grip tightened and he hauled her upright, his thumb digging into the soft flesh beside her elbow. Roughly, he yanked her closer to him and released her arm at the door. Swinging it open, he pushed her through and she tripped again, cursing the length of the dress and his bullishness.

She came to a stop in a large parlor, anger surging through her. To quell the feeling, she took in the room, its rich appearance evidence that this man lived in utter splendor. A dark red settee, its back to her, stood in front of a huge fireplace. An ornate mantel surrounded the blaze, roses carved into the oak. Thick-framed and gold, a mirror hung above it, reflecting Graham locking the door. Amelia’s heart hammered hard and she shut out the sound of that key turning. Instead, she eyed two matching chairs on either side of the fireplace, studded green leather with wooden legs and feet. A lambswool rug lay before the hearth and in any other circumstances she’d have sunk down onto it and plunged her hands into its softness.

Graham grunted and she caught sight of him in the mirror again, his gaze on her rear. She spun to face him, the red-papered walls seeming to close in on her. He stepped forward and grasped her upper arms, kneading them, hurting her. She squirmed to be released but he continued, his torso and face drawing closer still. He grinned and his lips opened as though he intended to kiss her. Leaning back as far as she could without falling, Amelia longed to spit in his face but refrained. Angering him with that door locked didn’t bode well.

“I’ve waited so long to be alone with you like this, Amelia,” he said, eyes half-lidded. He trailed a hand from her arm to the swell of one breast and smoothed his fingertips over the mound.

Amelia held her breath, disgust and hatred flying through her. “I-I’m not ready for anything like this,” she said, placing her hands on his chest.

He must have taken her gesture as sexual, teasing, belying her words, for a leery grin spread his lips and he pressed himself against her, erection hard on her thigh.

“Oh, but I think you are,” he said, brushing his lips over hers.

On instinct, she shoved him away, feeling degraded and dirty. Disloyal. Graham staggered back, his eyes wide, mouth a straight slash. He ambled toward her, arms out, ready to take hold of her again.

“Why you—”

“Please,” she whispered. “I have a headache. I really need to retire.”

He stopped abruptly, anger seeping from his features to be replaced by a smile and cunning eyes. “Tomorrow evening will be another matter entirely, I assure you,
dear
Amelia. Tomorrow you will do as you’re told.” He fondled his beard between thumb and finger. “Tonight, however, I shall allow you your way. I’m prepared to wait.” His smile widened. “Though not for long.”

A slither of unease sneaked up her spine and Amelia walked past him to the door. “Would you please let me out?”

Graham sighed and jabbed the key in the lock, twisting it then opening the door. “As you wish. But remember.” He grabbed her arm and jerked her toward him, pressed his cock to her leg once more. “I won’t take no for an answer again.”

Ill at ease from his proximity and hideous arousal, Amelia snatched her arm away and strode through the dining room, head held high lest he think he had cowed her. At the door, she clasped the knob and took a deep breath. Turning, she said, “Goodbye, sir.” She flung the door wide and stalked through, her gait rigid and full of purpose.

His strident footsteps followed, the sounds a perfect match for the tread outside her room earlier. At the base of the stairs, Amelia fought the desire to look at him one last time to see if she had riled him as much as he had her, but his loud call kept her gaze on the stairs as she climbed.

“Helena? Helena!”

Amelia upped her pace, arriving at the top of the stairs and almost colliding with her new friend. They shared a glance before Helena grabbed the banister rail and leaned over a little.

“Yes sir?”

“In my room.
Now.
”

Amelia fled across the landing to her door, pushing it open with such force the knob bashed the wall. She slammed it shut, locked it, then leaned against it, sinking to her haunches in the darkness. Tears fell, hot and fast, and she left them unchecked, sobs wrenching from her. Spent, she dropped to her knees then stood and walked over to the window. John stood in his open doorway and once again she raised her hand, but he didn’t appear to see her and returned inside.

He must be the one bringing the horses. Dear God, I hope they don’t get caught.

She flopped onto the bed, the need to vomit immense. Thoughts of Bates’ men acting out Graham’s orders taunted her and a vision of Emmett, beaten and bloodied, danced beneath her closed eyelids. Her head ached and her face felt puffy and sore, the skin tight with dried tears. Utterly fatigued, she wondered whether she would make it through the task ahead—or whether Helena would come to this room at all. Graham had desires that needed assuaging.

* * * * *

A soft knock startled Amelia from her daze. She bolted upright, heart gathering speed, and rushed to the door. “Who is it?” she asked, pressing her lips to the frame.

“It’s me,” Helena said.

Turning the key quietly, Amelia opened the door.

Helena walked in, a lamp on the landing wall casting a dim glow around her. A black cape covered her shoulders, the hood obscuring her unruly locks. “He’s asleep,” she whispered, closing the door a little. “Here.” She handed Amelia a cloak. “Put this on.”

Amelia took it, the material soft against her hands, and did as Helena asked. She lifted the hood over her hair and tucked the wayward strands behind her head. Helena closed the door fully and shadows enveloped them. She beckoned Amelia over to the window. Together they looked down at John’s home. It lay in darkness except for a slash of illumination seeping through a gap in the drapes, lighting the grass in front of the door, which opened to reveal the man himself. John held a candle in one hand, light from the cottage once again silhouetting him. He raised the flame beneath his chin and stared up at them. Quickly, Helena moved to the bedside cabinet. The sound of a match striking rent the air and a soft glow emanated from the lamp. Helena picked the lamp up and returned to the window, placing it on the sill. John nodded and doused his candle, then stooped to place it inside the house. He went back inside and the flickering candlelight disappeared from each room.

“He’s ready. We must go,” Helena said and leaned forward to blow out the flame.

The darkness in the room absolute for a moment, Amelia waited for her eyes to adjust. She took a deep breath and Helena’s hand found hers and pulled her to the door.

“Come. We must be quick.” Helena fumbled with the key and opened the door, ushering Amelia onto the landing.

Amelia’s heart rate soared as Helena reinserted the key and locked the door, the sound too loud in the quiet of the house. Her breaths seemed to shriek from her mouth and she inhaled through her nose instead.

Helena drew close and whispered, “We have to pass his room. Be very,
very
quiet.”

With her breath held and her stomach clenching, Amelia tiptoed behind Helena toward the door leading to the left wing. It creaked upon opening and Helena stilled, waiting. Amelia halted, her pulse so loud in her ears it overruled any other noise. Her friend walked on, down a corridor lined with doors either side. Which one was Graham’s? Another door stood at the end and Helena reached it, turning the handle. It led to two sets of narrow stairs—one set descended to the front of the castle, the other to the back. A small arched window in the castle wall let in a swatch of light from a creamy moon that lit the small landing but left the lower stairs in pitch. Amelia closed the door and followed her friend down the right-hand stairs, her steps unsteady the lower they went. She placed her palm on the wall in case she slipped, and hoped they’d make it outside safely. At the bottom of the stairs, Helena waited, a ghostly shape, while Amelia navigated the remaining steps.

A door above groaned.

Amelia bit back a gasp and looked back. The moonlight showed Graham standing naked at the top of the other stairs, peering into the darkness below. His hair sprang out in unoiled curls on one side and he bunched his fists by his sides.

“Who goes there?” he said in a half whisper.

Amelia quietly flattened herself to the wall and held her breath, gaze on Graham. Long, agonizing moments passed before he turned and stared out the arched window. He swiveled and glared in Amelia’s direction.

Oh God, please don’t let him see me…

His grunt echoed down the stairwell and he moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “If anyone is down there when they shouldn’t be and I find out… You won’t live long enough to protest your innocence.” He opened the door and disappeared, closing it softly.

Amelia waited awhile before daring to turn her head.

Helena’s shape loomed a few feet away. “Quickly,” she whispered.

Prompted by fear and the need to get away from this godforsaken place, Amelia rushed after Helena until they reached a door opposite the stairs. Helena opened it and a soft breeze filtered in, cooling Amelia’s heated cheeks. Bushes sat stout and prickly either side of the door and outside her friend gazed over them, moving her head from left to right.

“It’s clear. Come.”

Ensuring the door closed quietly, Amelia swerved behind Helena and streaked across the lawn until they reached the far corner at the front of the castle. The ground dipped toward a line of trees and she had trouble navigating the steep slope. She slid then righted herself, heart thudding bleakly, and breathed a sigh of relief upon reaching the flat expanse at the bottom. A soft whistle came from the trees and Helena vanished into the gloom between two tree trunks. Amelia took the same route and came out the other side into a large field. John stood with three horses, which snickered and hoofed the ground.

“We’re running behind time. What happened?” he asked, his voice low.

Helena took the reins of a black horse and swung up onto its bare back. “He woke. Heard us in the stairway. We had to wait until he went back to bed.”

“Damn. Do you think he suspects?” John handed Amelia the reins to a chestnut and helped her climb up.

“No,” Helena said. “And when he finds out Amelia is gone, he’ll assume it was her he heard leaving.”

“Sorry about the lack of a saddle,” John said. “The least amount of time spent on the horses when we get back the better.”

Amelia scanned the landscape while John mounted his black horse. Gray clouds scudded beneath the moon, heavy with rain, and she hoped the weather didn’t change until she and Emmett had arrived…wherever they were headed. Trees bordered the field, black shapes against a dirty-looking sky, and stars peeked between the clouds, dull like tarnished silver coins. She faced where the road would be, but more trees hampered a clear view.