More Than Charming (31 page)

He reined in his horse and bounded up the steps to the front door. Pounding on the door, he demanded entry.

“Where’s your master?” he barked at the servant who had the misfortune of answering the summons.

“My lord!” the slight man said, his eyes wide. “Lord Waltham isn’t home at present.”

James closed his eyes and took a deep breath, reining in his anger. “When do you anticipate his return?” he asked in a strained voice.

The butler blinked at that. “Why we don’t, my lord,” he told him. “We understand he’ll be gone for nearly a fortnight.”

The truth settled on James in an instant. Waltham had Catherine and didn’t plan on bringing her back. “Bastard,” James growled, taking his leave.

He mounted his horse once more and rode home to question Giles more closely. Perhaps the man had heard something else. Something that would give James a clue as to where Waltham had taken her. Forcing himself as well as his horse to a slower pace, he made his way back home.

He questioned Giles again, learning no more than what he had already. He waved the worried man out of the parlor and paced, frustrated and angrier than he could have imagined. Damn Waltham to hell for taking advantage of Catherine’s kind heart! No doubt he’d played the poor widower to the hilt.

He noticed the letter then, still resting on the writing desk. He grabbed it up and saw immediately that it was still sealed. She hadn’t even opened it. He sank down into the chair behind the desk. She hadn’t read his heartfelt words so carefully penned upon the paper.

“Ah, hell. She doesn’t know.” He covered his face with his hands. “She doesn’t know.”

A strangled cry tore from his throat.

*     *     *

Inside his carriage, Waltham clutched at Catherine, tearing her cloak from her. She struggled in his arms until he forced her against the interior wall of the carriage.

“You should have been mine, Catherine.” He ran his lips over her cheek. “You will be mine,” he added, bringing his mouth to hers.

Catherine gagged as his tongue probed her mouth, her stomach churning. Waltham slipped his hand into the bodice of her dress, squeezing painfully at her breast.

He sheathed the knife and rubbed himself against her. “Ah, Catherine,” he moaned. “You’re incredible.”

His caresses became rougher. Catherine struggled with renewed vigor. “Thomas, stop.” She gasped. “You’re hurting me!”

Waltham didn’t stop, didn’t loosen his hold on her. He reached behind her and unhooked her dress. He tugged sharply, ripping the dress at the shoulder.

“Stop it!” she cried, flailing at him with her fists. “Stop it, Thomas!”

He laughed and grabbed her wrists, pinning them to her sides. She was gasping for breath, her chest heaving. Waltham stared at her breasts, nearly visible through her thin chemise. “No stays. Naughty girl.” He bent his head and bit her, right above her nipple, nearly drawing blood. Catherine cried out in pain, twisting away from him.

“That’s it, love.” His breath came fast. “Struggle. Cry out. God, yes . . .”

Waltham ran his hand over the front of her, reaching up under her skirts. He froze as his hand brushed her slightly-swollen abdomen.

“What the devil—?” he muttered. He shot her a look of shock. “You’re carrying a brat?”

Catherine was too frightened to answer. Would he leave her alone if he knew she was expecting? Or would it enrage him further? He’d loosened his hold in his surprise and she managed to pull away from him.

“Yes,” she said proudly. “I’m carrying my husband’s child.”

She watched as Waltham’s shock turned swiftly to anger.

“You bitch!” He raised his hand and struck her across the face, hard. Her head snapped back, striking the side of the carriage. Blinking away stars, she sought to collect her wits. She licked her lip and tasted her blood there. She furtively cast a glance at him. He muttered to himself, obviously torn.

“That damn Roberts,” Waltham ground out. “The rogue has everything.” He suddenly looked at her once more, an evil smile twisting his features. “But he’ll no longer have you,” he promised. “Not you or that brat you carry.”

Catherine felt her blood run cold as he ran his eyes over her, staring at her midsection. Her hands quickly covered her stomach, protecting the tiny being within.

Snorting in disgust, he picked up her cloak and threw it at her. “Cover yourself,” he growled. “I won’t take you now.”

Her relief was visible and only angered him further.

“Oh, don’t fret about it, love,” he taunted. “I’ll take you. But not until I have enough whiskey in me to forget you carry Roberts’s brat in your belly.”

Shivering in fear, Catherine pulled the cloak tightly around her.

*     *     *

James sat in the big chair near the fire, his brow furrowed. His clothes were rumpled, his cravat twisted. He sighed aloud and raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. It had been hours since she’d left. The darkness pressing against the windows showed him that. Where the devil was she? She hadn’t read the letter. She still believed he didn’t love her. What if he never saw her again? She’d never know how much she meant to him. So sweetly she’d asked him for his love and he couldn’t open his heart fully to her. “Fool.”

Suddenly, a vision came to him. His muddled mind could barely make it out, but there she was, the girl from his long-ago dreams. The sweet angel asking for his love. My God. It was Catherine all along! He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

“My lord,” Giles’s voice reached him.

James looked up, forcing his eyes open. “What is it, Giles?”

The butler started at his master’s strange appearance, shaking his head in compassion.

“Lords Leed and Chester to see you, my lord.”

James sighed once more. “Send them in.”

Paul strode into the room, Chester close behind.

“What on earth is troubling Giles?” Paul asked. “He looks as though he swallowed a lemon.” His gaze settled on James then. “My God, man. What the devil happened to you?”

“He’s got her, Leed,” James answered. “He’s got Catherine.”

Chester and Paul exchanged a look.

“Roberts,” Chester began, “what are you talking about?”

“Waltham.” James rubbed his hands over his face and looked closely at his friends. “The bastard has Catherine.”

“No,” Chester whispered.

James nodded and slowly came to his feet. “He came here and cajoled her into going for a ride,” he explained, his anger resurfacing. “He tricked her and took her from me and I don’t know where the devil she is!”

“Easy, brother,” Paul soothed, placing his hand on James’s shoulder.

“When was this, Roberts?” Chester asked.

“I wager it was around two o’clock.” James shrugged off Paul’s hand and began to pace the room. “Waltham made like he was leaving, but he must have waited for her on the walk.”

“That’s nearly five hours ago,” Paul mused aloud.

“Don’t you think I know that?” James cut in angrily. “They could be anywhere by now. Damn him to hell!”

“Do you think he’d harm her, Roberts?” Chester asked.

James thought for a moment, thought about Joan’s mysterious death, and shuddered. He gave a small shake of his head in denial. “No, I . . . I don’t know.”

“I do hope Catherine keeps her head about her,” Paul said. “She can be quite silly at times.”

“No, Leed,” James said. “You’re wrong about Catherine. She’s no longer a young girl. She’s an intelligent woman. And sweet and kind and . . . Ah, God. What would I do without her?” he finished in a groan.

Paul looked at James closely then. “You love her.”

“Yes, I love her! Only, bloody fool that I am, I never told her that.”

Paul placed his hand on his shoulder once more. “We will find her,” he said in a firm voice.

The conviction in Catherine’s brother’s voice reached through to James. He looked up then, hope blossoming in his chest.

*     *     *

Catherine shivered in the cold room, only one candle lighting the space. The room was damp and dark and smelled of mold and whiskey and some other odors she didn’t wish to identify. From the sounds filtering up from the street below, she ascertained that Waltham had taken her to the waterfront. She’d smelled the brackish water when they’d alighted the carriage, and now she could hear the raucous laughter of drunken sailors as they sang a ditty about women and how they were as fickle as the sea. A crash came, surely a bottle breaking on the cobblestone street. Angry shouts could be heard as a fight erupted. Catherine was almost glad to be tucked into the filthy room, safe at least from the hooligans downstairs.

Waltham had all but thrown her into the room, leaving immediately on some unknown errand. He’d locked the door behind him, dashing any hope she had of escape. She now huddled deep within her cloak, perched on the edge of the moldy mattress in the corner of the room. Her mind raced as she imagined the horrible deeds Waltham might do to her when he returned. He hadn’t touched her again, not since learning she was with child. But she knew that would only give her a temporary reprieve from his sadistic appetites. The injury to her breast still pained her. She hadn’t forgotten about that wicked-looking knife of his, either. Lord, could she have been more wrong in her judgment?

She thought of Joan then, of the fear in the girl’s eyes when last they spoke. Surely Waltham had abused her. Catherine felt guilt wash over her. But what could she have done about it? A woman was her husband’s property to do with as he wished. Thank God all men were not like Waltham.

She thought of James then, of his gentleness and his passion, and felt a pain settle in her heart. Would she ever see him again? Would he care enough about her to come looking for her? And what of their baby?

Her hand went to her belly, to the child sleeping within. Waltham could do whatever evil deeds he wished to her, as long as no harm came to her baby. If he so much as threatened harm to the child, she’d fight him to the death.

Catherine cringed as the door opened and slammed against the thin wall with a bang. She turned her eyes toward the doorway. Waltham entered the room, a bit unsteady in his gait. He ran his eyes over her, licking his lips.

“Hello, Catherine my love,” he slurred. He slammed the door shut. “Did you miss me?”

She wisely held her tongue. He clutched a whiskey bottle in his hand, and it was obvious to her that it wasn’t his first of the evening. His hair was tousled, his clothes disheveled. His color was high. Was he completely sotted? Or just drunk enough to forget that she carried a child? She shivered as she imagined what he’d do to her if the latter were true.

He came closer. “Ah, you look lovely there in the candlelight.”

She shrank back from him. He blinked at her reaction, then threw his head back and laughed. She shivered at the ugly sound.

“You’re afraid of me, aren’t you, love?” he taunted. “Good. That tells me you’re not as silly as I thought you were.”

“Let me go, Thomas,” she asked in a soft but firm voice.

“No!” he shouted. “You’re mine now, and mine you will stay.”

Waltham took a long drink from the bottle, wiping his mouth with his sleeve when he finished. He walked to the window, apparently dismissing Catherine from his thoughts. She watched him warily as he consumed more of the whiskey.

“How could you leave me?” he asked, still staring out the window. He turned back to her, a haunted look in his eyes. “How could you leave me, Beatrice?”

Catherine blinked in surprise. He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes finally clearing. Rubbing a hand over his face, he groaned.

“Who’s Beatrice?” Catherine couldn’t help asking.

“Don’t speak her name!” Waltham yelled, slamming his fist down on the scarred table beside the window.

Catherine flinched as if he struck her. He drank more of the whiskey, his eyes never leaving her face.

“You’re quite like her in looks,” he said absently. “I never noticed that before. More fool me.”

She kept silent, her eyes huge as she watched him pace about the small room. He stopped in front of the table, setting the bottle down deliberately so as not to spill it. It took a great deal of effort on his part, as his hands were fairly shaking. He turned back to Catherine, that haunted look once more in his eyes.

“Beatrice,” he said in a raw whisper that sent chills down Catherine’s spine. “Ah, Beatrice . . .”

He suddenly lunged at her, pushing her flat on her back upon the dirty mattress. She struggled as he ripped the cloak from her, her torn dress leaving her exposed and vulnerable.

“Thomas, please,” she begged. “Don’t do this!”

“Beatrice, my love,” he murmured, running his hands over her.

Waltham stretched out on top of her, settling himself between her legs. Groaning, he rubbed himself against her.

Catherine pushed at his shoulders, tears coursing down her cheeks. “Thomas, no,” she sobbed as his hands found her breasts, pawing and squeezing.

He unbuttoned his breeches, flipping her skirts up out of his way. She brought her knee to his groin but only just grazed him. He growled and slapped her, hard.

“Bitch!” he spat. “You’ll have me, Beatrice. Even if I have to force you as before!”

Catherine realized that he still saw her as Beatrice, whomever that poor girl was. He released his manhood, closing his eyes as he held himself.

Catherine increased her struggles, almost sick with fear. “No, no, no. I’m not Beatrice!”

Waltham held himself above her, his eyes clearing. “Catherine,” he said to himself. He shook his head. “God, you’re my Catherine.”

In the next moment, he crushed his mouth to hers. She arched up off the bed, trying in vain to throw him off of her.

“Let me go, Thomas!” She gasped as he moved his lips to her throat. “I’m not yours. I’m carrying another man’s baby!”

That stopped him. He pulled back, a dark look on his face. “Roberts, that bastard!” he growled, pushing away from her. “What the devil is the appeal of that scoundrel?”

Waltham sat at the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. Catherine used those moments to fix her dress as best she could, managing to fasten a few of the hooks in the back. She watched him as he stood awkwardly and buttoned his breeches with shaking fingers.