Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (67 page)

She said I was never to speak that way about her husband again. And then…” She looked up at me with guilty eyes. “I told her he was never going to marry her. And then she tried to hit me, and we began to punch at one another and pull hair, and I ran outside, because I was afraid she would hit me so hard I would swoon and I would fall on the puppies.

And then she ran off.”

I embraced her. “It is all right, it is all right. All will be well. It was bound to happen. She was to be told today, anyway. I thank the Gods she will not marry him.” I truly thanked the Gods that Gaston had not heard what was said.

I found Henrietta watching us with quiet concern.

“It sounds as if it is a fine thing she will na’ marry ’im,” she said.

I nodded and passed Agnes to her. “I must speak with the Marquis and Christine.”

I ran up the stairs and began to knock on the Marquis’ door, and then I realized Christine was already speaking to him.

“Why will he not go to France?” she was asking.

I slapped the door twice and opened it. The Marquis was sitting at the edge of his bed, looking every bit as disheveled as we had left him the night before. Christine was pacing. A bruise was forming below her left eye, and her hair hung limply from where it had been arranged atop her head.

“Because he is mad,” I said. “Civilization of that order is difficult for him.”

The Marquis pointed at me, as if to say that that was what he would have said.

Christine turned to me, closing the distance between us like an angry dog. “I will marry him. You will not stop me.”

“You stupid girl, I already have,” I said.

“Why? Are you afraid a woman will show him how to be a man, and he will no longer take it from you?” she hissed.

I was incredulous, so much so it took several seconds for me to discover how to reply.

She turned back to the Marquis. “He just wants to keep your son as his boy and not allow him to be what he rightfully is.”

“Gaston bestows in our relationship,” I said at last. “Nine times out of ten, perhaps nineteen out of twenty, he is the one with his cock up me, not the other way around. Ask any man down below. They have seen us at it.”

The Marquis covered his smile with the back of his hand and found the corner of the ceiling of great interest.

Christine whirled to face me, but she blushed. She attempted to cover her discomfiture with a disparaging snort. “Well, then, you are even less a man than I thought you were.”

I chuckled. “You stupid cow. I know very damn well what I am. I am a man who will not allow the man he loves to be forced to share a bed with some witch who cannot bear the sight of him.”

She flinched. “That is not… I do not know what that little bitch said, but that is not true! I was… You said he was scarred. You did not say…

How did that happen?” she demanded. “It must have nearly killed him!

I cannot imagine how much pain and suffering he must have endured.

And there she is drawing him, like he was some thing of amusement to her, like a thing under one of her lenses!”

If she was sincere, I could see how Agnes and she had come to such an impasse of ideologies at that moment.

The Marquis had blanched.

“You will never know how that occurred,” I said firmly. “You have not earned the right, and you never will. He will not marry you. You will cause entirely too much havoc in our lives, and not because I fear he will love you. Nay, it is because I fear he will hate you, and his madness will… You simply do not and cannot understand.”

“It is not your decision,” she growled and turned to the Marquis.

“It is not mine,” he said quietly.

“It is mine,” I said.

She shook her head and walked around me and out the door.

I looked to the Marquis. “He is still haunted by events of that night.

He has discovered that… there are difficulties with women. He does not trust them. He fears his madness if alone with one under those circumstances. We have been addressing the matter with… the girl, Agnes, and as long as I am with him, he is… somewhat well with it, but…”

He held up his hand to stop me, and stood. When he reached me, he laid his hands along my face and smiled. “My boy, you need not explain. He cannot marry that one, even if…” He sighed and shrugged expressively. “Can he marry the girl? I believe you both suggested her, and I said no because of her lineage, or lack thereof. I am a foolish old man mired in traditions and… perhaps a lifetime of dreams I myself have destroyed. I am grateful I have a son who will acknowledge me, and not shoot me,” he added with a moue and a smile, “and I will be happy with any wife he chooses to take, and I will be delighted simply to have grandchildren. I can see he gets on well with the girl, he is comfortable in her presence, and she is talented and intelligent. I am a God-damned fool to ask for more than he can give when I have done so much to…”

“He loves you, you know?” I said. “He truly wishes to please you. He wanted me to tell you about the matter of the marriage, because he was afraid you would be disappointed and…”

He shook his head. “I need to have a long talk with him before I leave.”

“Oui,” I said. “I will entrust him to you,” I teased.

He grinned and embraced me. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Now, what is my future daughter-in-law’s name? Do you know anything of her?”

“She has been using the name Chelsea as a surname, but I am not sure if that was her father’s or one she has adopted. Chelsea is a place name in England, and also the name of a Lord I once knew in Paris. Her father attended a university, so there was either money or thrift involved there. Her father died and her mother married a planter, sight unseen, and came here. Her mother then died of the flux. I know little else, other than what you have seen. She is young.”

“All good wives are,” he said with a dismissive wave. “If they get too old, they begin to think for themselves.”

I chuckled. “I am afraid this one has already set herself on that path, and it is a thing we value in her.”

“Then good,” he said with a little shrug. “Speak with them, and have my son come and speak with me. I believe I shall… attend to my toilette.” He frowned at the empty cot beneath the window. “Where is Dupree?”

“The last I saw him, he was drooling on the table downstairs when we carried you to bed. I shall send him up if I see him.”

He sighed with amusement. “I do not often drink to such excess.”

“How is your ship?” I asked with a grin. “I hope full of more of that excellent cognac.”

He sighed again, this time unhappily. “Sadly, I feel he has but few bottles of that. Non, the ship is well. The captain has provisioned and filled her with cargo and is quite anxious to sail.”

“Well then we have much to do.”

“Oui, oui, now go and find my man before I ask you for the chamber pot.”I left him, closing the door behind me. Agnes was ascending the far stairs with Henrietta. I went to meet them before they entered Agnes’

room. Her lip had swollen quite pronouncedly. I was sure she would look lovely before the clergyman.

“I must speak to Agnes in private for a moment,” I told Henrietta.

She left us, and I followed Agnes into her room.

“Would you consent to marrying Gaston?” I asked.

She sat on her bed and studied the floor. Her hands were surprisingly still at her sides, and her face was only creased by a single line across her brow. “What would I be expected to do?”

“Well… the Marquis wishes for grandchildren.”

She nodded with resignation. “I would be the Comtessa de Montren?

Would I have to go to France? I don’t speak French.”

“Aye; nay; well, I do not know; I doubt we will ever live there for any length of time; and it might behoove you to learn it.”

She nodded again. “I suppose.”

I knelt before her. “You have many qualities we feel we would value in a mother, and you care for him; and he, even in his madness, has little difficulty with you. I actually considered marrying you myself if I had put out Vivian. And, you were Gaston’s first choice, but his father was interested then in obtaining a bride of noble French lineage.

Christine’s uncle on her mother’s side is a Duke.”

Agnes frowned. “My father’s brother is a duke: the Duke of Chelsea.”

My jaw dropped. “God damn it, girl! Why did you not tell anyone that months ago?”

She wrinkled her nose with annoyance. “No one asked! And it is not as if it matters. My father’s family shunned him when he married my mother.”

I sighed. She was correct. We had never asked, and it was probably not a thing one spoke of, if one had never been raised to be a noble and been reduced to the status of a bondswoman.

“I have met your uncle,” I said.

She shrugged and spoke bitterly. “I have not. Can he draw? Father could draw, but he could not even afford art supplies, they left him so poor. They did not approve of that, either.”

I smiled and kissed her forehead. “You need never worry about that.”

“I know,” she sighed.

“Will you marry him?” I asked.

She nodded. “That will anger Christine.”

“Oh, aye,” I chuckled and stood. “You might wish to choose a pretty dress, and perhaps a hat and veil to cover that lip for the church.”

“We’re getting married today?” she asked with horror.

I shrugged. “Everyone must sail soon.”

“Oh, bloody Hell,” she said.

I laughed as I closed her door. Gaston would be surprised, but I truly did not think he would be upset over this turn of events.

There were fewer men in the atrium now, but Alonso was still there.

He stepped into my path as I headed toward the stable.

“You might wish to knock,” he said with a teasing tone.

“Oh? And why is that?” I asked.

“The blonde is with him. There have been noises…”

I swore and dove around him to sprint to the stable.

Bella was growling and upset.

Christine was a bloody and disheveled heap in the corner beneath the hammock, sobbing quietly.

Gaston was a huddled mass in the opposite corner, rocking himself with his hands over his mouth and his horrified eyes upon her.

I wondered if the Gods were truly as cruel as They appeared to be, or if They were actually set upon some higher purpose that we mortals could not divine.

Seventy-Three

I dropped to my knees and crawled under our hammock to Gaston, shedding weapons as I went. He was not so lost he did not see or know me. He seemed relieved at my presence, and his gaze was pleading as I approached.

“They will come,” he whispered in French. “I must be punished. Will, I cannot bear it again.”

“Non, non,” I murmured, as I reached him. He did not flinch from my touch, but he resisted my attempt to pull him into my embrace.

“You are safe. I will not allow anyone near you. No one will hurt you.

There will be no punishing. You have fallen very hard, though, my love.

We must calm you.”

I needed to restrain or drug him. I needed to get Christine out of the stable. I prayed the others would stay away.

I could hear them outside: not near the door, but in the atrium questioning one another as to what was occurring. If they came rushing in, all would be chaos. I doubted he would stay as he was in the face of others. Perhaps he would collapse and allow them to overtake him; but more likely, his Horse would rise in his defense, and then someone would be hurt, and possibly even the puppies would be trampled. Yet I did not feel I could leave his side to warn them off; and I harbored the lingering fear from events at Porto Bello that they would not listen.

Anxiety threatened to overwhelm me. That would surely be the end of sanity.

“Christine,” I hissed.

I knew she listened: her sobbing had abated as we had whispered to one another.

“Can you crawl outside?” I asked.

Gaston erupted. “Non! She must not leave!” He began to dive past me: toward her. He had a dagger.

I grabbed his arm, and threw myself with him, so that we both landed almost atop her: me on my side somewhat beneath him. She squealed, and tried to scramble away along the wall.

“Let her go,” I whispered. My hands were locked about his right wrist: the hand with the knife. He did not strain to bring it closer to her, but he would not let me pull it away. I had no leverage in the position in which I had landed.

Our faces were all very close: hers battered and scared: his full of the Horse in all its feral glory. I supposed I appeared very desperate, as that is how I felt.

“Non,” his Horse snarled. “She will tell them and they will come.”

“You cannot kill her,” I said.

This seemed to give him pause.

I continued softly. “If you kill her we will have to leave… Jamaica.

We will have to leave the baby.”

He shook his head. “It is not my fault! She is a vile witch! I told her to go! She would not leave! She would not stop touching me! The lying whore! She would not look at me, but she would not stop! She said bad things about you! She is just like the other one! I will not bear them!

They will not hurt me again!” But even as he ranted, he backed away.

I could well picture what he spoke of, and I cursed her foolishness; yet I still pitied the poor girl as I moved to kneel between them. She could not have known what she would unleash with her stubborn hubris.

“I know, I know,” I murmured. “It is her fault. No one will blame you.”

He backed to the far wall again, and regarded the dagger in his shaking hand as if he did not recognize it.

The blade was not bloody. I could not spare her a glance; but in what little I had seen, her clothes were torn, but most of the blood seemed to be about her face and not elsewhere along her body. I was not sure if he had merely beaten her, or if he had indeed raped her, and I wished to ask neither of them. I did not want to know, and it would solve nothing if I did.

He tossed the dagger away and curled on the floor to sob.

I crawled to him again. “Oh, my love. It will be well. I will take care of you.”

I needed to drug him. I did not wish to bind him, not in front of her; and I did not feel he would submit to it, anyway. The water bottle was lying on its side near the overturned soup bowl: both appeared to be empty. If I was to give him laudanum, I would need water.