My Wicked Fantasy Page 8

  He had decided that a day away from Sanderhurst would do him more good than sitting in his library brooding about his reluctant guest. The respite had provided him an opportunity to visit his wife’s parents, a duty he did not perform as often as he should have, for the simple reason that he could barely tolerate his mother-in-law and found himself treating his wife’s father with varying degrees of pity mixed with impatience. But there had been the chance that Alice had sent a missive to her parents, to whom she was devoted.

  It had been more than a wasted day; it had reminded him of why he imprisoned Mary Kate Bennett. Moresham Farms was a tidy community of outbuildings surrounding a large stable complex. The house, a stately manor of thirty rooms, was some short distance away, tied to the other buildings by a series of graveled paths. The distance from Sanderhurst was negligible; Archer had covered it in less than fifteen minutes on a fast canter. But the gulf between himself and Alice’s parents was measured in more than miles.

  His mother-in-law’s welcome had been what he’d expected. She had stared at him, arms folded across her chest and lips pursed. Not exactly a look of welcome, but then, he’d been prepared for her antipathy. He had sent a note ahead, asking permission to call upon the two of them. Cecily had responded with a short, terse scribble. A warning of a chill in her hospitality.

  Her face was square, her forehead broad; she would have made a passable man, but as a woman she was plain, a fact that Archer found difficult to reconcile with the fact that her daughters were all lovely women. But perhaps the years had added a resoluteness to her features, that stubbornness to her jaw, and beneath the intolerance, a portion of half-buried anger.

  He allowed one of the Moresham grooms to lead his horse away, then bowed to his mother-in-law slightly, extending an arm so that he might escort her into the parlor. Except, of course, that she ignored both gestures with disdain.

  “I had not hoped to see you so soon again, St. John.” He had always been called thus by his wife’s mother. No more warmth had ever been expressed between the two of them, and now the frost between them was so thick Archer felt as if he could slice it.

  He nodded in reply. He would not stoop to platitudes.

  “Have you news of my daughter?” She fixed such an intent gaze on him that he wondered if her aim was to see his insides.

  “A question I would ask of you, madam.”

  “She was always safe within the bosom of her family, St. John. It was only when she became chatelaine of Sanderhurst that she disappeared.” It was the opening move to their battle, then, and she’d drawn first blood.

  There was a moment, only a hesitation, in which he wondered if he should bother to attempt to warm her, to soften the barrier she’d erected between them. Would she even tell him if she’d heard from Alice? He doubted it. He found himself oddly weary, too tired to attempt to charm Cecily Moresham.

  “I shall not inconvenience you with my presence, then, madam.”

  He executed a perfect bow and turned, heading for the stables, finding Samuel with the aid of one of the ever-present grooms. His father-in-law was engaged in brushing one of his studs, an action that would have been considered odd, if not demeaning, in another man. But Samuel had never considered himself above any occupation, and had bragged to Archer in sunnier days of knowing everything that went on at Moresham Farms, from the exact ration his Thoroughbreds consumed, to exactly what each horse ran on racing day.

  Archer stood there a moment until Samuel acknowledged his presence with a short nod. Had he expected anything else? Yes, answered a portion of his mind, that which was occupied by memory. He had always respected Samuel Moresham, had liked the man and envied the talent that had turned a sadly run horse farm into one synonymous with finely bred horses coveted throughout England.

  “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you, and a year my Alice has gone missing. Is that why you’re here, then?” Samuel bent and gathered up the curry brush, then began to brush Excelsior with long, firm strokes. He glanced at Archer as he stroked the broad nose of his champion with his free hand.

  “I have no news to bring you, Samuel. And you? Have you nothing to impart to me?”

  The next few minutes were silent ones, the only sounds those of the animal between them, huffing the air, stirring against the harness that tethered him. Somewhere a groom laughed, something metal fell with a jarring chink, a voice called out and was answered.

  “I used to think she was an angel, my Alice. A sweet, soft cherub come to life. She was the most beautiful of all the girls, what with her blond hair and sweet blue eyes.” Samuel busied himself again, rearranging Excelsior’s grooming utensils. He turned his back on both the horse and the earl. “You cannot say she didn’t have a charming disposition, Archer, and a compassionate, loving heart.”

  What good would it do to air his grievances with his wife with her father? He said, instead, the words Samuel asked for, in a tone as gentle as he could muster. “She was a credit to you, Samuel.”

  “I gave her in marriage to you, Archer, thinking that the union was blessed for all concerned. And aye, I’ll not lie to you, Archer, I wanted wealth and position for Alice. But I’d have kept her here a spinster before the day I’d let her near you, if I’d known she’d go missing.” Samuel’s eyes bore none of the friendliness he’d once expressed, none of the fondness Archer had felt as a young boy grown up fatherless so close to Moresham Farms. “My Alice would not have run away, no matter the provocation. She’d never have left.”

  A thought that had kept Archer company on his lonely ride. He’d ignored the tenants on his property, the village. He’d been no fit companion for anyone, immersed as he had been in his own thoughts, his own doubts.

  How did he reconcile Samuel’s vision of his daughter with his own recollection of his wife? It seemed as if they were two different people. Or perhaps it was his own perspective that provided the difference.

  He had not loved Alice. The opportunity for warmer feelings between them had been lost in the nights of winter chill, when they’d both sat in the parlor with only the crackle and hiss of the fire to accompany the hours, lost in their own thoughts and feelings, neither able to broach the endless expanse that stretched between them even though it was measured in less than five feet. Or perhaps it was lost in the summer, when he took to spending most of his days outdoors, unwilling to share any room with the unsmiling woman who seemed even more fragile than she had at their wedding, a ghostly wraith of a woman with blond hair and a delicate frame and cursed with silence, eternal silence. Or it could have been in spring, when Alice took little interest in Sanderhurst, only wandering from room to room, her fingers brushing over each piece of furniture as if to test the maids upon their diligence, venturing out of doors to watch the great rugs being beaten upon their frames, the curtains and testers being aired. It was the housekeeper who gave such orders, never the mistress of the house, who looked upon the estate she chatelained as if it were no more than a way station upon a further journey.

  No, he had not loved his wife, but he had not hated her, either. That had come later, in autumn, his heretofore favorite time of the year. Archer could almost believe that his emotion for his wife had turned from hopeful expectation to apathy and from there to hatred during that season when Alice had begun to smile and even to hum tunes in his hearing.

  She had been happy, truly happy, in her adultery.

  It had been years since he had felt even the fleeting expression of joy, let alone a constancy of it. Was that, then, the source of his antipathy? That Alice had been happy while he had never been? Or did it have at its roots his pride, that someone had been able to make Alice smile, when all he was able to accomplish was to cocoon her in silence? Someone had made Alice sparkle and it had not been her husband.

  Such innocence, Archer. He hadn’t been that naive since his relationship with Milicent. He had only been nineteen when he’d fancied himself in love with Lady Milicent Danworth. She was young, married to a man three
decades her senior, insisted she was much put upon and threatened by her husband. He’d believed it all, of course, fell for her much-tried expression of sheltered innocence crushed and broken, found himself rushing to protect her and challenge the monster who would abuse his lovely and delicate wife.

  A wiser man would have believed the husband’s protests, would have questioned why Sir Gregory had not the slightest intention of defending his much-maligned wife. A wiser man would also have reasoned a little further than he had, gleaning some additional information about the charming Lady Milicent. But he had not. Single-mindedly he had taken it upon himself to dog Sir Gregory’s heels, to harass the man until he had no choice but to acquiesce to a confrontation on the field of honor. He’d not deloped as Sir Gregory had done, but had calculatingly shot his rival. The fact that Sir Gregory survived was attributed to his gun’s poor sight and not his aim. He would not have minded killing him, and every man on that field that misty morning had known it.

  Yet the farce was not yet played out. Rushing to Lady Milicent’s house to relay the news that her aging husband would no longer berate her or treat her cruelly, Archer had found her in bed with no fewer than two of his drinking companions, both men still wearing an expression of stunned rapture on their faces when he’d interrupted.

  So much for innocence.

  He’d thrown both men out the door on their bare backsides, returned to the bedroom to find Lady Milicent screaming for her maid and fumbling for her robe. He’d not waited for her to find suitable garments, but had clamped his hand over her wrist and dragged her to his carriage, half-naked. The journey to the field of honor had taken ten blistering minutes, with Lady Milicent screaming like a depraved banshee the whole journey. He’d pulled her out of the carriage, with her half-falling, stumbling behind him. Only when they reached the end of the field did he stop, flinging her to the ground beside St. George.

  “Your husband, madam,” he bit out, his disgust for her vying with his own sense of betrayal. She looked a well-used whore, her hair askew, her breasts bare, her petticoat falling down to her knees. She wore nothing to protect her from the scandalized gazes of twenty men, most of whom, he’d discovered later, had already known her in the biblical sense.

  He had turned and walked away, leaving her screaming at him, unconcerned about her threats or the hum of shocked voices. He’d learned that she’d left England for Italy, had died there a few years later at the hands of a very determined contessa, who resented her husband choosing an Englishwoman’s bed for sport. When he’d learned of her fate, Archer had spared a half moment for a thought of Lady Milicent, but no more. She deserved far less.

  Still, he’d grown up that day, no longer putting such faith and credence in a woman’s tears or weeping words.

  Then why had he felt so betrayed by Alice? The pain of it had stunned him. Archer had not known there was any vulnerability left in him, had been startled to find that there were still places in his psyche not scabbed over and rendered tough. But marriage had been a new venture and he had been willing to capitulate to it, bringing to his wife all the damaged and mangled parts of his soul tied together with string, a bouquet of Archer St. John. For the humility of such self-honesty, he’d expected some fidelity, a little kindness, perhaps acceptance as the years passed. Only from his children had he expected love.

  Instead, his wife had disappeared, sending him a consolation prize, a woman to serve as hostage to the truth.

  Perhaps he was defeating his own best interests by imprisoning Mary Kate Bennett. Perhaps he was better served by allowing her freedom. Only then could he discern her true motives, the next act in this absurd play.

  How could anyone that gorgeously flagrant and spectacularly theatrical look so shocked? When he had decried Alice as an adulteress, Mary Kate had looked like someone whose foundations of belief had just been shaken loose, a priest without faith, a child left orphaned. From where had that emotion emerged, from the plenitude of false feelings she kept stowed in her stocking? Did he believe for one moment that it was genuine, or that it had softened to yet another look, one he might even think was compassion? He had wanted to scoff at her, indicate his disgust at her ability to summon forth feelings appropriate to the moment. He had wanted to criticize her blatant near-to-orange hair and her too red lips and the creamy color of her skin and the perfection of her eyes.

  It was that one shining tear that had kept him silent. The pure perfection of it. A stranger’s empathy. It was as if she knew what that statement had cost him.

  Chapter 14

  Help him….

  The thought surfaced from the abyss of sleep, white-coated and amorphous, sharpening as Mary Kate awakened.

  The bed in this room was a deeply luxurious feather mattress topped by chamomile-scented linen sheets and draped in costly curtains. A bowl of hot water and soft towels were constantly changed, as often as the fire was tended. The spacious room was appointed with gold and ivory accents, flocked French paper on the walls, pale yellow damask curtains hanging from the windows. It was luxurious, warm, and utterly welcoming. And at this moment, terrifying.

  Mary Kate sat up in the massive four-poster bed, one hand pressed against her chest as if to urge her heart to slow its racing beat. She wondered at the desperate feeling of urgency she felt, this almost insane desire to assure herself that Archer St. John was well.

  Her wrapper was a borrowed one, an item of clothing loaned by some unknown personage. Yet at this moment it did not matter how ill fitting it was. It was not her attire that halted her at the doorway, but the fact that circumstances had not altered since she’d slept.

  She was a prisoner in this room. Her hand grasped the handle, but it didn’t turn any easier than it had before. She leaned against the door, huffing out a breath. She flattened her hands against the painted and carved panels of the door as if to press through them, leaned her cheek against the gilded frames.

  Help him….

  She could not. There was nothing she could do.

  She turned, her back to the door, looking at her palatial prison. The resignation that had spread through her at the beginning of her imprisonment had hardened to become something else. Irritation? Anger?

  There was a tinge of red on the horizon, like a streak of blood, showing bright and too glaring to her eye. Thunder crashed in the distance, a flick of lightning touched the ground, the air was chilled against her skin.

  Help him….

  I can’t do anything.

  Help him….

  There is nothing I can do. Please. Go away.

  For a second the room was illuminated in a blue-white glow, a perfect nimbus of unearthly brilliance. For an eternity of time measured in slices of seconds, the glare burned itself into her brain. Time stopped, motion ceased, even breathing was halted. Upon the floor, an Oriental rug faded in the glare of a thousand sunny days distilled to one moment. The bed that had cradled her body reflected the luminescence. A second passed, no more, until the sound of thunder exploded in her ears; the walls shuddered and then were still.

  She nearly fell, so stunned was she by the experience. The tiny, colorless hairs on her arm bristled; even her eyebrows seemed bushier. The air seemed cleaner, somehow charged, alive.

  Mary Kate pressed her hands against her ears, unwilling to admit that she felt the edge of fear, the terrifying tingle of it which made her want to run and hide in the armoire. Yet even there she would not be free of this taunt.

  Help him…. He is in danger.

  There was no duplicity in such a warning, no hesitation in the message. It stood still and gaunt in the morning light, awaiting her action.

  Help him….

  “I cannot leave the room!” She felt the words rip from her throat.

  A crack of thunder was her answer. The building seemed to shake, to tremble in response to the shudder of lightning striking the ground. Mary Kate fell back against the door, both hands outstretched as if for balance.

  Help him….
>
  The feeling of desperation was building, a sensation of doom so pervasive that it made her want to cry out. She was silenced only by panic so strong it seemed bedrocked in her soul.

  Help him….

  The door was solid, immutable. She turned and pounded her fists against the panels etched in gilt, felt the shiver of wood in response. Still it did not give, was not responsive to her sudden, overpowering terror. Both fists slammed against the fragile wood, a door built for privacy, not for defense. The sound was echoed in the thunder, nature’s rage coupled with her own alarm.

  Help him…. She needed no impetus now. The feeling had grown to become a force of its own. She had to get to him. Protect him. Save him. A feeling so great in its urgency that she didn’t notice when her clenched hands became embedded with slivers of wood, so wickedly sharp that her skin was pierced. She didn’t note the pain, nor the fact that blood dripped red upon the door, down her wrists, dotted the oaken boards beneath her feet.

  All she knew was a blinding need to reassure herself he was safe.

  When the door swung open, she almost cried in relief, only to find herself colliding with a body, a wall of flesh that stood between her and Archer, a barrier she must cross, defeat, conquer. Seconds later, she realized it was he.

  Her hands pressed against his chest, unmindful that it was naked skin she touched, or that droplets of her own blood marked him. Nor was she content with passive reassurance. Her hands darted across his dressing gown, fingertips pressed against the balls of his shoulders as if to judge their strength, against the angle of his chin, down the expanse of his throat.

  He would have gripped her wrists, pulled her away, but for the dazed, almost panicked look in her eyes. That, and the fact that silent tears wet her face.