Kane, Samantha - Brothers In Arms 4 (33 page)

always, accusatory, hateful, gleefully evil.

“You should be ashamed, you ungrateful girl. Sneaking off while I was away to

marry that horrendously perverted Witherspoon. Father said you voiced nary a protest and practically threw yourself at him when you arrived here.”

Harold stalked toward her and Sophie unconsciously shrank away from him. He

paid her no mind, instead going past her to the door and shutting it firmly. He spun around to confront her and Sophie assessed him dispassionately. He was still trim and fit, his dull brown hair continuing to recede on his prominent forehead. His eyes were perpetually narrowed with meanness, his lips thin. Some might say he was not an unattractive man in his way, but to Sophie he was all that was ugly in the world. He’s just a man, Sophie told herself, trying to shore up her courage.
This is my home and he
cannot touch me here
.

“What do you want, Harold?” Sophie was proud of the calmness of her tone as she straightened her shoulders.

Harold stopped and stared at her long enough for Sophie to get uncomfortable and nervous once again. She began to wring her hands and had to grip the back of the sofa to stop. Harold saw her weakness and smiled cruelly.

“How dare you speak to me like that,” he said conversationally. “When I get you home I shall have to teach you obedience and meekness once again.”

Sophie flinched, she couldn’t help it. Harold’s lessons were hard-learned. She

wouldn’t go through that again. She thought of Ian, and Derek, and took a deep breath to settle her nerves. She was safe here. “I am never going to your home again, Harold.

This is my home now. And you are not welcome.”

He stalked her slowly around the sofa, and as much as she wanted to stand her

ground, Sophie couldn’t. She backed away, always keeping the piece of furniture between them.

“I’m going to petition the court, Sophia. It shall be a simple thing to prove

Witherspoon’s cruelty to you. After all, he does keep a male lover here, in your home, and probably forces you to service him as well.”

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Sophie’s pulse leapt in fear and her eyes widened. Could he do that? Was Ian in danger? Surely the Earl would protect him. But would he? He’d cut Ian off from the family before because of his relationship with Derek. Harold’s look was calculating, so Sophie didn’t know whether to believe him or not.

“If you come with me now, Sophia, there needn’t be the unpleasantness of a court proceeding. Your husband’s perfidy need never be revealed.” He began to walk again, and again Sophie backed away from him. “He could be imprisoned, Sophia.

Homosexuality is a crime, you know.”

“We are married.” Sophie’s voice was dry and reedy with fear. Ian couldn’t go to prison! Surely they wouldn’t throw a man in prison for loving someone?

“You and I both know that has not changed his relationship with that uncouth ox he beds. But you could protect him, Sophia. All you have to do is come home.” Sophie hesitated and Harold stepped closer. She stumbled as she backed quickly away. “I’m only thinking of you, Sophia. This can’t be a pleasant place for you.”

“This is my home now. You must leave and never come back, Harold.”

Harold retreated, much to Sophie’s relief. He sidled back around the sofa until they were opposite one another. “You know I can’t do that, Sophia. You are my

responsibility. What kind of brother would I be if I let you stay here, suffering? What the—” Harold turned quickly to the door and Sophie followed his gaze. She let out a small scream when he suddenly lurched across the back of the sofa and grabbed her arm. “I’ve got you now, Sophia!” he crowed in triumph. “You should have known better than to try to get away from me.”

Sophie struggled, panting with terror. She couldn’t break his hold! She clawed at his hand mindlessly, barely hearing his hiss of pain as her nails scored the back of his hand. He let go and she tried to scramble away, but she was lightheaded with fear, memories crashing through her mind into one long, endless session of pain and

degradation. She stumbled around the end of the sofa and screamed again as Harold suddenly loomed in front of her. With a snarl he grabbed her arm again with one hand and fisted the other in her elegantly upswept hair, pulling it ruthlessly until her head was bent at an unnatural angle.

“You filthy little whore. Fight me, will you? Are those the kinds of games your perverted new husband likes to play? Do you fight him every night before you let him fuck you? You should never have come here, Sophia. Do you remember what I

promised you, if you ever told anyone, if you ever left me for someone else?”

His voice was the same terrifying whisper that haunted her nightmares. Of course she remembered. He said he’d kill anyone who tried to take her away, and if she ran, he’d kill her. Everything started to turn black as Sophie collapsed inwardly as well as physically. Harold jerked her head roughly and all Sophie could do was moan in

anguish. He’d kill her now and then he’d kill Ian. She couldn’t fight him, she’d never been able to fight him.

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Suddenly the door flew open and Derek burst into the room. Sophie focused on him as if he were air to a drowning woman. “Derek!” she cried, and was surprised at how strong her voice was. She wasn’t dying then, she wouldn’t. “Derek,” and this time she couldn’t stop the sob in her voice, the note of complete and absolute relief that he was here, he would save her.

Derek moved so quickly even Sophie was unprepared when he suddenly appeared

next to them. He was furious, his teeth clenched as a growl spilled from his lips at the same time his hand wrapped around Harold’s throat. “You fucking bastard,” he ground out, and Sophie saw Harold’s eyes narrow as his face started to turn red. He increased the pressure on Sophie’s hair, nearly pulling it out at the roots and she cried out at the pain, tears springing to her eyes and running down her cheeks.

“Let her go or I will kill you,” Derek told him in a quiet, lethal voice. Sophie managed to turn enough to see his face and its very calmness was more frightening than the fury that had been there moments before. She didn’t doubt for one moment that he meant it, and she cried harder. She cried not for the pain, but for this man who would protect her even though he didn’t like her, for Ian, who cared for her and wanted to protect her from everything, for Montague hovering in the door, worry etching his features, for Thomas and Peter, the two footmen who flanked Montague in the

doorway, for this house, this life, this sanctuary. She cried because for the first time in her life she felt safe and loved, and because she knew she would never be afraid again.

Harold’s hand released her hair abruptly and she fell back, tripping over the corner of the sofa to fall in an undignified heap on the floor. Rather than soothing Derek, her freedom seemed to kindle his rage. He shook Harold by the throat effortlessly as if he was some macabre doll, and Sophie felt her bile rise. Derek threw Harold into the wall and the smaller man’s shoulder hit with a resounding thud, the side of his head connecting with a crack against the delicate picture hanging there. The picture fell and shattered and Harold stumbled upright with a snarl.

“You’ll regret that,” Harold said, and his voice no longer had the power to frighten Sophie. Derek started for him again, his fist raised, and Harold retreated toward the door with a curl of his lip. “I won’t lower myself to brawl with you. But I shall be back.”

“Montague, see that this rat is removed from the premises. He is barred from this house, do you understand? He is never to set foot here again.”

“Very good, Mr. Knightly,” Montague replied, his relief evident. He motioned the two footmen over and they grabbed Harold by the arms. He tried to shake them free, but they dragged him from the room.

Derek stood with his back to her. Sophie began to tremble. Her hands shook so

badly she couldn’t stand. She heard a whimper and covered her mouth when she

realized it came from her. Derek spun around to face her at the sound. For one endless moment he stood and stared at her, his face a frozen mask. Sophie was cold and her trembling became violent shivers that shook her whole body.

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“Sophie,” Derek said quietly, and the kindness and compassion in his voice were her undoing. The tears that had slowly been running down her face became a torrent and a sob was ripped from her chest almost painfully. Once she began, she couldn’t stop. “Sophie,” Derek cried and he hurried over, falling to his knees next to her. He grabbed her and hauled her into his arms, onto his lap, and he rocked her like a child.

“It’s all right, Sophie. It’s going to be all right,” he murmured, and Sophie believed him.

* * * * *

Harold Middleton stalked into the library of his rented townhouse and immediately went to the sideboard to pour a generous whiskey for himself. He threw the drink back expertly and slammed the empty glass down. Only when he was done did he turn to his houseguest.

“That little bitch of a sister of mine had her husband’s lover throw me out of the house. Can you believe her gall? She’s forgotten who her betters are. I was gone too long. If I’d returned when I originally planned, this farce of a marriage would never have been allowed to take place.” He pointed a rigid finger at the man lounging in a sunny corner of the room. “I blame you. You convinced me to stay in Europe, financing your schemes and providing for your comfort. Now how am I to get her back?”

Middleton, as far as Sir Albert Robertson was concerned, was a vile, obnoxious, perverted worm. His money, however, was a delightful asset that made the man

bearable. He could almost feel sorry for the sister he’d abused all her life and was obsessed with retrieving, but she had married one of Lord Jason Randall’s perverted boys, so she deserved whatever she got. Because of Randall and his friends, Robertson was forced to rely on dregs like Middleton for the very bread he ate. Well, he had been forced. Fortunately Harold Middleton was as stupid as he was pernicious and

Robertson had been able to “borrow” quite a bit of Middleton’s money without the other man knowing.

Robertson had been hiding in Europe for the better part of a year, after he almost killed Lord Randall in a duel when Robertson fired early. The ensuing scandal had turned him into an exile, and his creditors had fallen on his meager assets like vultures on carrion. Not only had he toadied to men like Middleton, but he’d sold his youth and vigor to wealthy old women willing to pay for it. If he had to fuck another wrinkled old crone and pretend to like it he was going to go mad. He had gone a little mad when he’d made one ill-advised foray back to England. He’d nearly killed one of Randall’s friends’ wives. She wouldn’t have been a great loss. She too was married to a couple of his soldier boys, so Robertson figured one less slut would hardly have been noticed.

Unfortunately Randall had quite a few friends who were making Robertson’s life a nightmare. He was being hunted like a common criminal. He hated Randall and his homosexual lover, Tony Richards, but their whore of a wife, Kate, had a special place in his rage. She’d been Robertson’s mistress. It was the prerogative of a man to share his mistress with his friends if he so chose. He paid for the privilege. So what if his so-167

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called friends got a little rough one night with Robertson’s encouragement? She’d willingly sold her body to him, and he used it as he saw fit for his amusement.

Admittedly he’d used her to try to even an old score with Randall and Richards, but again that was what he paid her for. They acted as if he’d desecrated some holy vessel.

Well, he’d learned something from his last aborted visit to England. He’d learned what the best form of revenge was. And Harold Middleton had given him the means and the opportunity. He swirled the brandy in his glass and watched it gleam in the sun as Middleton ranted for a few more minutes, getting drunker and drunker. When he felt Middleton was drunk enough to be pliable, but not so drunk he could deny

responsibility should his plan go awry, Robertson stood. Middleton immediately

stopped talking. Robertson sighed at how easy he’d been to train.

“My dear Middleton, you are absolutely right.” And the idiot in his blinding conceit believed it. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, your dear Sophia is in mortal danger.

Any man who would force her to service his homosexual lover, who would teach a

young, innocent girl to enjoy the perverted pleasures of the flesh would surely not stop there. Who’s to say his…pleasure won’t get out of hand some night? She could be seriously injured, not to mention the mental anguish the poor thing is suffering as we speak.” Robertson was disgusted at the gleam of indecent lust shining from Middleton’s eye. Any man who would fuck his young sister was beyond redemption. He had to turn away to hide the nauseated curl of his lip. It took only a moment to control his reaction and he turned back. Middleton was hanging on his every word. The fool was the

perfect scapegoat.

“If I may be so bold, Middleton, I believe I know how we can rescue your dear

Sophia. And perhaps you’ll be able to teach her a valuable lesson about defying you in the process.”

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Ian schooled his features into a pleasant, bland mask as he was ushered into the earl’s private study. His Uncle Victor had become the Earl just five years ago, while Ian was in the Peninsula. His grandfather had been a rather cold, remote man. Ian had always been nervous in his presence and happy when he was able to leave it. His Uncle Victor had been kind to him, he did remember that. He hadn’t seen him often, his uncle had been away at school or too busy to see his youngest brother’s small children. But Ian had a vague recollection of candies and toys and a gentle demeanor. When he’d last been ushered into his presence, however, all traces of that kind uncle were gone, replaced by another cold, remote man who issued ultimatums about dubious life