Seduced by a Stranger (15 page)

He was watching her. She did not look at him, but she could sense his eyes upon her.

She concentrated on each breath, slow and easy, the pattern of inhalation and exhalation relaxing her. She felt as though she was not there, as though some other person inhabited her skin and went through these motions.

The sexual thrill that had electrified her earlier had disappeared, swallowed by the wave of memories that sucked emotion from her, sopping it up like a bone-dry sponge. There was only the rushing of her blood—was it really loud enough that she could hear it?—and the veil that draped her, insulating her from what was to come.

She knew that only a moment past, she had been frenzied with the need for Gabriel to touch her, ached for the feel of his hands and lips on her. That was gone now, buried beneath the defenses she had taken years to build.

The defenses he had almost breached with a single kiss. She had known from the first moment she saw him that he was dangerous to her.

“What are you doing?” Gabriel’s voice came as though from a great distance, low, calm. She liked to hear him speak. There was pleasure in that, at least. She wondered if he would talk as he took her, whisper against her ear, cry out in passion. Or if he would be silent. She thought she might not be able to bear the silence, but she could not imagine him as anything but coldly controlled.

“Removing my clothing,” she replied, feeling numb and dead and removed, uncertain she could face this any other way. “Isn’t that what you want?”

Gabriel crossed the space between them then, and she forced herself to look in his face. His expression was blank. Distant. He stopped, not touching her at all, and their eyes met.

“No,” he said.

She glanced down, opened her fingers. The sound of the last pin dropping to the table was inordinately loud.

“I—”

“No,” he said again, cutting her off.

She stared at the row of neatly arranged hairpins, using the tip of her finger to push one into place in the line.

“This is not what I want,” he whispered, stepping closer, until she could feel the hard, cold wall at her back and the heat of him before her, until he could lower his face to her hair. She heard him inhale, a long, slow breath, and it made her shudder. Not in fear. Not in revulsion. That realization surprised her, though it was tempered by the fog that had come over her, the ghosts of her past hovering, always hovering.

“If this is not what you want, then what is it you
do
want?” she asked, her voice breaking as the memories twitched in their chains, threatening to overcome her.

He lifted his head, stepped away, his jaw tight, his amber eyes chilled to ice. “Your placid acquiescence is…distasteful to me. To have you simply offer yourself—”

Again, she saw his jaw tighten, and she had the sudden, shocking insight that he was enraged, controlling the force of his anger by sheer will.

“You are angry at me,” she observed, deflated, a little afraid. How long would his wall hold before the storm tore free?

“I am angry at
him
, at whoever did this to you, made you so—” He made a slashing gesture, clearly frustrated by the turn of events and her response, showing the most emotion she had seen in the time she had known him. “Tell me his name. I will kill him.”

I already did
. A harsh, choking laugh escaped her.

“Did he force you?” he asked deliberately, cadence and tone icily controlled.

Yes. No. The worst part is…no.
“Not in the way you mean. My parents were dead, the estate entailed. They left no separate funds for me, and there was no relative, no friend to take me in. A distant cousin I had never met, Jasper Hunt, became the new Baron Sunderley.” She swallowed, remembering the first time she had seen him, dark hair arranged in the current style, blue eyes catching the color of the sky. “He was so kind. Handsome. Young. He let me stay on, and with his mother living there as chaperone, who could say anything against his generosity?”

Strange how the words flowed so easily, how she trusted Gabriel to hear them, this cold, hard, enigmatic man. “I was desperately grateful. And he wooed me. Made promises any young girl would believe”—she cast him an assessing glance through her lashes—“especially a desperate young girl with nowhere else to turn. In the secret hours of the night, he came to me…”

Her words trailed away, the ease of her confessions suddenly constrained. She could not go on, could not bare herself so fully to his scrutiny. He stayed exactly where he was, unmoving, unblinking. Jasper had wooed her, and she had succumbed. She had believed his promises of marriage and a life together, and when he had begun to choose her clothing, the foods she would eat, the friends she would correspond with, she thought it only the interest of a prospective husband, as smitten with her as she was with him.

“I allowed him liberties. I allowed him to…” To do everything he did. To chasten her. To break her will. To turn her into a pathetic creature wholly under his control.

But she said none of that, only pressed her lips together and shook her head.

Gabriel nodded slowly. She thought he would say nothing at all, that she had shocked him, though the very idea of shocking Gabriel St. Aubyn seemed absurd.

Then he spoke, his tone cool and remote as ever she had heard, but his words, oh, his words reached deep inside her and twisted her in knots. “Some people take joy in breaking others, take pleasure in the pain and humiliation of those in their care.”

She gasped, horrified that he saw so much, that he clearly suspected all the things she did not say.

Lifting his hand, he stroked her cheek. “I understand.”

Of course, he did not. Could not. What did a man such as Gabriel St. Aubyn understand of being broken…shattered?

His stare dropped to her lips, and she saw his naked lust, knew he wanted her still, despite her strange behavior.

He lifted his eyes to hers once more, and when he spoke, his words were a rough whisper. “When we lie together, Catherine—and make no mistake, we
will
lie together—it will be because you want me. Because you are parched and I am water, because you are breathless and I am air. And until then, until you come to me with hunger and need”—he gave a dark smile—“I shall make do with my solitary bed.”

With that, he offered a shallow bow and left her there, alone and shaken, both grateful and bereft to see him go.

Catherine had no idea how long she sat in the chair by the window and stared out at the moon. After a time, she saw Gabriel ride away. She had chased him out into the night.

As soon as the thought formed, she squelched it. No. She would not take responsibility for his choices, his actions, his moods.
He
chose to ride out.

Lucky him.

A part of her wished she could do the same. Ride through the night with the wind slapping her face.

She shook her head. Her thoughts were in turmoil, even as they were wiped clean. She revisited every moment with Gabriel, then she thrust aside any thought of their time together. She did not recognize herself, as though his mere proximity was somehow transforming her, changing her. Freeing her? The thought terrified. She did not want to be free. She wanted to be the woman she had created, controlled, safe behind her walls.

She did not want to remember the wonder of his kiss, the feel of his mouth on hers, the passion that swelled, monstrous and terrifying and beautiful. He frightened her. He soothed her.

She did not want that.

Sleep seemed an impossibility, but she craved the normalcy of routine, and so she rose, removed her clothing, changed to her nightrail. She crossed to the washstand, used her tooth powder, washed her face and hands.

Turning, she spied Mrs. Northrop’s letter and the vile clipping she had sent. Rage and pain swelled and she wanted them gone, wanted them never to have been. She wanted to purge the pain of this loss, and all those that had preceded it.

Of course, that could never be. The holes in her heart, her soul, could never fully mend. But she could do
something
. Something symbolic.

Taking up the letter and the clipping, she fetched the tin Gabriel had gifted her with. She had used only a single spill, the morning he had given it to her. She had taken Madeline walking by the lake and showed her the wonder of this marvelous thing. Madeline had recoiled from the flames, but Catherine’s joy in the gift had not abated.

The lid pulled open with ease now, and she slowly withdrew a solitary spill and the tiny pliers. Her first attempt failed, for her hands were shaking, her breath too fast. But her second attempt succeeded, the snip of the pliers igniting a small, lovely flame. She stared at it for an instant, feeling the glow reach inside her, warming her, lighting her way. Then she held the flame to the edge of the papers in her hand. A swell of heat. Licking tongues that curled and twined. Hungry.

Almost did she singe her fingers, but at the last, she tossed the tiny glowing remnant into the fire that already burned in the hearth.

“Good-bye, Martha,” she whispered. “Rest easy.” Easier in death than she had in life.

There were no tears now. She had cried herself dry.

Crossing to the window once more, she took up her silver-backed brush and settled in the chair. There, she stared out at the moon and drew the brush through her hair in long slow strokes.

From the hallway came a sound, the faint clank of metal on metal and the shush of footsteps on the carpet. She paused in what she was doing, listening as the clanking moved along the passage in the direction of Madeline’s chamber, the sounds finally fading away.

With her fingers curled around the brush, she sat there a moment more, something gnawing at her, unsettling. And then she knew. The clank of metal on metal. Mrs. Bell carried a large ring of keys that made that exact sound when she walked.

What purpose did the housekeeper have in making a late-night visit to Madeline’s chamber?

Catherine set down the brush, rose, and draped a shawl over her shoulders. She left the room, taking her candle to light the way. The hallway was empty now, but at the end, Madeline’s door was cracked open and a narrow shard of candlelight bled through into the darkness.

The murmur of voices sounded, one low and firm, the other higher, anxious.

Catherine stepped closer.

“Nnno,” Madeline’s voice was hazy, confused. “I had—” She broke off and exhaled a long, sighing breath. “Did I not have some? I thought I did.”

There came a tapping sound, like a spoon clinking against glass. “Drink it now,” Mrs. Bell said. “Your cousin was quite insistent that I dose you with your medicine.”

Catherine gasped and hurried forward, pushing open the door to reveal Madeline propped on her pillows, looking sleep rumpled and confused, and Mrs. Bell standing over her with a crystal goblet of wine. The brown bottle of laudanum was open on the bedside table.

Her arrival drew the gazes of both women.

“What exactly are you doing, Mrs. Bell?” she demanded, summoning her frostiest tone.

“Following instructions,” Mrs. Bell clipped out in return. “Sir Gabriel bid me see to Miss Madeline’s medicine.”

Catherine stared at her in confusion, a recollection of her discussion with Gabriel from earlier in the evening leaping to the forefront of her thoughts. She clearly recalled telling him that she had dosed Madeline with laudanum in a glass of Madeira.

But perhaps he had given Mrs. Bell his instruction before he had come to her chamber, before she had told him the task was already complete.

“When did Sir Gabriel give you that directive?” she asked.

Mrs. Bell’s eyes narrowed and her expression grew mutinous, her lips compressed, his nostrils pinched. Catherine felt certain it would be a battle of wits to gather what information she could.

Then the housekeeper surprised her, setting the glass down on the table and folding her arms across her belly.

“Perhaps if you tell me the reason you ask then I’ll know if I ought to answer,” she said.

A fair enough observation. “I ask because I already gave Madeline her medicine earlier this evening.”
And I am certain I mentioned that fact to Gabriel
. She did not voice the last bit aloud, wary of what trust she should place in the housekeeper. Catherine vacillated between disbelieving Madeline’s outlandish assertions that someone here wished her harm, and believing they were not so outlandish at all. There was something very wrong in this household, and Catherine dared not make a mistake. She had the horrible suspicion that Madeline’s life might depend on it. But who posed the danger? Mrs. Bell? Gabriel? Some as yet undisclosed pawn or bishop on the board? How was she to know?

Each time she thought she had her answers, something else happened to make her question all she had already gleaned.

“Did I not tell you so?” Madeline offered in a reedy whisper, as though driven to participate in some small way in this conversation that pertained to her. Her words were a paltry challenge to Mrs. Bell’s overwhelming personality.

“Thank you for your solicitude, Mrs. Bell,” Catherine said, reaching out to lift the glass of wine from where the housekeeper had placed it on the table, intending to pour out the contents. She had no desire for Madeline to reach for it in a stuporous state and ingest more of the medicine than was safe. “I can only imagine how vast your duties already are. Surely you do not need yet another to add weight to your burdens. I shall take full responsibility for administering Madeline’s medicine from here on out.”

The housekeeper’s lips thinned and she looked positively furious. “I tell you, Sir Gabriel bid me see to her. Only a short time ago I saw him below, and he was very clear in his instruction.”

“A short time ago?”

“A matter of moments,” Mrs. Bell insisted.

But Catherine knew she was lying. Or perhaps only confused. For she had seen Gabriel ride away at least a half hour past.

“I believe you are mistaken, Mrs. Bell.”

The color drained from the woman’s cheeks, then rushed back in a crimson flush, but she held her tongue, spun, and stalked from the room. Catherine turned to watch her go.

With a shake of her head, Catherine sniffed at the wine in her hand, curious to see if the scent would suggest the dosage the housekeeper had doled out. She froze in place. The smell was…wrong.

Again she sniffed the glass. There was the sweet scent of the Madeira, and another aroma blending with it. But not the distinctive smell of laudanum that she expected. She had enough experience with the noxious stuff to know there was often a smell of alcohol, perhaps sassafras or cloves, and always the heavy, cloying, distinctive aroma of the laudanum itself.

None of them was present now.

The drink smelled of wine and—she sniffed again—almonds.

The air left her in a rush.

“Madeline,” she said, keeping her tone even and smooth as she shifted to face the bed once more. Her friend’s eyes were closed, her cheeks pale. At the sound of her name, she roused and turned her head, lifting her lids halfway. “Madeline, did you watch Mrs. Bell pour this wine for you?”

“Wine?” Madeline murmured with a frown. Her lids drifted shut, then opened once more. “Is there wine?”

With a sigh, Catherine realized that Madeline would be no help in solving this mystery. Recollection of laudanum’s effects—the dulling lethargy, the weightless floating—came to her, and she knew the state that Madeline was in. The helpless, drugged state.

Carrying the full glass, Catherine crossed to the window, undid the latch, and pushed open the sash. She glanced down to make certain there was no one below, and then she poured the contents of the crystal glass out the window. With a shudder, she pushed it shut and drew the curtains.

Whatever had been mixed with that wine, she suspected it had not been laudanum. What, then? Poison? Did she really believe that? And who was the poisoner? Mrs. Bell? To what purpose?

Her gaze lit on the brown bottle that sat on the bedside table. Quickly, she closed the space, lifted the bottle, removed the lid and sniffed the contents. Cloves, alcohol, and laudanum.

Whatever had been poured into the wine had not come from this bottle. She was certain of it.

But that was her only certainty. Other than that, all she had were questions without answers, for she had no idea if Mrs. Bell had prepared that wine herself or simply brought a glass prepared by another. If Gabriel had misheard when she said she had already given Madeline a dose of her medicine. If he had forgotten, or—horrific as the possibility was—if he had intended to see Madeline receive a second dose, perhaps an amount large enough to kill her. Or had Mrs. Bell fabricated the story altogether, attributing instructions to Gabriel when he had given her none?

She shuddered and went to the washstand where she rinsed the crystal goblet before setting it down. Crossing to the bed, she stayed there for several moments, watching the steady rise and fall of Madeline’s chest. Certain that her friend slept, Catherine took the bottle of laudanum and left the room.

It was only later, as she lay in her own bed on the edge of slumber, that her muzzy thoughts revisited the events in Madeline’s chamber. She was certain the bottle of laudanum had been open on the table when she had first entered the room to confront Mrs. Bell, but it had been closed when she went to sniff the contents.

Such a small thing to note, but note it she did, though what possible significance there could be to such an observation escaped her. The tendrils of sleep that had begun to wrap around her evaporated like a mist, and she was left restless and troubled, certain that there was something here she had missed.

This one had disappointed him.

Sweat stained his shirt, prickling at the small of his back and under his arms, beading on his forehead and lip.

He had wanted her to moan, to scream against the gag, to thrash as he played. She’d done none of those things. She had only stared at him, eyes blank and glassy, as though she had left her body long before he ended her life. He had broken her before he had truly begun, and that made a cold knot of rage glow in his belly.

Susan Parker had cheated him of the game.

He wanted one who was strong, stubborn. Even brave. The longer they thrashed and moaned and struggled, the better he enjoyed his play.
He
decided when they cried out.
He
decided when they writhed and moaned.
He
decided when the game was done.

But Susan had broken as soon as he slit her dress and peeled it from her shivering form. Where was the fun in that? The challenge? The joy he derived was intricately twined in the knowledge that he controlled them. Their thoughts. Their hopes. One of his favorite parts was when he offered comfort and his chosen victim turned her face to his hand, seeking warmth, seeking succor.

Susan had denied him that. She had denied him the most delicious part.

Her mind had collapsed, and in the end, she had never truly seen him. She was supposed to
see
him, truly see him. They always did in the end. But Susan had not been there anymore; she had gone somewhere else, somewhere he could not reach.

In his rage, he had cut her head clean off. He had shoved his blade deep, sawing back and forth without finesse or delicacy, cutting skin and muscle, artery and vein. He had slashed her windpipe, the white cartilage bright against the river of blood. But his fury had not been assuaged. In the end, he had hacked at her until her head pulled free, slid from his fingers, and hit the floor with a dull thud. Then it had rolled to the side and lain there, glazed eyes staring up at him.

Where was the pleasure in that?

Instead of being the one in control, he had
lost
control, visiting his fury upon her. His arms were completely drenched in blood nearly to the shoulder. The rest of him was splattered with it, dark, glistening splotches.

He licked his lips, tasted her blood on his tongue.

It was then he realized he had forgotten the feather.

Breathing heavily, he stood over the body, rage swelling anew. She had made him forget the feather. Bitch.

He must salvage what he could of this. He must follow his routine. Lifting his knife once more, he plunged it deep and cut open her belly, pulling out loop upon loop of glistening intestine. Ripping it free, he shoved it in the open jar at his feet, then turned his attention to her stomach.