Cheryl Holt (11 page)

He glanced at the letter he’d received from her, and he was goaded to recklessness. Since she’d hied herself off to London, it was her only correspondence, so he assumed it was meant as a further insult.

She was proud of her exploits, utterly chatty in bragging about her new job. Her employer was the Earl of Winchester, and as he thought of Emily residing with Winchester, he felt ill. Even in his rural section of the country, he’d heard tales of the Farrow brothers and their disgusting antics.

Why would she willingly subject herself to such iniquity?

At age forty, he was a virgin. He was overtly frustrated by the situation, and impatient to make Emily his own so that he could utilize his male power to subjugate her. She’d never appreciated that—as a female—she
should be subservient and beholden, and he was determined to grind her under his heel.

Years earlier, he’d begun buying erotic French picture books from a traveling peddler, and his collection was enormous. The tomes showed how a man could force a woman to obey, even if she didn’t wish to yield. The books were sinful and foul, but he never tired of studying them.

Every night, he would shut his eyes, would touch himself and visualize Emily—naked and tied to his bed. He would torment her until she pleaded and begged for mercy, until she finally acknowledged his authority over her.

He considered Mary, as well. With her blank stares and silent wanderings, she gave him eerie shivers. He dreamed of her being bound and gagged, too, perhaps the two sisters manacled together and compelled to do his bidding. He had no doubt that Mary had encouraged Emily to flee, and once he succeeded in returning them to Hailsham, he would be avenged.

He would have Mary for his own before he shipped her to Bedlam, where she belonged; then Emily would pay and pay and pay. If she lived to be a hundred, she could never fully compensate him for the dishonor she’d inflicted.

In his fantasies, she was sweet and chaste. But what if she was tainted in London? She had chosen to cast her lot with Farrow, so any calamity could befall her. She might succumb to temptation, might start drinking or carousing, might be seduced by Winchester or his brother.

Emily was a fool to risk so much, and Reginald couldn’t allow her to offer to Winchester what was rightfully Reginald’s. He had to stop her.

There was no hope for it. He’d have to journey to
London and reason with her, although he wasn’t optimistic. Emily was too arrogant, smarter and more intractable than any female ought to be, but if he couldn’t get through to her, there was always Winchester.

Reginald wouldn’t hesitate to spew any falsehood, so Emily’s post was about to be lost to her. After all, who would permit a slattern to tend children? When Reginald was finished, after his malicious gossip was spread throughout the city, Winchester would have to fire her.

Emily’s reputation would be ruined. She’d be unemployable. What would she do then?

He smiled. She’d have to come home, where Reginald would be more than happy to take her in.

Oh yes, Emily’s little jaunt was about to end.

 7 

Mary moved toward her room, counting her steps as was her habit. It was very late, and she liked to practice walking at night, when there was no one about to witness her mistakes. After that first, humiliating afternoon, when she’d wound up in Mr. Farrow’s private suite, she’d been studying the layout of the large mansion, and she was finally beginning to be confident as to her location.

She was determined never to make a fool of herself or to wander in where she wasn’t wanted. She was desperate for Emily’s position to work out, so she couldn’t have anyone complaining. If Emily lost her job because Mary had displeased someone, Mary would never forgive herself.

How she hated being beholden! As a girl, she’d contracted a virulent case of the measles and gone blind, so the majority of her life had been a long trial of dependence and reliance. People treated her as if she were demented, as if she were retarded and mute, as well, though she’d been luckier than most who found themselves in a
similar situation. She’d had a comfortable home, loving parents, a kindly sister, and a complacent husband, but with their hovering, sometimes she felt as if she might start screaming and never stop. She’d give anything to be able to care for herself, to earn a salary and live on her own, to be free of the prison that her disability had created. While Emily was the best sibling in the world, it was degrading to sit back, year after year, doing nothing as Emily toiled away on Mary’s behalf.

She reached her door and entered, and the instant she was inside, she halted and frowned. Though she couldn’t see, her other senses were extremely sharp. She could ascertain so much about what was transpiring, and at that very moment, she was positive Alex Farrow was lounging on her bed. It had to be Farrow, yet the possibility was so bizarre that she couldn’t process it. So many mixed messages were being sent to her brain that she was dizzy.

Since their ignominious meeting, she hadn’t run into him, but she’d often perceived him watching her from a distance. When he was lurking, it was easy to distinguish his surly presence. He was an angry, bitter man, and his antipathy rolled off him like a malodorous cloud.

She didn’t know why he was so dour, and she didn’t want to know, but she had to tread cautiously, lest she have him racing to his brother with a demand that they be evicted.

“What do you want?” she asked without preamble, and she could tell that she’d surprised him. Others regularly assumed that she was an imbecile. He bathed with sandalwood soap, and he’d been drinking brandy. Didn’t he realize that she could smell him?

“I wish to speak with you.”

“Now you have. Why don’t you go?”

“Do you always sneak about the halls in the middle of the night?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t been pilfering the silver, if that’s what has you worried.” She held out her arms, and spun in a circle, showing him that she had no silverware shielded in the folds of her skirt.

He sat up, the bed frame creaking with his weight, as he planted his feet on the floor. Curiously, he was in his stockings, his boots disposed of before he’d crept up the stairs. Obviously, this was a furtive outing, and there was only one reason she could think of that he’d intrude.

Had he ravagement in mind? Would he behave so despicably?

She’d listened to many tales about the Farrow brothers, but she hadn’t heard that they were rapists.

Of course, she’d been in residence for such a short period. There was much she couldn’t yet have gleaned. What was his intent?

He stood, and she braced, utilizing her acuity to assess his purpose, and to her great relief, she felt no menace. She relaxed. Whatever his scheme, whatever misguided, peculiar urge had driven him to visit, it wasn’t malicious.

He approached until he was very near, and he scrutinized her face, her hair, her figure.

“Were you born blind?” he queried.

“No.”

“How did it occur?”

“I fell ill. When I was a child.”

“Can you see anything, at all?”

“No.”

He waved his palm before her eyes, as she sniffed his skin. He had a warm, masculine scent that thrilled her, that had her wanting to lean in and rub herself against him, and the notion stunned her. Having been married, she was no innocent. She recognized that she was experiencing desire, and she was flabbergasted.

In the decade that she’d been a widow, she hadn’t once craved a man’s touch, hadn’t fretted over what she was missing, or waxed nostalgic for past delights.

Her husband had been a subdued, modest fellow, who had worked for her father, and her father had paid him to wed her. Not that Mary had had an inkling of the financial transaction that had inspired the sudden proposal.

They’d had a tepid, congenial relationship, but he wasn’t a particularly physical individual, and amorous endeavor had usually been beyond him. Being virgins when they’d tied the knot, they hadn’t known much about sex, but he’d been too shy to experiment or learn. Rumor had it that the marital act could be very rousing and passionate, and she’d waited for an ember to ignite, but it never had.

To this day, she wondered how they’d managed to have Rose. Their conjugal mating had been so intermittent that she considered Rose to be a miracle baby.

After his health had deteriorated, their intimacy had ceased altogether, so it had been quite a while since her interest had been piqued, and she couldn’t discern why it was transpiring. Especially with Mr. Farrow.

What did it portend?

He noted the strange electricity, too. He hesitated,
halting the movement of his hand so that he could revel in the sparks that flew between them.

“You’re a widow?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“At what age were you wed?”

“Sixteen.”

“To whom?”

“One of my father’s employees.”

“How long were you married?” he probed.

“Two years.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died of a lung fever. He never was very hale.”

“Were you happy?”

She bristled. “How rude of you to inquire.”

“Were you?”

“I suppose.” As happy as a woman could be when the union was formed out of pity, obligation, and duty.

“Your sight vanished and never came back?”

“Yes.”

“Can you detect light or shapes?”

“No.”

“Is there any hope of it returning?”

“No. There’s no hope.” She paused, then added, “I’m resigned to my fate.”

“I’m trying to decide,” he said, “what would be worse: to never have seen at all, or to have had it snatched away.”

“I would deem it to be fairly horrendous either way.”

He chuckled, a low, pleasing rumble that tickled her stomach and rattled her nerves, as he asserted, “You don’t strike me as an invalid.”

“I hate being a burden.”

“I’ve watched you walking, exploring the house.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I can tell when you’re close by.” She shrugged. “To accommodate for the loss of my vision, my other senses are stronger than the average person’s. I can fathom many details that others can’t.”

“How fascinating.”

He circled around her, evaluating her as one might a horse at an auction. What was he thinking? What was his objective?

She still couldn’t determine what had brought him upstairs.

Perhaps it was simple curiosity about the new boarder. Or perhaps he was intrigued by her infirmity. Or maybe this was his method of apologizing for his initial anger, but she doubted it.

Though he perceived their affinity, he couldn’t plan to act on it. Could he? What if he meant to dally? Could she? Should she? She’d been lonely for ages, but Mr. Farrow wasn’t the cure for what ailed her.

He’d completed the journey around her body, and she risked prying. “What color is your hair?”

“Black.”

“And your eyes?”

“Blue.”

“As the sky?” she prodded. “As an icy lake? As the Mediterranean sea?”

He pondered, then said, “The sky.”

“May I . . . may I . . . touch your face?”

“My face? Hmm. . . .” He was silent for a lengthy interval; then he agreed. “I guess that would be all right.”

Tentatively, she rested her palm on his cheek. She massaged across bone and flesh, ridge and valley. He had striking features, and she imagined he was very handsome, which made her regret her lack of sight in a fashion she hadn’t previously. What she wouldn’t give to be able to see him! To judge for certain rather than to speculate!

She investigated the other cheek, where she was amazed to find a rough, terrible scar. She traced over it, starting at the base under his jaw and traveling up to his hairline. He was tense, apparently anticipating a comment that he was positive would be derogatory.

She wanted to laugh. Could he really presume that
she
would chastise over a little scar?

Foolish, vain man!

“What happened to you?” she inquired.

“I was in the army. I fought in Spain and Portugal.”

A wounded soldier! The information clarified much about his curt temperament.

“Does it hurt?”