Household (7 page)

“I am indeed honored,” Richard said with a touch of sarcasm he could not quite conceal.

“You are, and more than you imagine.” Sir Francis threw back his cowl and clapped his hands. “Ahriman, will you escort my Lord More to the Corridor of Delights?”

The boy who had led Richard into the room moved to his side. “If your Lordship will follow me...” he said softly.

A few minutes later, they returned to the hall, and the servant led him into another passageway. Once more Richard heard that sibilant merriment, muted giggles and beguiling feminine tones merging with the deeper voices of men—men and women together, but where? When his guide held up a candle, Richard saw doors on either side of him. Little grills were set into them, not unlike those in a prison, Richard thought with shock, but it was from them that the voices issued and, he noted, each of the rooms, or rather cells, was lighted. Again he followed the boy called Ahriman down the corridor to a door nearly at its end. Stopping in front of it, he motioned Richard to go inside.

As he entered, he heard a gasp of fright. In the dimness of this darkened chamber, Richard saw a figure huddled on a large bed. The only other furniture in the cell was a night stand on which stood a tall candelabrum. Extending his taper, the boy lit its seven candles and left the room. To Richard’s amazement and subsequent anger, he heard a frightened female voice.

“Oh, help me... help me...”

He whirled. Thanks to the illumination provided by the candles, he finally beheld the beautiful but tear-stained face of Catlin O’Neill. Compunction stirred. She must have been badly frightened, kept here in semidarkness and not knowing why she had been spirited away to this strange place. How, he wondered, could he soothe her fears and put her at her ease. Words sprang to his lips and died as on glancing down, he found that, in common with himself, she as in religious garb—a nun’s habit, complete with coif and veil though neither headdress nor gown hid her charms. Both were fashioned from a gossamer fabric and, again in common with himself, beneath that transparent material she was naked. He flushed, as inadvertently his eyes strayed to her small but perfectly shaped breasts with their rosy nipples inviting his kisses.

“Do... do not look at me,” she whispered and shrank away, pressing her body against a mound of silken pillows. He wondered why she had not reached for the coverlet and saw, then, that her hands and feet were tightly bound.

“Good God,” he exclaimed angrily. “Let me remove those ropes.”

“Do not t-touch me, F-Father...” she began and paused. “B-But you’re no priest nor monk, neither, to be in such a place. Oh, where am I and why was I forced to don this unholy garb? Please, sir, if you have any pity, help me. Get me away from here.”

Her pain and distress were, he decided, real enough. The poor little wench was unused to such unorthodox methods of seduction. He never would have agreed to such proceedings, himself, he thought crossly, beginning to loathe these psuedo-monkish trappings. They could only give rise to horror in a person who had any religious leanings, which she obviously did. Sir Francis was more of a fool than he had believed and he, Richard Veringer, was an even greater fool to have countenanced her kidnapping! If he had realized what it entailed, he most certainly would have refused to lend himself to such a scheme!

“Please, you must let me free you,” he said gently, soothingly. “Those ropes must be hurting you.”

“They are that.” She sounded a shade less frenzied. “My fingers are numb. Could you... would you help me to get away?” Her beautiful eyes were bloodshot and tears stood in them again.

His annoyance increased. The girl was so frightened, it would be a Herculean task to calm her down. He said soothingly, “Certainly, if that is what you wish, my dear.”

“What I wish?” she repeated incredulously. “Why would I not wish it?”

“Softly, softly,” he murmured, wishing she were not wearing that damned headdress. He would have liked to stroke her hair, but perhaps it was better not to make an overture yet. “Let me undo those knots,” he said.

They were more difficult to untie than he had believed; it took some little time before he could loosen them. As he struggled with the cord, his anger against Sir Francis mounted even higher. Why had he been so hard on the poor girl? Finally, the knots yielded, and he pulled the cords away. “There,” he said triumphantly.

“Oh, I do thank you,” she whispered.

He caught her hands, holding them gently. “Let me rub your wrists and bring the circulation back.”

“No.” She tried to pull away.

“Come, you needn’t be afraid of me,” he murmured. “I’d not harm you, believe me.” Taking her right hand, he pressed a kiss against the palm only to have her utter an outraged squeak and pull it back, slapping him smartly across the face with her other hand. Evidently, forgetting that her feet were still bound, she started up from the bed only to fall heavily upon the floor.

Richard knelt by her sidle. “Catlin...”

“Keep away from me!” she cried. “How dare you touch me in such a way? Oh, may the Blessed Mother protect me, for sure I’ve fallen amongst thieves and ravishers.”

He had been on the verge of anger at the untoward response of this little whore. However, on hearing her wild words, his mood changed to one of amusement. She was a clever bit o’muslin, staging a tragedy for him, by way of punishing him and at the same time doing her best to increase her worth in his eyes. While he did admire her acting ability, he was weary of waiting for her promised favors.

“Come, my dear,” he said impatiently. “I am sorry for the way you were brought here, but your servant cheated me, as you well know, and ’twas only right I should retaliate. Still, I bear you no ill will for my tumble in the muck and should have pursued you in the proper way had I not been informed that you were off to Ireland in the morning. I promise you that now we’re together, I’ll be kind to you and, as for ravishing you, I should like to know how one may steal what has already been lost?”

“Lost?” she cried furiously. “You are speaking about my... my...”

“Maidenhead, my darling. And may I compliment you upon your dramatics. I vow they’re worthy of a Clive or a Prichard.”

“Dramatics?” She regarded him with a mixture of anger and fright. “I am not acting. I am a virgin, and but for you, I’d have been in Ireland with my brother, who is... is
the
O’Neill—Mahon O’Neill, Lord of Munster, descended from the Kings of Ireland!”

“Better and better,” Richard approved, smiting his hands together in teasing applause. “And are not all the Irish descended from such dubious royalty?”

“You may laugh, curse you!” she cried. “But ’tis the truth. I am Lady Catlin O’Neill and...”

“And what is such an exalted personage doing upon our humble English boards?” Richard demanded between chuckles which were, if the truth be told, becoming rather forced. Judging from his recollections of her in
The Lover’s Stratagem
, she had been lovely, charming and beautiful to look upon, but he could have sworn she had not the ability to simulate such sincerity as she was now displaying.

Tears were rolling down her cheeks. Her whole body was wracked by sobs which certainly seemed genuine as she moaned, “My brother lost heavily at... at the tables and I... I thought I might earn the money to stake him again. And I... I did and he won back the whole of what we’d lost and more. And today I’d have been on my way back to our castle instead of being here in this horrid place amongst these devils, who make a mockery of all that’s pure and holy. You think I do not know you for what you are, but I do, and oh, may Christ and all his saints have mercy on me!” Disappointment and chagrin warred with a deep sense of shame. Richard knew she had to be telling the truth. Much as he wanted her, he could never take her under these conditions. He had to save some of the shreds of his honor. Striding to the door of the cell, he called loudly, “Let us out. I beg you’ll let us out!”

Laughter greeted his cry—laughter from the other cells—but there were also footsteps in the hall, swift footsteps that brought the young servant to stare wide-eyed through the grill.

“What do you wish, my Lord?”

“I wish to be taken to Sir Francis,” Richard told him curtly.

❖

Still in his monk’s robes, Sir Francis joined Richard in a small octagonal chamber furnished with an octagonal table flanked by eight chairs. Pushed against one wall was a long graceful sofa, carved with gryphons and unicorns and covered with his favorite green damask to match green walls, ornamented with genuine Persian miniatures. Through tall French windows, Richard could see a portion of the garden. A wind had risen and the swaying shadows of the tree branches were moon-projected upon the floor.

“Well,” Sir Francis said, eying Richard with some surprise, “you seem to be in a sad taking, my friend. Did my servant inform me correctly? Is your Catlin actually a virgin?”

“Indeed, she is, damn it,” Richard muttered resentfully. “I know truth when I hear it. She’s a virgin and a lady.”

“Both conditions are subject to change,” Sir Francis murmured.

“Not through me,” Richard snapped.

“A man of honor, I see.”

“I wish that were true,” Richard said heavily, “but I fear you’ll not get her to agree. I acted impulsively, foolishly. I thought... but no matter. I pray you’ll send her home.”

“If that is you wish...”

“It is what she wishes,” Richard stressed.

“Very well. I’ll have her removed from the... Corridor of Delights. As a virgin, I am sure she’s of no mind to be stimulated by what she hears.” Moving to a silken tassel hanging on the wall near the door, Sir Francis pulled it twice. In a few seconds, the boy returned. “Bring me Miss O’Neill,” Sir Francis ordered.

In a short time, Catlin came in. Evidently, she had been weeping bitterly, and though she was now making an effort to subdue her sobs, she was not successful. Her face was suffused with blushes, and she clutched her transparent robe about her with hands and arms employed to hide as much as possible.

“Obviously, a virgin,” Sir Francis commented. He gave her a reassuring smile. “My dear child, a great effort has been made and I, a party to it. My sincere apologies. I pray you’ll sit down.” He waved at the sofa. “You see there are pillows. I beg you’ll make use of ’em until I send for your garments.”

She nodded miserably, and sitting down, she clutched the proffered protections tight against her, looking at neither man and keeping her shamed gaze seemingly upon a bouquet of golden flowers embroidered on a green satin pillow.

Moving swiftly to a decanter standing on a side table, Sir Francis poured wine into three goblets, handing one to Catlin, who shook her head, evidently still unable to speak for the sobs that wracked her slender body.

“Come,” Sir Francis said softly. “’Twill calm your nerves, and you need not fear it. I, too, am drinking from that same bottle, and I hope Richard will join us. Poor lady, as you can see he’s much cast down for sure. As I think you must agree, virgins are at a premium upon our English stages.” Sir Francis held out the third goblet. “Richard?”

Richard accepted the drink. “I thank you,” he responded dully, wishing he could throw that same wine in his host’s smiling face, but that would serve neither himself nor poor Catlin O’Neill, whom he belatedly recognized as one he would be proud to have as his wife. Unfortunately, in lending himself to this scheme, he had lost her forever!

“To Ireland and its green hills! You must drink to that, my poor child,” Sir Francis addressed Catlin. “Twill make you feel more the thing.” Taking a sip from his own glass, he added, “I, at least, will drink to Eire. And will not you, Richard?”

“I will.” Richard sipped his wine, thinking it tasted more pungent than before and finding it more to his liking. Catlin, he noticed, had stooped weeping and was watching them narrowly. She was still suspicious, not that he blamed her, he thought resignedly.

“You’ll not drink to Ireland?” Sir Francis visited a gentle smile upon Catlin. “And to your safe journey back to its shores?”

“I... I will drink to that,” she said on a note of relief. “You will take me home?”

“You’ll leave by dawning. My own yacht will bear you back to Ireland. You have my word on it.”

Catlin visibly relaxed. She took a sip of the wine. “’Tis delicious,” she admitted almost reluctantly and took another.

“From Italy’s finest vineyard,” Sir Francis repeated, moving toward the door. “I’ll see why they’ve not brought your gown, my dear. Also I must make plans for your departure.”

Catlin sipped her wine. “I wish I might go now.”

“Alas, ’tis not possible... the roads at night. I’d not send my worst enemy out upon ’em. Never fear. You’ll be waked in good time.” With a bow, he left, closing the door softly behind him.

An uncomfortable silence fell. Richard could not bring himself to look at the girl he had wronged so grievously. And she, he knew, must be hating him. He drained his glass and summoning his courage looked at Catlin, finding to his surprise that she was clutching an empty goblet. She stared back at him, and it seemed to Richard that there was much less animosity in her attitude. He said tentatively, “I hope you are feeling better?”

“I am that,” she murmured with a slight smile, eyeing him. Could it be appreciatively? Richard wondered with some amazement and decided he must be three-parts drunk if he thought that.

“Should... should you care for another glass of wine?” he asked hesitantly.

“I think I should.” She nodded. “’Twas mighty calming.”

Richard rose immediately. For a moment, the room spun about him, which annoyed him. Generally he had a hard head, but he had not supped since early afternoon, he remembered. He walked carefully across the room and brought the decanter to a table near the sofa. Setting it down, he poured a full goblet for Catlin and one for himself.

“I hope that’s not too much,” he said, sitting down gingerly at the far end of the sofa and half expecting her to either order him away or jump to her feet. She did neither. She merely took the glass and tilted it to her lips, not sipping it this time but drinking deeply, something Richard, himself, was quite unable to keep from doing. They finished at the same time, setting down their goblets in unison, their laughter also mingling.