The Wyndham Legacy (21 page)

She realized that his hatred of her father wasn't close to the rage that consumed her now, this fine rage that was making her mind cold and hard and so very clear. She stoked it with memories from her childhood and more recent memories of his humiliating treatment of her.

She even smiled as she looked around the tack room, smiled even as she felt the rage turning inside her to something more forthright, something pure and cold as ice, something really quite vicious. If she'd had a gun, she would have shot him. She grabbed a riding crop from the desk, raised it high and ran at him, yelling in a wonderfully demented voice, “You damned bastard! You think I will remain silent and allow you to humiliate me? You think you can treat me as you would a person of no account at all? I hate you, do you hear me, Marcus, you bloody damned bastard! Never will you abuse me again and take it as your right, your privilege, never again!”

She struck his chest and shoulder with the riding crop. For an instant he didn't move, just stared at her, unwilling to believe what he'd just heard from her mouth or the pain from her slashing riding crop. He simply couldn't connect this virago, this frenzied creature, to the Duchess, to the female he'd known for ten years.

She was panting hard, as if she'd been running until she was ready to vomit with the strain, panting and heaving. “You want me to act the seductress? Prance in front you as if you're my master, my owner? You're a filthy bastard!” She struck him again and he felt his riding jacket split open, felt the lash cut through his lawn shirt to his flesh beneath.

He roared and jumped up. “Enough, damn you! What the hell is wrong with you? Just a moment ago you were as placid as a stupid cow, sitting there silently as you always do, obeying me, quoting Badger's menu to me, for God's sake. Nothing on your mind save what you deemed appropriate and proper.”

“Don't you dare call me a stupid cow, you fool!” She struck him again. He lunged for her, but she jumped back just beyond his reach, hitting out at him again, missing this time, but if she had connected, it would have slashed through his flesh.

He stopped cold in his tracks. He couldn't believe what was happening. The proof was in the pain of the two slashes she managed, but still . . . He said, his voice colder and harder than what he'd used to get his men into battle, “You won't strike me again, Duchess, not again. I will make you regret striking me at all.”

“You try it and I'll gullet you, you stupid, ungrateful sod. God, to think that I saved you, that I felt that I owed you your heritage. You don't deserve anything, Marcus, save a beating that will bring you to your knees, humiliation, in short, God, that's what you deserve, that's what you need!”

She threw the crop at him, grabbed up a bridle and began swinging it at him with all her strength. She felt the instant the metal bit struck his flesh, felt the iron bit strike his skull, and it was clean that blow, clean and pure and he deserved it. She watched him weave where he stood, his hand on the side of his head, and he stood there just staring at her utterly disbelieving, then he dropped like a stone to his knees, then
keeled over onto his side, quite unconscious.

She was panting hard, feeling stronger than the mightiest Amazon of legend. She gently laid down the bridle, went down on her knees and felt his heart. The beat was steady. He would be fine, the damnable bastard. God, she hoped he would have a headache to rival the worst bellyache she'd ever suffered.

She rose, smoothed down her chemise once more, then quite calmly, dressed herself. She gave him one last look, smiling at the two rents in his clothes from the riding crop and left the tack room, quietly closing the door behind her.

It was raining, the afternoon prematurely dark, the wind blowing hard, the branches of the maple and lime trees tearing at themselves. “It is like Beltane night the monk wrote about,” she said aloud, then laughed, throwing her head back and letting the rain wash over her face and hair. She felt wonderful. She felt strong. She felt whole.

T
HE
G
REEN
C
UBE
Room was cozy with its fire blazing and the heavy draperies drawn across the windows. It was late afternoon and she was alone. This time, it felt quite good to be alone. She spared only a passing thought for Marcus. If he was conscious, then what was he doing? What was he thinking? Perhaps he was staggering back to the house even now. Perhaps she should go and meet him. No, if she did, she'd laugh in his face. Instead, she smiled into the flames, feeling herself grow as warm on the inside as on the outside.

“Hello, Duchess. You're alone. May I speak to you?”

She turned slowly and looked at Trevor. How very handsome he was, she thought, and not at all a fool or an idiot like her husband. “Do come in,” she said.

He stopped beside her chair, then moved to stand beside the fireplace, leaning his shoulder against the mantel. “You know, Duchess, you can speak to me. I also know that I'm more a stranger to you than not, but then again, strangers aren't bad sorts sometimes. They can be trusted. They can be discreet. Something bothers you.”

“There is nothing wrong with me,” she said. “At least not anymore there isn't. Why would you possibly think that?”

“Your stillness,” he said slowly. “When you become silent as a stone and as unmoving as that beautiful painting over the mantel, I know that you are distressed.”

To his surprise, she laughed. “Actually you're very observant, Trevor, but my stillness now, well, it's not the kind of stillness it was yesterday or even this morning or
even two hours ago. Now it is just simple stillness because, frankly, I'm tired. So, believe me, sir, there is nothing at all wrong with me now, nothing at all.”

“You're right,” he said slowly. “Something has changed, you're different somehow. I was thinking when I saw you sitting there, so still, so quiet, that Marcus has known you since you were a child, yet he never realized your quiet pose was just that, a pose, a shield you'd fashioned over the years to protect yourself from hurt. He sees it as arrogance, as your way of playing the queen and keeping the peasants at their distance. It enrages him, you know.”

“You are more than observant, you're frightening. As you said, something has happened, and that girl you just described has thankfully fallen behind the wainscoting. She no longer exists. If I am silent now, or overly quiet, it is because it is what I feel like being. God, life can be quite satisfying, can it not? I will see you at dinner, Trevor.”

The Duchess rose from her winged chair and walked from the room, whistling one of the military ditties she'd heard Spears singing. He could but stare. What had happened? He wondered where the hell Marcus was.

“What were you speaking to that little trollop about, Trevor?”

He raised his eyes to his mother's face as she walked briskly into the room. “She isn't a trollop. She's the countess of Chase. She is a lady and she has a kindness I've never before seen in another person.” He paused a moment at his mother's loud
hrmmph,
then added, “Indeed, if you don't find some conciliatory remark to flit out of your mouth, it's possible that she will simply order us out of here.”

“She wouldn't dare. She's a bastard and the earl doesn't even like her. She has no power here. She is nothing. Besides the earl finds me quite to his liking.”

Trevor could only stare at his fond parent. She was actually patting the tight sausage curls over her left ear. He sighed, saying, “I assure you that Marcus is quite fond
of the Duchess.” He wished he could add that Marcus's fondness had quite likely extended itself to very physical demonstrations a short time ago, but he held his tongue. If Marcus had done the job even adequately, why was there such a transformation in her now? There was an unleashed power in her that she couldn't hide. It was controlled, but now it would be loosed when she chose. He found it fascinating. But what had happened to bring about this change in her? Surely Marcus couldn't have bungled his lovemaking all that badly. Maybe, he thought, just maybe it was that Marcus hadn't bungled anything. Maybe she was a pleasured woman and that had made all the difference in her, for her.

Trevor eyed his mother. He realized that he didn't know his mother all that well. Since his eighteenth year, he'd not lived at his parents' home in Baltimore. He'd made his home in Washington. Indeed, he'd fought like the devil himself when the British had landed and stormed the capital. He'd turned twenty-two during those blood-soaked weary days, then when it was all over, he'd gone back to Baltimore and married the richest most beautiful girl Baltimorean society had to offer a hungry young man. Her name was Helen and she was more lovely than her legendary namesake. He saw her in his mind's eye—dead, lying there on her back, her eyes open, her flesh like gray wax.

“I'm going to be twenty-five next Tuesday,” he said to no one in particular.

“I thought you were only twenty-three, Trevor. Mayhap twenty-two.”

“No, Mother.”

“I have told my friends that you are younger.”

He grinned, realizing that his age made her too ancient and she suffered for it. “I won't tell anyone back home,” he said. “Now, have you seen James?”

“He's off somewhere, doubtless by himself. The boy is driving me quite distracted. He is silent. He is withdrawn. I wish he would do something.”

Actually, Trevor knew the source of his younger brother's discontent. He'd finally spilled the beans to his older brother. It seems he'd fallen in love only three days before they'd sailed to England. He missed Miss Mullens and blamed his family for forcing him to leave her.

“I will speak to him, Mother.”

“Good. Now, tell me again everything Mr. Burgess told you. Then I will formulate a plan. I will get the treasure away from here, you'll see, and none of them will be the wiser. Oh why, Trevor, did you tell the two of them about the treasure? You're an unnatural son. But I will win, you will see, my son who is too old, surely, I will win.”

 

The Duchess sat by her window, staring down on the drive. There was nothing to see, for the storm had blackened the summer sky and bloated black clouds hung low overhead. It still drizzled. She thought it a beautiful sight. She shivered with the beauty of it. She looked up when the adjoining door opened and Marcus strode into her room, all healthy and big and looking like a lord, which, of course, he was. She'd wondered where he'd been, if he had a splitting headache, if he'd been on his face, moaning with the pain she'd brought down on his head. Goodness, that made her smile, and she did now, watching him come forward, wondering what he would do. Would he scream at her? No, Marcus didn't scream, he bellowed, he roared.

She couldn't wait. Never again would she let him reduce her to a silent mass of nothing at all. Perhaps he'd brought a pistol with him and he would shoot her. She waited now to see what he would do, excited, her eyes narrowed, her pulse quickening. She would fetch a gun. She still wanted to shoot him, in his right arm.

It was as if he knew what she was thinking. “No,” he said easily, “my head only hurts in a dull sort of way, lucky for you, madam. I woke up and lay there on the tack-room floor for a few moments, just thinking about what you'd done. Now, it is time for dinner. You look quite adequate.
The gown is still too revealing, but it is better than the other one.”

“Thank you,” she said, and looked away from him, back out onto the drive. “I don't suppose you puked up your guts. I hoped you'd have a headache and a goodly dose of nausea from that blow I struck you. Did I manage to slash through your clothing to your flesh, Marcus? Did I mark you? A nice angry welt perhaps? I wanted to mark you, very badly.”

He thought of the two welts she'd struck him with that riding crop and said, “You're wearing no jewelry. There is the Wyndham collection, you know. I have no idea of the individual pieces in it, but it's bound to be something spectacular. I will have them fetched from the safe in the estate room. You may select what you wish.”

“Thank you, Marcus. Not even a single red slash mark on your strong man's flesh? I'm disappointed. I must become stronger. I do want to mark you. I want to mark you forever and whenever you see that mark, you'll know I was the one who did it and perhaps you'll even remember the pain of it.” She rose and shook out her skirts.

“I don't want your bloody jewelry.” Evidently he wasn't going to speak of what had happened in the tack room. He walked to her now, stopping within inches from her face. He cupped her chin in his palm and forced her to look up at him. “The Wyndham jewelry is also yours. If you don't want your jewelry, I really don't care.” He looked down at her silently now, brooding, then said, “I will never think of the tack room in quite the same way again. I will picture you lying on your back, your hands caressing me, drawing me closer, your legs parted for me. I will see your head thrown back, arched up, moaning and crying out.”

She merely smiled, cocking her head to one side, a coquettish cocking, she hoped as she said, “It is probably in my blood, my harlot's blood. Perhaps it would be the same with any man. Perhaps I did you a great disservice by forcing you to marry me. Who knows? Perhaps if another
man touches me, I will immediately toss up my skirts and moan for him as well. I am sorry that is all you remember from that encounter. I would prefer that you remember pain, Marcus, a lot of pain. A bit of humiliation as well. Bested by a woman. I do hope it grates and rubs.”

“Don't try to bait me, Duchess. Now, I haven't forgotten what happened after you turned into a wild woman for me. You took offense at nothing at all, struck me with that riding crop, then knocked me out with that damned bridle. Yes, I felt pain from your unprovoked attack. I simply haven't yet decided what you deserve in return.”

“Doubtless I will be the first to know, once you've made up your mind.” She smiled at him again, a full, wide, white-toothed smile. “I will do it again when you behave like a damnable bastard. Don't think I won't. No more will I be a placid cow. You try to hurt me in return and I swear to you, Marcus, that I will make you very, very sorry. Believe me.”

He whistled. “So, the serene, silent princess is no more. What has been spawned in her place?”

“Most certainly you will see, being who and what you are.”

He stared at her, and she would have sworn that there was a flame of interest, no, more than interest, it was puzzlement and it was fascination. The damned man, what did he want from her? He said now, obviously dismissing her and what she might be, “What did you do with the sketches of the drawings in the monk's book?”

So be it. She'd meant it. No more would she simply take the verbal pain he piled on her head. No more. She actually felt quite good at this moment. She fetched them from the marquetry table drawer and gave them to him, smiling all the while. He smoothed them out and stared silently down at them. “This scene in the village square. If I'm not mistaken, it's Kirby Malham. See the stone cottages in the background and that little hump-backed bridge across the water? That could be the River Aire.”

“What is its importance? Why is the priest blessing the people?”

“I don't know. I am certain that this sketch is of Saint Swale's Abbey, no doubt about that. And Mr. Burgess—our interesting relative—also thinks so. I believe I'll explore the ruins tomorrow. I haven't been near them in years. Like you and the Twins, Charlie, Mark, and I would sport in those small monks' cells, contriving all sorts of vile tortures.”

“I believe Trevor plans to visit them tomorrow, when it stops raining. Both he and James.”

“Damned bounder. He knew, damn him, he knew that I wanted you right at that moment, and if it hadn't been raining buckets, he would have gone about his treasure hunting without me.”

“He knows that if there is a treasure, it will belong to you, Marcus.”

“He is, I am forced to admit, a gentleman, mayhap even honorable, in the way of the stiff-necked Colonists. But his name still irritates.”

Marcus laid down the sketches, turned, and took her in his arms. He leaned down and kissed her, his fingers tightening on her chin to hold her still. She didn't move, not because she was silent and serene and calm, but because she wanted to see what he would do. He misunderstood her, not a surprise for he was a man and used to seeing her only one way for a good ten years. He raised his head and laughed. “All calm again, silent as that candle, though you're showing no flame and I did just kiss you. Tell me, Duchess, was your virago's temper an act? I'm tempted to insult you into another rage just to see what you will do. Right now you play the frigid virgin, or is it the disdainful queen? But if I had but a few more minutes with you—” He sighed and stepped back. “There's no time for me to do a proper job with you now. Ah, there's that smile of yours, that damnable mocking smile. But know it, Duchess, if I had the time and if, naturally, I was in the proper mood, I would have you yelling and bucking within
minutes. However, it's time to face our Colonial relatives again. You said that Badger was preparing mutton?”

“Yes, with apricots. And you hold a quite high opinion of your seductive skills, Marcus. Don't forget—” She actually laughed, a low very seductive laugh. “I am my mother's daughter. You're just one man, perhaps not all that skilled with women, I am too inexperienced to judge properly. It's true that my body seems to respond perhaps too much to you, but there it is. There's a world full of men, charming men, handsome men, skilled men, who just might find me utterly delightful. Perhaps one of them will give me a child. Who knows? Oh, yes, Badger didn't have time to hash the mutton. No, he didn't.”