Linda Barlow (42 page)

The ugly dungeon-master had, in the interim, restrained Alan. He was now allowing the other two thugs to batter him until they recovered their pride.

"Oh, for God's sake," Alexandra whispered. "Make them stop."

"As passionate, if not as effective as his brother," said Geoffrey. He issued an order, and the beating was reluctantly discontinued. "He's fond of you, isn't he? He was terrified when we brought him in here, but it hasn't stopped him from trying to defend you." He was staring speculatively at Alan, who lay curled on his side on the floor, his nose bleeding and his eyes beginning to darken and swell. Alexandra struggled with Geoffrey, trying to go to Alan, but she made no headway whatsoever. He was not much taller than she, but he knew tricks she had not been taught, and he controlled her easily.

"It's fortunate we picked him up tonight. That wasn't part of the plan," Geoffrey went on. "But the boy knows even more, I'll wager, about the mysterious goings-on in that house than you do." As he spoke, he forced her over to the rack and down. She fought gamely but uselessly. His strength beneath the crimson satin attire was astonishing. Panting with helpless rage, she felt her body stretched out and fixed into immobility as her enemy quickly and efficiently shackled her wrists and ankles to the hideous machine.

Oh God, she prayed silently. Give me courage.

At Geoffrey's order, Alan was dragged to her side and held on his knees only a few inches from her trembling body. The dungeon-master went to the wheel and took up the slack.

"You’re bluffing, monsieur. You wouldn't dare injure me. And I'm not so fainthearted that I'll offer to tell you anything because of the threat of torture."

"I would never underestimate your spirit so much as to make a threat I did not intend to carry out. Still, there is no need to continue this unpleasantness if you agree to be sensible and tell me willingly now what you will otherwise soon be pleading to confess."

"No."

"Alix?" Alan had come to his senses and was beginning to struggle. The other thugs held him motionless, twisting one of his arms up behind him until the bone threatened to snap. "Don't do this to her. Please. Let me take her place."

"Such devotion," Geoffrey laughed. He bent over Alexandra, smiling maliciously. "On second thought, you needn't tell us a thing, cherie. It's the lovelorn young man who is going to do the talking. But do feel free to scream as much as you like. The walls are thick." He nodded to the man at the wheel of the rack.

"Don't listen to him, Alan. He's bluffing. Don't tell them anything, no matter what they do. He wouldn't dare hurt me, but even if he did—" Her voice broke as something clicked and something hurt very much indeed. She closed her eyes, unable to face the agony in Alan's eyes. What had Merwynna taught her? Pain is an illusion. You have a physical body, but you are not your physical body. Your spirit is free. There is no pain.

She heard another metallic click as more tension was applied to the ropes attached to her wrists and ankles. Fire ripped through her hips and shoulders. The wheel was turned again. She could feel cold tears on her cheeks, and she thought she might be screaming. Alan mumbled something to Geoffrey. "No, Alan," Alexandra whispered. "No!" she cried over and over again.

* * *

Alexandra awoke from a short sleep of despair and exhaustion in a comfortable bed with embroidered sheets. The scent of perfume sickened her. She opened her eyes upon the features of Geoffrey de Montreau, clad in an ornately brocaded dressing gown, sitting beside her on the bed.

"I wouldn't try to move if I were you. It will hurt."

She resisted an urge to lift the sheet and check to see if her legs were still attached to her body. They were, she decided, wriggling her toes. Her arms were aching, but operative. "In sooth, I thought it would hurt more."

"I've given you a touch of poppy juice to dull the pain."

"How kind." She considered him. His expression was pleasant, friendly even. But at the top of the dressing gown, where it fell open slightly, she could see the naked skin of his chest. It was white and almost hairless. She took a breath. "I forget. Did you rape me while I was screaming down there or did you decide it would be more aesthetic to do it in comfort?"

"When I rape you, you will remember."

She couldn't restrain a shudder. She felt cold. And she was naked under the sheets. She told herself not to react, and most of all, not to show any fear. "What have you done with Alan?"

"He is alive, if that’s what you’re wondering. He and his extremely interesting confession are quite safe. You were fortunate. He broke easily. You are not seriously injured. You didn't really need the drug. You'll be stiff for a day or two, that is all."

"How dull for you. I could see you were hoping to tear me limb from limb."

"On the contrary, violence sickens me. And I doubt whether a dislocated hip or shoulder would improve your dancing."

Absurdly, this comment made her laugh—a subdued and bitter laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

"Do you know that in spite of myself, I am beginning to like you? What on earth have you got to laugh about?"

"I don't know. The fact that I'm still alive?"

"How ill-suited you and Roger are. I often think that the fact that he's still alive only depresses him."

"Then you'll be doing him a favor, won't you? If you really knew anything about revenge, you'd let him follow his own path to destruction." She shot him a look to see if there was any chance he would take her advice, and found him raising speculative eyebrows at her.

"There was one thing Alan didn't tell us. I must confess I am inordinately curious about it. Did he take you to bed this afternoon? Has he ever taken you to bed?"

"Are you referring to Alan or to Roger? Or to Francis Lacklin, for that matter? I'm afraid I get my various bed partners a trifle confused."

He touched her face with one soft hand, allowing his fingers to trail across her cheek. "You're a virgin, aren't you?" he said, pursing his lips. There was an unaccustomed huskiness to his voice that betrayed his enjoyment of the situation.

"A state I have long considered tiresome. If you're hoping for maidenly squeamishness, monsieur, you'll be disappointed." She yawned elaborately. "I might even sleep through it."

He smiled. "I do like you, Alexandra. You're so determinedly brave and loyal, it almost makes me regret what I've had to do to you. We were fortunate tonight, I think, to capture Trevor’s young brother. His resolution is not as strong as yours. We would have had to tear you limb from limb, I suspect, before you'd have told us anything."

Alexandra's bravery seemed to desert her. Her eyes shuttered out the sight of his face, so close to hers. "Don't do this, monsieur."

"Calm yourself, cherie." His voice was tender, his breath gentle against her scalp. One of his slender fingers traced the surface of her lips, arousing nothing but disgust inside her. "I do have some sensibilities. I will be gentle with you."

Her eyes snapped open. "I ask mercy for Roger, not myself. Think, monsieur. Vengeance is never as satisfying as one imagines it will be. Besides, he has grieved for your sister, suffered for her. You are a fool if you cannot see this."

"You love him."

"Yes." Her tone was proud.

"So did I once," Geoffrey said dispassionately. "He inspires devotion from both men and women to a surprising degree. I've never been able to understand why. But sometimes it turns to hatred, and I am not the first this has happened to. Wait until he turns on you, and you will see. Wait until you feel the lash of the fiery scorpion's tail."

"You're not giving me that opportunity are you? You're killing him."

Geoffrey began to look impatient. His hand moved down to her shoulder, one thumb lightly caressing the curve of her throat. His eyes were alight now with lust and anticipation. She stiffened as his lips touched her ear. His teeth tugged gently on the lobe. "Forget about him now, cherie. What's done is done, but not everything that happens this evening need be unpleasant. Relax. There are many arts of pleasing women, and I know them all."

She jerked her head away. "I spit on your arts!" she declared, and did so.

Geoffrey pulled a handkerchief from a pocket in his dressing gown and fastidiously wiped his face. His breathing had accelerated and his blond-lashed eyes had narrowed in anger. "Unlike your precious Roger, I am not usually rough with women, but I will do what is necessary, mademoiselle, to take you."

"You don't want me. There has never been so much as a spark between us. As for your oh-so-gentle escapades with other women, I'm astonished to hear of them since I supposed it was only your own sex you were attracted to. Why is it you really hate Roger? Did he reject your advances?"

For an instant she thought he would strike her, but he did not. Instead he put his hands in her hair and forced her head back upon the pillow. "You will regret that remark, mademoiselle. As Roger took my young sister, so shall I take you. And before he dies, I shall be sure to tell him all about it. Every intimate detail."

Dear God! She made one last appeal: "Spare him, and I will be your willing mistress for as long as you desire me. I am inexperienced, it's true, but I have been instructed in these arts you speak of." She paused, then craftily added, "By a witch."

Geoffrey slipped off his dressing gown as he casually made the sign against evil. "A noble offer—one that Roger certainly does not deserve—but I must refuse."

"Persist, and I will use spells the wisewoman taught me to put a curse on your manhood that will prevent you from ever threatening a woman again."

Geoffrey laughed and threw back the bedclothes. He slid in beside her. She felt one of his hands slither between their bodies, seeking her breasts. Her stomach twisted with nausea. "Merwynna," she screamed silently. "Help me."

Chapter 23

In the small hours of the night, Alexandra lay shivering in the perfumed sheets where Geoffrey de Montreau had left her. She had ordered herself not to cry, not to waste one tear, one sigh in pointless self-pity, and so far she had succeeded. She couldn't, wouldn't think about herself. Roger was in danger. Nothing mattered but that.

Geoffrey had gone to the riverside to intercept the transfer of the hapless heretics to the Argo. Gone with troops to arrest Roger. For that, she had herself to blame. It would never have happened if she hadn't been so foolish as to tumble into the Frenchman's cleverly baited trap. He had taken her measure far too well during their meetings at court. When he had told her that the Queen’s near dunking had been deliberate, he must have counted on her rushing out to question Roger. He must have followed her. Once he had proof that she had gone to Whitcombe House, it would have been a simple matter to arrange for the ambush. He couldn’t have touched her at court, but out in the streets of London after dark she had been an easy target.

She had been gulled, and now Roger and the people he was trying to help would pay for her mistake. And Alan. Not to mention her groom and Roger’s man-at-arms, who had been struck down in the streets and might well be dead.

Fool! Idiot!

Get your wits together, she berated herself. What's done is done. Fears and recriminations will do nobody any good now. Where's all this blasted courage you supposedly possess? All this stoutheartedness and backbone?

To her dismay, she only trembled harder, as if her limbs were possessed by some strange nervous palsy. Rolling over onto her stomach, she punched her pillow until its feathers flattened. Furiously she indulged in ugly images of Geoffrey and of the things she'd like to do to him. Racking would be only the beginning, she thought viciously. Someday, she swore to herself, she would destroy him for this.

Feeling remarkably better, she stepped out of bed and dressed in the clothes that were draped over a stool in the corner, the simple burgher woman's gown she had worn earlier. The muscles in her shoulders and legs felt sore, but not unbearably so. So this was what it was like to be tortured. She shuddered. She could have held out longer, she believed, if Alan hadn't broken down and told Geoffrey everything he wanted to know. But probably not very much longer.

Poor Alan. He would suffer in his soul for this. He had been forced to make a monstrous choice, and although Alexandra would have been willing to face anything to save Roger's life, she knew that if Geoffrey had ordered Alan racked in front of her, she probably would have broken too.