Love's Savage Bonds (3 page)

"All right, then," his dark
eyes raked her disheveled appearance. "By God, if I can't get at anything
else, I can at least take one of his treasures with me."  Without
another word, he reached down, wrapped an arm about Catherine's waist, and
threw her bodily over his left shoulder!

The ease with which he did it was
terrifying—she might have been no more than a bundle of rags. Her unbound hair
trailed down behind him, and the wild kicking of her bare feet seemed almost
distressingly comical under the circumstances; his strong hand kept her firmly
in place on his shoulder.

As he made his way toward the door, he
seemed to be taken by a thought; he paused to glance down at the desk, his eye
coming to rest on the sliver snuff box and the jewel-encrusted knife that
Philip used to open his letters. With a move of his free hand, he swept the
trinkets into the pocket of his muddy brown greatcoat.

Ducking down the main hallway before
anyone had responded to the sounds, Charles raced from the house, the
madly-flailing Catherine over his shoulder, raging uselessly into her gag. The
bound girl tried to look about her, to see if rescue might be at hand, but the
profusion of her long, dark hair fell about her face, trailing near to the
ground, as she hung over his shoulder.

In the dimness, a huge shape rose up: a
horse, so black as to be near-invisible in the dark, and one of the biggest
that Catherine had seen—seventeen hands if he was an inch. The animal had been
standing as still and silent as the night itself, but at the approach of its
master, it seemed almost to come to attention, preparing itself for the ride
ahead.

Catherine felt herself lifted off her
captor’s shoulder, and flung, face-first, down onto the horse's back. Charles
then produced some sort of cord with which he deftly fastened her ankles
together, then threw himself up into the saddle behind her.  One hand
rested on her back as the other chucked the reins, and at a barked command, the
steed took off at a gallop.

Catherine flinched at the sudden
movement, terrified of falling, trussed as she was, but Charles Redmond’s
powerful legs guided the beast with an expert’s control, and his hand on her
back ensured that she stayed firmly in place.  The tang of sweat and old
leather filled her nostrils. She twisted to try and look back, fearful that she
would be taking her last look at her home, but again her sable tresses flew
into her eyes, obscuring her vision. Thinking it pointless to strain her neck
muscles if she couldn't see, she lowered her head, in terrified defeat, as the
horse thundered on into the night, bearing away its rider and his helplessly
bound and gagged prize.

The pounding of the horse's hooves
seemed to send the very power of the earth coursing through her. The raw smells
in the damp night air... the sharp tangy odor of the sweating, muscular
haunches that her face was pressed against... it was utterly primal. Catherine
could think of it no other way to describe it: she had been taken from her
civilized life, and plunged headlong into the “natural” world of which the
poets wrote so easily and rhapsodically— but they did their writing while
sitting in drawing rooms, not lying tied and gagged across the back of a
steaming black  horse. Nature, red in tooth and claw indeed...

She gnawed on those thoughts as her
mouth sought release from the stifling gag. Even if she were free to speak,
she’d not have risked her abductor’s wrath for the slight chance that she might
be heard by some potential rescuer, but shedding any discomfort at all would be
a blessing. Since returning from India, her skin had softened to the point that
the cord was chafing her wrists and ankles miserably, and no amount of bravado
would allow her to forget her peril.

Was this what the ancient Celts had
done?
she wondered as she bounced
madly, sprawled across the great leather saddle. 
Seized the women they
desired, and carried them off...
She tried to picture how she must look: slung
across the horse’s back, trussed like the Christmas goose, muzzled like the
family dog... wondering what Charles Redmond was making of the appearance of
his captive…

What is the matter with you!?!
 Catherine scolded herself.
My
“appearance”? You're not being “carried off” as someone's bride-- you're being
kidnapped by a man who, by all accounts, is extremely dangerous! A man who has
a grudge against your husband...
a grudge, she realized, that he might
choose to settle in some unspeakable manner, sending more shudders through her
helplessly bound  form.
Remember, you’re Lady Catherine Redmond… and…
and…

A particularly violent change of
direction slapped her face against the horse’s flanks, and she sagged, no
longer able to buoy herself with that thought.

There is no more Lady Catherine,
she found herself despairing.
Such fancies
were for civilized drawing rooms. Here, in the wild and the dark, nothing
existed but muscle and sweat, impulse and desire… man and woman.

**********

After what felt like hours, the horse
came to a stop in front of what appeared in the darkness to be a small cottage.

Once he had dismounted, Charles Redmond
reached up to lift his prisoner from the horse's back; though his huge hand had
been all that kept Catherine in place during their ride, she'd not been foolish
enough to attempt to escape by rolling off the horse, bound as she was: no
amount of bravery would protect her from a fall off the huge beast.

Once more, he heaved her trussed form
upon his shoulder, and the exhausted and frightened girl was dizzied as she
fell across his back, her long, dark hair streaming down behind him. Catherine
was acutely aware of the position of her buttocks over his shoulder... and of
the gentle pressure from his hand, as he held her in place— it was more than
blood rushing to her head that was bringing a flush to her face now.

He threw open the door to the small
cottage, carrying her inside.

As best she could make out, upside down
and with the dark curtain of her hair obscuring her vision, it was the sort of
small shack that a gamekeeper or attendant might have maintained, with only the
barest of furnishings.

Charles Redmond gave an easy shrug of
his powerful shoulders, and Catherine felt herself thrown down onto a rough
bed, which was placed up against the far wall. She landed on her back, and did
her best to scramble up to a sitting position, trying not to put too much
weight on her bound arms; the strain in her shoulders had begun to pass from
unbearable to paralytic. Nevertheless, she would show this ruffian that she was
not cowed.

She glared up at him, sitting as
erectly as she was able, tossing her head, shaking the disarranged locks out of
her face, determined to hide the fear in her eyes.

Dim light made its way through the
windows, and Charles Redmond was a huge, dark shape, framed in the moonlight,
standing over her. He stepped closer, and the cold light slashed across the
side of his pale face.

Charles' eyes were wide, now, and
Catherine realized that this was probably the first time he'd had a chance to
get a good look at her, since first seeing her in the dim candlelight of the
study.

“My God...” he breathed the words, as
if to himself. He reached out his right hand, and let its fingers caress her
wind-whipped hair. Catherine shuddered, quaking with fear. Fear and...
something else? For an instant the picture flashed into her brain of those
strong fingers of his ceasing their light stroking, and instead locking in her silky
tresses, gripping her with such force... she shook her head, as if to throw off
both his touch and her own disturbing thoughts.

The fingers left off stroking her
hair... and she saw his eyes drop to where her chest heaved for breath under
what remained of her nightdress. His eyes took on an expression as though the
treasure he'd sought was never in her husband's study at all— but was right
here, now, in his grasp.

His hand now moved to her chest... and
his fingers undid the top button!

An enraged scream emerged from beneath
the cloth binding Catherine's mouth, but Charles Redmond seemed not to notice.
She squirmed as well as she was able, but her bound arms soon made contact with
the wall behind her, leaving her nowhere to go to escape her captor's
intentions.

Catherine now began to whimper behind
her gag, as Charles moved his hand to the next button.  Her arms strained
as she pulled at her bonds…

And if my hands were free… what
then?
She tried to imagine herself
clawing at his eyes like an animal... but somehow, she couldn't quite see that
picture. The only picture that would come consisted of Catherine's naked body
writhing beneath large, strong hands that played her like a fine violin.

And, in fact, his hands hadn't ceased,
and Catherine could hear his breath quickening at the sight of his exquisite
prize, a quickening that matched the gasps coming from beneath her gag.

She closed her eyes, gritting her
teeth. He would do what he would with her, that was clear. And she, helplessly
bound, had no choice, did she?  No choice but to give her body over, to
submit to...

“
Damnation!
”

Catherine’s eyes snapped open at the
sound of the curse; she blinked back tears, fully expecting to see him towering
before her, exposed and rampant.

 Instead, he was standing several
feet back from her, staring down at where she lay captive, glaring blackly… but
still fully clothed.

“By God, that's what he'd have led you
to expect, isn't it?” He was breathing heavily, as though mastering himself had
been a form of physical exertion, and slowly came to stand over her again. “No
doubt my brother has told you what a monster I am. No doubt you'd expect such a
man to take low advantage of his helpless prey.” His face was now inches from hers,
intensity radiating off it like sunburn.

Catherine was sure she should choke
beneath her gag as she tried to get breath through the stifling cloth. The
fierce visage before her far eclipsed in raw emotion anything that her husband
had ever demonstrated.

“Damn you, stop looking at me!”
Charles' voice was hoarse as he reached to his throat, and pulled away the
white cravat; it appeared to be somewhat worn, but clearly of the finest silk,
and he held it before her face.

Catherine managed a horrified shriek
into her gag, picturing the silk wrapped about her own throat, slowly
constricting it. Instead, as she flinched, Charles lifted it to her face,
passing it over her eyes.

He wound the scarf savagely about her
head, barely allowing her time to close her eyes as the cloth pressed down upon
them, shutting her away into a primal darkness. She felt two passes of the
cloth wrapped around her head, trapping her long hair against the back of her
neck. The knot that fastened the blindfold in place was tied sharply and
firmly. Catherine whimpered into her gag, overcome by the feeling of
helplessness in this man's hands.

After securing the blindfold, Charles
seemed to pause; Catherine could hear his heavy, ragged breathing, and she
suddenly felt far less reassured about his intentions, a fear that intensified
when she felt his huge hand once more at her breast. She screamed feebly into
the gag, but choked off the cry as she felt his fingers press against her
breastbone, and she was pushed down onto the bed.

“Lie still, or by heaven, I'll leash
you about the neck.” She felt him wrap some sort of cord about her ankles, and
felt it jerk as, presumably, he tied it to the foot of the bed. That a
determined effort might allow her to find that cord with her bound hands, and
release her feet was probable... but it was equally true that Catherine had
neither the strength nor the courage to try. Both had been drained from her.

His scent was powerful in her nostrils,
as was the pungent tang of her own fear. Was he watching her, sitting across
the room, regarding her as some form of booty? Was she a pawn in some game
between himself and his brother? To go from noblewoman-by-marriage to bound and
gagged prisoner: it was a transformation as profound as that which had taken
her from Catherine Tompkins to Lady Catherine Redmond.

Though she tried desperately to cling
to what she had known as the truth, that she was the wife of Philip Redmond,
and would be seen safe and home once more, it was harder and harder to think of
anything as a certainty. She was well and truly helpless, and in a way not
completely due to the cords at her wrists and ankles.

As Catherine fell into an exhausted
sleep, she was left with only one certainty: whatever else Charles Redmond
might think of her, he viewed her very much as a woman, not just a pawn, and
she wondered if his resistance to temptation would hold in the light of day,
with her so clearly at his mercy.

And if it did not…?