Love's Savage Bonds (7 page)

 
And damnation again!
She
looked around desperately, and by squinting, could make out the receding form
of the brown horse.
I’ll have to speak to Charles about his horse-training
methods!
How far away? A half a mile? More? Less? No matter. In her present
state, she'd have been lucky to catch the beast at twenty yards. There would be
no ride for her.

And with no ride, the cottage was out
of the question. The brief unconsciousness she’d suffered after the fall was no
substitute for the sleep she desperately needed. She had to find safety that
was close enough to walk to.

Home was out of the question, of
course. Could she make it to the church? And if she did, would she be safe
there? Was there anyone there who might protect her if...?

A protector. Of course
. She got to her feet, turned, and looked past her
manor house, to the more modest dwelling that stood at the foot of the road.

Major Cathcart
. If there were any man in England, save Charles, that she would trust with her life, it was the dear old soldier. In his care,
she'd find safety. Summoning the last of her strength, the weary girl set off.

**********

Miss Elizabeth Cathcart shook her head
once again at the state of her brother’s housekeeping.
Honestly
, she
sighed to herself,
you’d think the man was trying to cultivate dust in here.
Since the Major’s modest pension made a full house staff impractical, Miss
Cathcart had taken to puttering about here and there on those occasions when
the parlor maid was not in evidence.

As she was running a hand along the
windowsill, a noise from outside caught her attention. Lifting the curtain
aside, she beheld a fine black brougham going past, with a very impressive
team. Were these friends of her brother’s? She wished they might be—he seemed
to have so little interest in the sort of exciting society to which she wished
to be introduced.
Visiting here, perhaps?
She wondered if she ought to
ask her brother about it… then shrugged, and returned to her dusting.
If
they’re on their way here, I’ll find out soon enough.

**********

Five minutes’ walk seemed to have
hardly moved Catherine an inch closer to her goal, but it had moved her to the
brink of collapse. Only the thought of how Charles would worry should anything
happen to her kept her going.

She was finding it harder and harder to
put one foot in front of the other. Weary and worn, she was beginning to feel
feverish, and wanted nothing more than to lie down right here in the road.

No. Almost there.

She was already picturing the Major's
welcome, his sister buzzing with a thousand questions, the hot bath they would
draw for her...

And by the time the sound of horses'
hooves and clattering wheels entered her daydream, they were already upon her.

"Wha—?" Catherine hadn't even
finished the question when the huge black brougham pulled up beside her, its
door flying open, disgorging the lean figure of Colonel Lefanu!

"My dear Lady Catherine," he
sneered, taking her by the arm in a fierce grip. "You look tired. Allow me
to offer you the hospitality of my coach."

"No— no, let me g—uummpph!"
In a blur of movement, Lefanu had spun her around and wrapped an arm like an
iron bar about her waist. His other hand pressed tightly over her lips,
muffling her cries, as he lifted her off her feet and forced her up through the
door of the brougham. In an instant, he had leapt up alongside her, reaching to
close the door behind him in one smooth motion, then rapping on the roof. The
driver set off at a rapid pace as Lefanu turned to survey his prize.

Catherine had landed face-first on the
floor of the coach, and was trying to scramble to her feet, but the nightdress
she still wore hampered her movements, and her long hair obscured her vision.
She used a hand to rake the disordered tresses back from her face...and found
herself staring up into the reddened eyes and face of her husband!

"Catherine." Philip's voice
was slurred, and he appeared to be as drunk as Catherine had ever seen
him—astonishing, given how little time had passed. He seemed to regard her with
vaguely bleary-eyed interest, and the girl realized that she'd been correct: he
was broken. He’d probably started on the bottle before Charles had even
galloped off.  Had the two of them been alone, she'd have had nothing to
fear from this husk of what had been her husband.

But, of course, they were not alone.
From behind, Catherine felt wiry fingers clamp painfully onto her shoulder, and
she was thrown across the bench of the coach, face down over her husband's lap.

"Hold her." Lefanu's voice
was icy and calm. She felt Philip take a fistful of her hair with one hand,
while his other pressed down on her back.  Hampered by her gown and the
small space, Catherine was unable to escape his grasp as she felt Lefanu take
her wrists, and twist them painfully.

"Aaaahhh!" she gasped in
pain. "Help! Help!
AAagghghhh!"
The pain seemed to treble as
Lefanu yanked her arms up behind her.

"Keep your mouth shut, woman, or
I'll stuff it full of your hair until you choke." Catherine sobbed, and
she felt Lefanu force her arms to lie across each other, at a right angle; he
then wrenched them further, so that her arms were bent double, her hands nearly
meeting between her shoulderblades as Lefanu fastened them together with some
sort of thin twine that bit savagely into her flesh. More of the twine anchored
them in that unnatural position, sending waves of pain all the way down her
arms, through her torso.

“Oh, god, please!” Catherine pleaded
for mercy, the pain moving beyond excruciating.

Lefanu whipped a silk handkerchief from
his breast pocket and handed it to Philip.

"Shut her up."

Catherine felt a twisting pain in her
hair as Philip raised her head from his lap. She looked up at him, with
pleading eyes, offering every prayer she knew for this man to once more take
pity on her.

"Philip, please... uggghh!"

With less concern than he'd have shown
for one of his hunting dogs, Philip forced her head cruelly back, and began to
stuff the silk ‘kerchief into her mouth. Catherine tried to fight him, but she
was simply too exhausted, her body too racked with pain. She made a feeble
attempt to bite him, but the strain in her scalp and neck prevented her from
even properly closing her mouth.

With the handkerchief wedged into his
wife's mouth, Philip slipped the green silk cravat from about his throat,
tightened it into a band, and forced that between Catherine's teeth, driving
the packing deeper into her mouth, so she felt sure she must choke. He yanked
the band tight, and Catherine felt it slice brutally into the corners of her
mouth as Philip used it to bind her gag in place.  Careless of Catherine's
mass of disordered tresses, Philip wound the cravat tightly about her head, and
made it secure with a knot that cruelly pulled at her hair, and pinched the
soft flesh at the nape of her neck.

Satisfied that his wife was well
secured and silenced, Philip settled back in the seat, watching as Lefanu
inspected the knots.

"There." The Frenchman
regarded Catherine as a hungry man might a banquet. "That should keep you
in place until we are ready to... deal with you."

"Yes," Philip slurred.
"We have questions for you, haven't we, Colonel? And we'll have answers,
by god!"

"Yes..." Lefanu's response
seemed to trail off strangely. "Yes, we shall have answers, by all
means."  

Catherine sobbed into her gag: she
sobbed Charles’ name.  It came out as nothing more than a muffled grunt.
Struggling wasn’t an option—it was barely a fantasy, bound as she was, in the
clutches of the two men. Her exhausted mind had almost forgotten what it was
like to be able to move, or that there had ever been a moment without pain.
Captivity was her fate. Bound and gagged captivity. And as impossible as it
seemed, there was certainly worse to come.

**********

Elizabeth Cathcart took another glance
through the curtains-- there went the strange black brougham. Well, not friends
of her brother's, then. A pity, she thought. Would have made for a nice change
of pace.

The arrival of the coach at the manor
was a ghastly parody of a homecoming. Catherine knew she was being delivered,
not to any safety, but to a fate as cruel as if the front walk were the steps
to the gallows.

As she felt the horse slow, Catherine
sagged against the floor of the coach, defeated. Though her legs were unbound,
the savage bite of the cord that trapped her wrists, and twisted her arms up
behind her back, ensured that she’d never be able to get to her feet unaided.
She had tried to surreptitiously rub Philip’s cravat from where it was tied in
her mouth, but Lefanu had prodded her ribs sharply with the toe of his boot,
and she had sunk back into her agonized captivity. Now, the two men briskly
prepared to dismount the cab, as though having a bound and gagged prisoner in
tow was an everyday practice.

Philip reached for his bound wife, but
Lefanu smoothly interposed his hand, and seized Catherine's upper arm in a
savagely painful grasp.

“I think, Philip, it would be best if I
took charge of Lady Catherine at this point.” Philip blinked bleary eyes, then
shrugged elaborately and stepped from the coach. Behind him, Lefanu forced
Catherine to stand on legs weak with terror, then dragged her forward.

Impelled by Lefanu's steel grip on her
upper arm, Catherine staggered up the walk. She was vaguely aware that there
was the possibility of their being seen, but in her state of utter defeat, she
couldn't even muster the strength to look around, or to attempt to attract
attention to her fate; her ribs still bore painful witness to what an attempt
to defeat the gag would bring her.

Instead, she allowed herself to be
herded up to the large door, which swung open before Philip even had to knock.

“Ah, Mrs. Williams,” Philip greeted the
housekeeper brightly.  Mrs. Williams stood in the doorway, grinning
broadly at Catherine's distress: her onetime rival for Philip’s affections, now
a bedraggled, bound and gagged prisoner. “My wife and I are not to be disturbed
this afternoon:  we are going to be rehearsing a little —ah—holiday
pageant—for the village children.” Catherine tried to make some sense of this,
as he went on. “It is possible that you might hear some noises— perhaps what
might even be taken for cries of pain.” Lefanu gave a sharp tug at Catherine's
bonds to punctuate this. “The servants are to pay no notice. It will be just
myself, my wife... and the Colonel.”

“Very good, sir,” the woman responded
with mock formality, and left to inform the rest of the staff, as Lefanu and
Philip dragged their prisoner to the parlor, closing the door behind them.

Catherine was thoroughly in despair
now—in agony from the bonds, stifled by the mouth-filling gag, her nightdress
in such a state as to leave her feeling half-naked… and in the power of two men
who, she realized, would not hesitate to kill her if she didn't betray her
beloved Charles to them. In fact, she had the sinking feeling that Lefanu was
prepared to kill her anyway, once he’d had his full measure of pleasure from
her pain.

“Have a seat, my dear,” Philip
snickered as he pushed Catherine down, so that she fell heavily on her bound
arms into a chair. She found some reserve of strength to attempt a glare of
defiance at her captors, but she knew they could read the futility in her eyes.

Philip had gone to the sideboard to
pour himself another drink; doubtless, Catherine thought, to further fortify
himself for the vile work ahead. He came back towards her, his gait not
terribly steady, and addressed the Colonel.

“Her gag, Lefanu—should we remove it?”
For all her loathing of her husband, Catherine hoped desperately that his
partner might accede to this request; her mouth felt miserably thick and
sodden, and she didn’t know how much longer she could hold back the tears that
she knew would make it even harder to breathe through the stifling gag.

“Showing tender spirit now, Philip?”
Lefanu looked thoughtfully at the half-drunken Lord of the Manor.

“Well, no... I just thought it would be
harder for her to answer our questions if she can't speak.” Philip giggled at a
point he must have thought so obvious as to be a joke.

“Ah, yes… questions.” Lefanu gave
Catherine an odd look, then once more regarded Philip. An odd silence hung in
the air between the two men; then, shrugging, Philip addressed his wife.

“I should tell you, my dear, that
Colonel Lefanu is rather expert at inflicting pain-- it's a sort of specialty
of his.”

She didn’t doubt that for a second, and
the thin cord that bit painfully into Catherine's wrists was a clear reminder.
She had already endured more pain than she'd have thought she could bear, but
in the depths of her soul, she knew that Lefanu had barely begun to exercise
his outrages upon her.

At Philip's drunken encomium, the
Frenchman favored Catherine with a thin smile, then turned to address Philip.
“Perhaps, first, you might answer a question for me, my friend.”

“Well, certainly, if I can,” Philip
looked as puzzled as Catherine felt, but she was glad for anything that took
the Frenchman's attentions away from her.

Lefanu regarded Philip, and raised an
eyebrow.

“What, precisely, was your brother
looking for when he came here?” The Frenchman's manner was casual, but
Catherine could sense something simmering underneath it.

“Oh, well,” Philip chuckled. “You know
Charles, he's always—”

“It was a small leather book, as I
understand it.” Lefanu responded flatly.

“Well, it might have—”

“In fact,” Lefanu continued, his voice
now level and hard, “your servants described what sounded rather like a ledger
of accounts.” His voice was the low sibilation of a jungle predator. “Would the
accounts recorded in that book have had anything to do with me?”

Philip's mouth just hung stupidly open,
and with his failure to respond, Lefanu's voice changed from a purr to a
whipcrack as he took a step toward Philip.

“You kept that wretched book to
blackmail me.”
Lefanu's voice was
icier than any Catherine had ever heard; glad though she was for the delay in
her own interrogation, she wished Philip were sober enough to read the menace
in Lefanu’s face.

“Oh, just a bit of insurance, surely.”
Philip did his best to make his laugh a casual one. “And you've been paid for
your efforts.”

“Yes... yes, I have,” Lefanu regarded
him strangely. “I received my thirty pieces of silver, while you...” and he
nodded around the room at the sumptuous furnishings before returning his
piercing gaze to Catherine's bound form, her lush figure only enhanced by her
dishabille
... 
“you received the kingdom of heaven.”

“What the devil do you mean by that?”
Philip spluttered

For answer, Lefanu drew a small pistol
from his pocket, and without a word fired a shot into Philip's breast.

Catherine gasped, then shrieked into
her gag as her husband blinked once in astonishment, then simply fell to the
floor like an old bag of rags.

Catherine wanted to leap to her feet
from the chair; to bolt, escape—but Lefanu casually stepped over Philip's body
as if it were no more than a fold in the rug, set down the pistol, and stood looking
down in the chair at the terrified captive.

“Such a shame... widowed so young.” The
smarmy smile on Lefanu's face would have been enough to sicken Catherine, even
without the cold-blooded murder she had just witnessed.  She tried to turn
away from him, but the Frenchman threaded powerful fingers into her luxuriant
mane, and forced her face up to his.

“I fear, though, Lady Catherine, that
your next marriage will be of even shorter duration.”

Next marriage?
It took several seconds for the full horror of
that to sink in. She tried to shake her head “No!”, but his grasp on her
disordered tresses was firm. He smiled into her face, and spoke softly, as
though confiding a secret to her.

“Yes, my dear.” His free hand stroked
fingers obscenely along the angry red mark that the gag made in her cheek. “It
requires but the execution of a few forged documents, which may be purchased at
a small cost... the use of a co-operative clergyman willing to look the other
way for a nice ‘contribution’... and I shall be married to one of the
wealthiest women in the district.” His eyes seemed to devour her trussed form,
making her feel wholly unclean. Her captor leaned closer, his nose drinking in
her scent.

Catherine trembled, numb, tears filling
her eyes. “And, of course,” he went on, his voice laying horror upon horror
with cool amusement “...
I will grieve at her all-too-sudden funeral
.”

He released her hair, and Catherine,
her gorge rising against the foul gag, flailed her legs, her body at last
trying the desperate escape she should have attempted before she was dragged
into the room. Lefanu barely moved to stop her, delivering a savage backhand to
her cheek. Catherine whimpered into her gag as her wobbly legs gave way, and
she sprawled on the carpet, tumbling tresses obscuring her vision. She made one
attempt to rise to her knees, but felt the sole of Lefanu’s boot on her
buttocks, slamming her face-down into the carpet.

“No, my dear, you can stay there for
the time being.” He put his toe under her sobbing form, and forced her to roll
over, lying on her back, bound arms now dead numb beneath her. His face was a
smiling death’s head.

“And now, we have only to wait until
your precious Charles shows up... how sad it will be, when it is found that
these two brothers finally killed each other.” He nodded to Philip’s corpse,
and to the pistol he had left on the sideboard.

No... No no no no!!
This
was beyond imagination! Cad though he might have been, Catherine was filled
with sorrow at Philip’s death… but to imagine Charles lying there, cold, beside
his brother… while this monster had his way…

“You English women-- such fragile
creatures.” Lefanu interrupted her nightmarish visions by going to one knee
above her supine form, and taking her chin in his clawlike hand. “And with the
strain you have been under, who can say how long you'll survive past our
wedding day.” Catherine nearly vomited into her gag at the words, then realized
the worst was yet to come.  “Perhaps,” Lefanu smirked, “rather than take
chances... I think it would be best if we were to consummate the nuptials right
now.”

And Lefanu leaned over the helpless
girl, placed one hand at her breast, and used the other to begin pulling up
what remained of her nightdress.

Now, with everything she had left in
her, Catherine fought. Never mind that the bonds made it torture to try and
move her limbs... that the gag threatened to choke her as she attempted to call
for help... she fought. She felt Lefanu's strong, wiry hands at her thighs,
forcing her legs apart, and tried to kick at him. She received back a blow to
the head that made the monster’s previous assault on her feel like the barest
of love pats. Her head reeled as she felt all strength melt from her legs, all
resistance wither. Sobbing into her gag, Catherine closed her eyes so that she
might at least be spared the sight of the Frenchman preparing himself for the
assault.

“Lefanu, you swine. Get away from
her!”

By the time Catherine realized that she
wasn’t imagining the voice, and had opened her eyes, the Frenchman was standing
upright, and had managed to re-button his trousers. Standing framed in the
doorway was the stolid frame of Major Cathcart.

“Mind your own business, old man.”
Lefanu's voice was level and deadly as he regarded the pistol held in the
ancient, but rock-steady, hand.

“By God, you unutterable...” Cathcart
seemed not to have words enough to describe the man. “Well, the sheriff will do
for you. I had my sister summon him and his men—thank heavens for her curiosity
about your fancy coach. I will keep my eye on you until they arrive.
Catherine!” he called out. “Can you—
what in
—?”

Faster than Catherine's eye could
follow, Lefanu had shaken his sleeve, and a tiny single-shot pistol appeared in
his right hand. In what seemed but a single motion, he leveled his arm and
fired.