No Choice but Surrender (9 page)

At this he stepped up to her and took die dark blue urn from her hands. He placed it gently back onto its stand and laughed. "Then your only chance, as I see it, is the comb. Am I correct?" He continued without her answer. "So there it is. All you have to do is pick it up, and 'tis yours." He stood back and eyed her, crossing his muscular arms over his powerful, broad chest.

She watched him through lowered lashes. There was no trusting him, but she wanted her comb. It lay tantalizingly within her reach. She looked up and judged the distance they each would be required to move to reach the bed. She was by far the closer. The nagging doubt in the back of her mind that he was swifter seemed small when she judged that he stood far across the room by the gilded tripod pedestal.
Agonizing in her mind whether to take the risk, she took one step nearer the bed and looked at him to see if he had moved.
Not a muscle twitched in the man's entire body, and that was reassuring. But then again, he was standing almost too calmly, like a jaguar viewing an antelope, pausing to choose not how to catch one but which one.

She decided to take the chance. With her comb in her possession, she could be in Bath in less than three days, and this strange, dark adventure would be just a memory. Her mind made up, she started to run as fast as her healthy young legs could take her. She had her comb within inches of her grasp. But then with a cry it was gone, and she was being pulled onto the huge jade coverlet completely against her will. Avenel's body came down heavily upon hers, and she struggled to free herself as she had never struggled before.

"Hush! Be still! I'll not hurt you." He grabbed her flailing arms and held them firmly over her head. After that, nary a muscle in her body could move beneath the enormous

Strength of the man on top of her.
She silently cursed herself for being so easily baited, and she glared at him with flashing violet eyes. He spoke softly to her: "You must be still. I remind you that you came here of your own free will."

"I did not come here to be raped," she spat at him.

But he merely cocked that infuriating eyebrow and started kissing her, licking and nibbling at the creamy skin that was exposed at the top of her bodice. He smiled and tenderly moved up to kiss her temple and hairline. "I shan't rape you. Why would I deny myself the pleasure of seeing you groan and plead for my lovemaking?" He removed his grip from her arms and she started to struggle again, but he quickly ended it by taking both of her delicate wrists into one masculine hand. He gave her a warning look, and once again he let her arms go. But this time she held them quietly, not wanting him to hold her so fiercely.

"You know," he said, "you should be more kind to me." His lips touched her temple, and he again made a maddening assault on her senses. "I could keep you in here and take away all your clothes." He kissed her. "Make you my concubine and let you wear nothing at all except for that ridiculous little comb . . . and me." He kissed her now full on the lips; she couldn't help releasing a soft groan as a melting, drifting sensation made its way up to her belly. God, what was happening to her?

His kiss was long and full, and after it was over she looked up at him with a sleepy, almost drugged expression on her face. Her lips were stained a deep, moist pink from his touch, and her cheeks were hot and flushed. She felt him slip off the net binding her hair, and soon her auburn locks spilled over the green coverlet. He stroked her hair, as if sensing magic in its strange color, and then she felt him slide her coveted comb into her silken strands.

Instinctively she grabbed for it, but he held her back. "Be still—I just want to look at you," he whispered, gazing at her face and hair, not missing a detail. She lay back quiet and still, unsure what he was doing. "It suits you, strange as it seems," he said enigmatically. "I must allow you to wear it sometime.
Perhaps at dinner, when we are alone."

"Give it to me now! You know it is mine," she pleaded.

"No," he said sharply. He got off the silk coverlet, took the comb from her hair, and stood over her while she groggily sat up. The intoxicating effect of his touch was slow to wear off, and she sat on the bed and watched him as he pulled open the top drawer of his commode. He placed her comb in it and locked it.

"Please!" she begged as she watched him shut the drawer.

"No," he said again, pulling the black silk cord that held his hair in a queue. He strung the drawer's key onto the cord and then knotted it around his neck. The brass key gleamed warm and yellow against his dark chest, which was visible due to his undone shirt; it was too enticing for her to bear.

"Now, if you want to leave Osterley, you will have to earn my favor," he said as if he were a commander reviewing the troops.

"You bastard!" she cursed, shocking even herself with the force of her anger.

"Now that," he said, taking her jaw into one of his hands, "that, my beautiful young maiden, will not do. But your good behavior will, and . . ." He looked at the bed that she was sitting on.
"Would that you tried pleasing me here.
I should give you the highest kind of privilege—perhaps even enough to gain this key."

"If by letting you bed me, I win my freedom, why not rape me now and
be
through with this?" She wanted to scream in vexation, but she kept her voice tame, trying not to anger him.

"Raping you would not please me. I must have you come to me. And when that time comes, if a single fair muscle in that woman's body of yours should flex with reluctance, it will not be good enough. Do you understand me?" He watched her face intently, waiting for her obedient reply.

"Yes," she mumbled.

"Good." He released her jaw from his grasp and allowed her to get off the bed. "I expect you to have dinner with me tonight. You can come to my bed tonight or the next or the one after that. But in the meantime there will be no snooping about my room."

She pulled her long hair into a semblance of order before she left the room and thankfully started for the door. But this new twist in her struggle to leave weighed heavily on her mind.

"Lady Brienne"—he interrupted her exit—"I would have a kiss before you go."

She turned to glare at him, but he reminded her, "That would please me, wildflower, immeasurably." Standing in rebellion, she watched hypnotically as the golden key swung from his neck. Then she went to him, uncharacteristically cooperative.
Raising
on tiptoe, she pulled his dark head down to hers to give him a perfunctory brush on the lips. Just as her lips touched his, she moved her hand up his chest and pulled on the black cord around his neck. But her hand was quickly brushed aside; he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her up so that her feet could not longer touch the ground. With one hand grasping her waist and the other firmly beneath her buttocks, he crushed her to him as if she were merely a doll. Before she knew it, his tongue demanded entrance to her mouth. At that she felt the slow torturous pleasure of her body's betrayal.

Had she been standing at that moment, Brienne was sure the force of his persuasion would have knocked her over. But instead, being under his control and possessing no real choices, she relented and allowed him to deepen their kiss. With each thrust of his greedy tongue, she knew he claimed a victory. Yet it truly made her sick that she herself seemed to find perverse delight in her own defeat.

When he finally let her go, he took his time sliding her down the entire length of his body. It seemed she was introduced to his every supple muscle, as well as some that were not so
lax,
until she thought she would die from the very intimacy of it all. Finally separated, she found herself battling with such opposing emotions that she felt {hat they surely would rip her apart. Wonder and frustrated anger warred within her, and she stumbled almost blindly for the door and for some fresh air to clear her head.

"Remember, little one, please me here, and you will find I can be most generous."

"You arrogant colonial beast,"
s
he spat at him in the Welsh she'd learned as a child; she was too cowardly at the moment to use a language he could understand. "No wonder we English have been so provoked into war!" With that she fled from his look of surprise, but his full, deep laughter followed her through the hall and all the way back up the great stair- case.

Vivie
let out a great dissatisfied sigh.
"Ma demoiselle,
you have nothing suitable to wear. I have cleaned and pressed your dresses so many times! They are worn out!"

"Then we do not need to bother with it. I will not go." Brienne sat at the edge of the pale yellow settee. She stared into the fire that was now a regular feature of her bedroom hearth. In contrast, Vivie was cheerful and bright, flitting about the room in great anticipation of the task ahead: dressing her mistress for her first social occasion, dinner with Master Slane.

If her situation had not been so dire, Brienne knew she might have laughed at the little maid's antics. But it was such a ludicrous situation she was in. Upstairs, Vivie thought she was a country maiden who had been taken under Avenel's wing to be taught the finer points of how to please a man. But downstairs, she thought almost with a shudder, the real drama was taking place. She was fighting for her
life,
it seemed, with every new episode. And now that the dictator in the play had complete control over every aspect of her life, she knew the climax was just behind the curtain.

"This one will have to do! I shall press it again." Brienne looked up as Vivie brought in her round gown, a closed robe that revealed no petticoat, of robin's-egg blue. The dress had a deep plum-colored
échelle
,
whose small bows ran all the way down to the tip of her busk.

"Really, this is not necessary. I have no desire to—"

"Your maidenly reluctance suits you, my lady," Vivie said in French. "I have never seen you so beautiful. Your hair! Your eyes! The glow! I know Master Slane will be very happy with you. You must not fear!"

Not so!
she
thought to herself, smiling grimly. But it was too much to explain to the woman. Vivie was completely enamored with Avenel, and there was no speaking rationally to her about imagined trysts.

Seeing her mistress's smile, Vivie misinterpreted it and asked, "You have had a nice day today, yes?" She added slyly, "And if all goes well, perhaps you will have an even nicer night; is it not so?" She started to smile gaily now but saw Brienne's bewildered expression. "Do not fear, I will have the dress back soon, and I will do everything I can to make it look new again for
your
. . . ah . . ." She started to giggle and found she couldn't finish her sentence.
"Tout de suite, ma demoiselle!"
She laughed and then disappeared through the dressing- room door.

Letting out a long breath of disbelief, Brienne shook her head in frustration and then mutinously dropped her chin into the palm of her hand, staring back at the flames in the hearth. She might be called mad, but only because she was residing in a madhouse! It was all too much!

An hour later, she sat at her dressing table examining the fine work that Vivie had accomplished on her dark tresses. Vivie had loosely piled curl after curl onto the top of her head, allowing only one or two to fall free at the nape. Each strand of hair was shot with burgundy and pink highlights from the smoothing and brushing. Even Brienne had to admit that despite the occasion, it was wonderful to be pampered.

"Should you powder my hair?" Brienne asked, wondering if it was the lack of powder, and not her own lack of finery, that detracted from the entire effect.

"Perhaps I will powder it when you have guests. But for now, I know
les
Américains
do not like it. You see, my brother, he is over there now in
Virginia
," Vivie confided in her. "He fight the war,
mademoiselle.
I tell you this because Monsieur Slane, he was his friend there. That is how I have come to be here. My brother told him of my difficult position. There is hardness here now for the French, you see? I could not find anyone to take me. But then . . ." She gave a happy sigh and continued with her chatter.
"But your hair!
I am so easily sidetracked! You must forgive me."

Brienne only laughed and waited for her to finish. Vivie's revelation about her brother clarified a few things. The maid's gratitude to Avenel was now explained. Vivie's kind attentions to her mistress were simply an offshoot of her regard for her employer, which obviously ran very deep and strong.

"I think you leave it
au naturel."
Vivie scrutinized her piled hair and then tried to explain. "You see, Monsieur Slane, he does not wear the wig. Because he is like
les Amiricains,
yes?"

"Yes, he is definitely like
les
Américains
."
Brienne
smiled at her again. She found herself liking Vivie more and more. In addition to her vivacious manner, Brienne appreciated the maid's genuine affection for her. Even their first evening, when she had shown up at the door dirty, tired, and miserable from the stable block, the young Frenchwoman had been considerate and kind. And she had never made Brienne feel inferior because of her outdated and worn fashions. Instead, Vivie chose to blame her mistress's circumstances. She became very serious when she delivered diatribes-about what a sin it was that Brienne should have to wear the same dress more than once.

"How did your brother meet Avenel, Vivie?" Not wanting to appear as if she were prying, Brienne stood up from the dressing table, and in her sleeveless linen shift and stays she started to pull on a pair of her finest white hose; she rested her slim, shapely leg on the stool in front of her.

"It's a magnificent story!" Vivie exclaimed, and she started chattering just as Brienne had hoped she would. "My brother, Jean Claude, he was shot in the war. He had to walk very far to get rest from the fighting. He found a large plantation along a river. And at this beautiful, quiet plantation he was allowed to stay to heal. And there he met Monsieur Slane, who was . . . ah,
le
. . . houseguest! But that is not all.

"While he was still very sick, the owner of the house betrayed him. He brought the British to kill him and make him give them information! But the Monsieur had friends who came and took him away to
Virginia
to care for him. The plantation people never found out who it was that took their prize away. Monsieur Slane still laughs when he tells the story of how the cowards had to hide my brother's uniform in a hole in the paneling to keep from being found out as the American traitors they were. You cannot be on both sides of a war, ma demoiselle.
Unless, of course, you are a coward."
Vivie handed her her purple kid slippers.

"But Master Slane is playing both sides. Is he a coward, too?" Brienne slipped on her shoes, which regrettably did not match the gown, and then moved over to where her gown lay freshly pressed on the bed. She was trying very hard to be nonchalant. Finally she was obtaining some information about the mysterious man downstairs; she did not want Vivie to find her too eager.

"Mais
non
!
He is the bravest of them all! He has done much for his country. He is not a traitor!" Vivie exclaimed.

"But how can that be? He has forsaken his country and moved to the enemy's!"
And how I wish he had stayed where he belongs,
Brienne thought.

"Yes, it seems so. But his family was originally from here. He has pulled away from the war for just that reason."

"Family?
You mean he is married?" She could hardly breathe while she waited for Vivie to answer her.

"Mais
non
!
He is very much unattached! What I mean to say is
,
his family came from here. The Monsieur knew he could not be a traitor to the British, so he came back here for his family and to leave the war behind him."

"And because he had other things on his mind besides that colonial war." Brienne suddenly shivered at the thought of seeing the earl at Osterley. Whatever was between these two men was far more important to Avenel than even that war for independence. She certainly did not want to get caught in the middle!

"Lady Brienne! You are shivering! Come stand by the fire - while I dress you! We must not let you catch a chill!
" The
little woman's voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

Obediently, Brienne moved to the fire and stood patiently as Vivie dressed her, tying each
Of
the ribbons along her bodice into a perfect bow. "There!" Vivie stood back and examined her work. Exclaiming in French, she said, "Oh my lady, there is not a more beautiful woman anywhere! You are truly ravishing!"

Brienne looked expectantly at herself in the pier mirror hung across from the fireplace. Disappointed, she saw only die same old girl staring back at her. Her blue dress, although painstakingly pressed to a fine finish, was as it had always been. And although the new hairstyle gave her an older and more womanly appearance, the heart-shaped face was still hers, despite the dusky glow cast on her cheeks from the fire and the sparkling plum shine in her eyes.

She laughed at herself. Had she really expected to see someone different? Perhaps to see a woman better dressed than she, with magnificent white hair piled high on her head and a patch dotted alluringly over one crimson lip, like a picture she had seen in one of her mother's precious magazines? Why did she care? There was no one here that she wanted to impress.

Shaking herself, she watched Vivie in the mirror. The maid was very proud of herself. She had turned her drab churchmouse mistress into the semblance of a lady; she had so wanted to please her.

"Thank you, Vivie," Brienne said as she turned from the mirror. "If I look good, it is all your work. You have done miracles with what little you had." She gave her a grateful little smile.

"Mais
non
, ma demoiselle.
You underestimate yourself. A beauty cannot be made from sarin and powder. The woman herself must be beautiful, or there is nothing but artifice. And you are a beauty, both here," Vivie said, sweeping a hand across her face, "and here." The maid placed a palm over her heart.

"You are too generous, Vivie. You hardly know me, and yet you say such nice things."

"I know the Monsieur. He would have his woman no other way."

"Perhaps I am not his woman, Vivie. What then?" Brienne
frowned
a little as she said this, not wanting to lose Vivie's friendship. But she knew she owed the maid as much of the truth as she would accept.

"Not yet,
peut-être
.
But it is only a matter of time with you two. I have seen the look when he speaks of you, and I have seen his eyes. His eyes,
ma demoiselle
—they will never be warmer! You are the one for him. Once he knows he has your heart, he will want no other."

My heart,
she thought to herself,
is the one thing he will never have.
But there was no more time for that determined thought, for she was quickly ushered out the door to her waiting dinner partner.

As she made her way down the stairs, she was pleased to find Cumberland waiting for her. She smiled down at him, heartened to see that he had forgiven her for whatever had bothered him in the stable block.

"Lady Brienne, may I say that never before have I escorted so beautiful a woman to dinner?"

Brienne took his outstretched arm. "And may I say that I have never been in such distinguished company?" Laughing, she felt relieved that he would be joining them for the evening. Cumberland looked dignified in his silver-gray velvet breeches and coat, along with his fringed cobalt satin waist- coot. He almost made her look like a pauper in her old blue tabby, but she was pleased to be on his arm.

They walked down the north passage, where, the eating room joined the gallery, but when she saw it was completely dark, without even one candle, she cried, "What is this now? I thought we were to dine—"

"Yes, yes, my dear. Don't be overly alarmed." Cumberland patted her arm reassuringly.

But she did not like surprises if they even remotely involved Avenel Slane. Anything out of the ordinary with him was to be suspected. She looked at him sharply. "But then where—?"

"In the gallery, my dear.
Slane thought it would be more intimate."

"More intimate? The gallery is four times the size of the eating room!"

"Well, then, let us just say that it is his favorite room. And he prefers it." Again he patted her arm; there was a twinkle in his faded blue eyes. "He's eccentric, to be sure; but Americans will be no other way!"

"Well, at least one of his colleagues has been blessed with some British sense." She smiled back at him and let him lead her to the gallery; the two walked in quiet camaraderie.

When they reached the gallery, she noticed that one of the three mahogany tables from the north passage had been placed at the far end of the room. The early Georgian gateleg table had been set with a creamy tablecloth and celadon green
Sevres
porcelain. A silver candelabrum with eight burning candles provided the only light, except that from the large fire in the hearth, which was vigorously burning the chill from the evening air. By the fireplace she saw the rugged form of Avenel as he leaned on the mantel, casually holding a glass of amber liquid.