Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] (31 page)

Edmond threw the stick across the yard and squeezed some more wine into his mouth from the skin hanging on a cord around his neck. The puppies scrambled after the stick, descending on it in a pile of squirming bodies. He whistled, and the victorious pup emerged from the pile with the stick in its mouth and dutifully returned it. Again and again, as darkness fell, he tossed the stick, took it back, and tossed it again. At one point the smallest pup claimed the stick but, instead of bringing it back, ran with it into the woods.

“Come back here,” Edmond yelled. He whistled and slapped his thigh. “Here, pup!” Another whistle. Finally the puppy appeared, without the stick. “Where’s the stick? Get the stick.” The puppy just stood there, looking at him, its little head cocked.

Edmond squatted down and beckoned to it. “Come here, boy. Come on. That’s right.” The little creature ran to his arms, tail wagging. He picked it up, stood, and held it in front of his face. “What good are you if you can’t even bring back a stick?”

As casually as he might break off a piece of bread, he closed a hand around the animal’s head and snapped its neck.

Martine gasped. Turning, he looked up at her, the dead puppy hanging limp from his hand. He looked surprised. Surprised that she’d been watching him? Or perhaps it was surprise at her shocked expression, her apprehension. He’d never seen her vulnerable before, and it seemed to amaze him. He inspected her with intense interest, looking her up and down as if this were the first time he’d ever laid eyes on her.

No, it was more than mere interest, she realized, feeling queasy. It was excitement, his dark eyes glinting as they took in her sleeveless linen shift, her loose hair, her fear. She backed slowly away from the window, watching him watching her.

He smiled. It was a lifeless smile like Bernard’s, a smile not of pleasure, but of anticipation. He hurled the puppy’s body into the woods, then turned and strode purposefully toward the house.

Martine dropped the comb and ran downstairs to the kitchen. With palsied fingers she unlocked her brass box, searching through its contents until she found the little blue vial.

“Milady?” Felda said from the stove. “What are you—”

“A jug of brandy and a goblet. Hurry!” While Felda fetched the brandy, Martine grabbed a mortar and quickly mixed a pinch of the hemlock with half a dozen other sedative herbs.

“What
is
that stuff?” Felda asked as her mistress funneled the powder into the brandy.

“Surgical sleeping draft.” She recorked the jug and shook it, then grabbed the goblet from her wide-eyed maid and returned to the bedchamber.

Edmond stood at the window urinating in an arc onto the lawn below. Hearing the leather curtain part, he looked over his shoulder. Martine had returned with brandy. He saw the disgust on her face although she tried to disguise it. And he noticed her body, barely concealed through the thin shift she wore.

Martine’s hands shook. He saw them, just before she set the jug and goblet down on the chest by the door and hid them behind her back.
What a dunce I’ve been to tremble before her like a whipped dog.
She was the one who trembled now.

“Take off your shift,” he commanded, turning back to the window.

She paused. “Don’t you want some brandy first?”

“You know what I want.” He shook himself off, tucked himself in, and turned around. She tried to look nonchalant, but he could see the panic in her eyes. He drew strength from it.

She said, “I thought perhaps some brandy might relax—”

“I’m relaxed enough,” Any more “relaxed,” and he’d be in no condition to give her a proper tupping. Every morning Boyce asked him if he’d broken that feisty new mare to the saddle yet. He never answered, but they always knew. And they always laughed.
She’s put a spell on him
, they said. In jest, but after a few days, he began to wonder if they were right. After all, there’d been that business at the river with Ailith.

Never mind. Tonight she’d cast no spells. Tonight he’d ride the witch like she deserved to be ridden, and then she’d not be so high and mighty. He’d make it hurt. He’d make sure she knew it was he who held the reins, he who wielded the whip.

“Take off your shift,” he repeated. She just stood there, but from the look in her eyes he could tell her mind was racing—hatching some scheme to get away from him, no doubt. He took a step forward, and she took a step back.

She was his wife, by God! She had to do his bidding, same as his dogs or his horses. But she treated
him
like the dog, made him feel less than a man, same as Boyce and the others did. Only he didn’t have to take it from her. Not from her. He wasn’t some dumb creature. He was her master, and she’d damn well learn it.

She turned toward the doorway, but he leaped across the room, seizing her as she tried to run. Clutching her shift by the neck, he ripped it open halfway to the waist, then slammed her against the wall and held her there by her shoulders. Looking down, he saw that he had raked her upper chest with his nails. The sight of those bloody scratches against her smooth white skin made him hard as a club.

The bitch actually lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. And then she said the wrong thing. She said, “You’re an animal.”

He couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d wanted to. Releasing her, he whipped his open hand across her face. He heard a crack as her head hit the wall, and then she slid down. He grabbed her and tossed her roughly onto the big four-poster bed. She looked dazed. A raw scrape marred her cheek, and blood ran from her nose.

He took off his belt and tunic and tossed them aside. “Pull up your shift.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded meekly, reaching down to lift the ankle-length gown.
So
, he thought, removing his boots,
all she needed was the taste of my hand. I’ll let her taste more than that before I’m done with her.
He stood up.

Martine kicked him, driving her foot with breathtaking force into his stomach. He grunted and toppled to the floor.

“
Bitch!
” he gasped, hauling himself to his feet. He grabbed her just as she reached the door, and flung her back toward the bed, taking no care with his aim. When she hit the bedpost, he felt the impact in his bones. For a moment she slumped against the thick column, as if embracing it. He saw the blood on the wood, and felt a carnal thrill.

I’ve killed her
, he thought as she sank to the floor and collapsed on her side in the rushes.
I’m free of her now.

He rolled her onto her back with his foot. Blood covered one side of her face.
She’ll lie back and take it now, by God, just like she should have done in the first place. It’s her own damn fault.
He kicked her legs apart and knelt between them. It was then that he realized she was still breathing.
Worse luck
, he thought.

It was at that moment he remembered Emeline—Emeline, the sauciest of Fat Nan’s whores. Emeline... His smile faded and his eyes narrowed as he gazed down upon the battered and senseless face of his wife. Emeline had laughed at him and called him a beast from the forest.

He reached down and softly stroked Martine’s neck, feeling the life still pulsing stubbornly beneath the smooth skin. His fingers closed around her throat, and then the other hand joined the first, and he squeezed just as he’d done with Emeline. At first he hadn’t meant to do it, but his hands had gone around her neck while he took his pleasure with her, and he found that her struggles excited him. He squeezed harder and harder as his pleasure increased. He came quickly, and then it was over. He realized he’d broken her neck.

He was terrified when he told Bernard what had happened, but Bernard told him not to worry. Bernard had taken care of everything, and it had cost but a few pennies. He’d fix it this time, too. For all her airs, this one was no different from the other. Women were all the same; Bernard had always told him so.
Don’t let them laugh at you
, he always said.
If they get smart, teach them a lesson
.

The witch’s face slowly turned blue, just like the little whore’s. Soon... and then he’d be free of her.

“Sir Edmond?” The voice of Felda right outside the curtain interrupted his thoughts.

He released Martine and stood up. “What is it?”

“I... heard a sound before. Is everything—”

“Everything’s fine. I slipped and fell is all. Go back downstairs.”

After a few moments he heard her footsteps retreating. Wiping the sweat from his face with his shirtsleeve, he grabbed the jug of brandy off the chest, uncorked it, and took a few gulps. He looked back down at his unconscious wife. He’d teach her a lesson, all right. He’d do her like he’d done Emeline, squeeze her throat while he took her. He grinned and swallowed down a good half of the jug, unconcerned about being too drunk to do her right. Just thinking about Emeline kept his weapon at the ready.

He corked the jug and went to set it back down on the chest, but it fell to the floor instead.

The damn brandy went to his head fast. He’d best make quick work of this. Kneeling again between her legs, he reached down and pulled at the waist cord of his chausses. His fingers were big and numb and clumsy, and it took a bit of doing to get himself untied. He raised Martine’s shift and lowered himself onto her as the room began to slowly whirl. Closing his eyes for just a moment, he felt the numbness spread from his fingers to the rest of his body, and then he sank softly, softly into a dark and silent oblivion.

*   *   *

It hurt to open her eyes. When she did, it was so dark she didn’t know where she was. Her ears rang; the sound filled her head. Something large and foul-smelling weighed her down, pressing her into the ground. Dried grasses prickled her back through her shift. It was night. Was she in the woods, trapped beneath a dead animal?

Presently her eyes grew accustomed to the moonlight. She saw the walls and ceiling of her bedchamber, and realized that it was rushes beneath her. She recognized the smell of her husband, heard his halting snore, and remembered everything.

Oh, God
. Grunting with the effort, she pushed at the inert form pinning her to the floor, pushed and pushed until he flopped onto his back next to her. His chausses were down around his knees; her shift was bunched around her waist.
Oh, God, he did it after all,
she thought. She felt between her legs, expecting to feel raw and used—but there was nothing, no evidence that he had had his way with her. She saw the half-empty brandy jug in the rushes near the chest, and managed a smile.
It worked after all
.

When she sat up, pain seared her skull, and she cradled her head in her hands. Her face felt sticky and swollen, one side of it, anyway. She patted it gently, wincing when her fingers brushed an open wound.

What happened? Where was she? Was she hurt? She looked around, her thoughts jumbled. She was in her bedchamber. Something about this realization seemed familiar. Looking down, she saw Edmond, his clothes in disarray, and it all came back.
I can’t keep my thoughts straight
, she despaired.
I’ve lost my senses
.

With some effort she gained her feet.
I must leave here
, she thought.
I must get far away. I’ll find Thorne. Thorne will protect me. He promised Rainulf he’d protect me.

Feeling around in the dark, she made her way downstairs. The ringing became louder and louder, until she could barely think.
They’re ringing the bells for matins
, she decided. Standing on the lawn, she looked back up at the prior’s lodge, clearly visible by the light of the full moon, and then at the surrounding woods.

He’ll come to me at the river, just as he did before. He’ll come to me at the river where we made love.
But which direction was the river? The ringing confused her, made her disoriented. She blindly picked a direction and ran into the woods.

*   *   *

Something tickled her face. She opened her eyes and saw a shadowy form above her—licking her? She gasped, and the form turned and darted away through the crackling leaves.

It was dark. Where was she? In the woods? What was she doing in the woods in the middle of the night?

She stirred. Christ, her head was on fire. Was she hurt?

Slowly she sat up and struggled to her feet.
I must find Rainulf. Rainulf will help me. Rainulf will take care of me.
But where was Rainulf? At the university? No, it was the middle of the night. And... and they didn’t live in Paris anymore. He was at the castle, Harford Castle. She’d go there.

She turned around in a circle, peering into the black forest. Not knowing which way the castle lay, she eventually just picked a direction and walked.

*   *   *

The distant voice of a child woke her, and she squinted at the early morning sunlight. She lay on her stomach at the edge of the woods, where it opened into a field. Far away, a man and a woman were sowing grain from a sack held by a child.

She tried to move, but she ached all over. The light hurt her eyes, so she closed them. What was she doing out here? Mama would worry. Mama didn’t like her to wander too far from home.

After a while she heard the child’s voice again, but much louder, much closer. Opening her eyes, she saw a pair of bare, dirty feet right in front of her face. The child stood over her, yelling words that made no sense, words Martine had never heard before. It was a girl child, around nine or ten. Turning, she waved and gestured frantically, until the man and woman–coarsely dressed villeins—came running.