Rebecca (4 page)

Nicholas hefted Rebecca's case onto the bed and flipped open the latches. With a smile, he said, “Get dressed for dinner, my dear. I will be back in fifteen minutes. I assume that will be enough time to wash the travel stains from your pretty face and make yourself presentable.” He lifted out a royal-blue gown decorated with lace she had tatted herself. “Is this your best?”

“Yes, Nicholas,” she said. She did not have to look to know that he was displeased with her limited wardrobe. He would want his Lady Foxbridge to dress in the highest fashion. Her clothes, with the exception of her precious wedding gown which had been worn for too short a time, had been made to endure wearing and washing over and over. Fancy clothes following the latest quirk of style were not part of her life.

“Fine. Would you wear it? The color will be perfect with your violet eyes.” He tossed it toward her, and her hands automatically rose to catch it. “Fifteen minutes, my dear.”

As he walked to the door and put his hand on the latch, she turned in surprise and asked, “Where are you going?”

He laughed the dark laugh which sent shivers along her spine. “If you wish, I will stay, Rebecca. I must admit that I am tempted to stay, but I thought that you would prefer me absent when you are in deshabille.” Once again, his eyes swept insolently along her. “If you would like, I will stay, although to do so might make us very late for supper.”

Gazing at the floor, she moved toward the changing screen. As she reached it, she glanced over her shoulder. For a moment her eyes grew as volatile as his. She was tired of his barely veiled innuendoes about her lack of interest in his often-expressed desire to consummate their marriage. All day she had tried to control her temper and not speak the words she wished to say. She could not keep her true feelings hidden any longer.

“Go, Nicholas. Leave. Let me tell you before you go that I don't care if you ever come back. You have ruined what should have been the best day of my life. You have forced me to leave the man I love with all my heart. You are expecting me to be grateful for some title I have never heard of. I don't want to be Lady Foxbridge. More exactly, I don't want to be
your
Lady Foxbridge. If this is how you pay back a kindness, I would hate to see how you treat your enemies.”

“Are you finished?” he asked quietly. “If you are, I have a few things to say to you.” Deliberately he crossed the room. Grasping her arms, he twirled her into his strong embrace. Before Rebecca could react, his mouth covered hers. Gently he loosened her braids and undid them to allow the silken tresses to flow along his arm. His fingers entangled in it to hold her motionless. At her waist, his other hand slowly stroked the soft angles of her body.

Although she was tensed for what she expected would follow, Nicholas continued merely to kiss her and hold her as if she was made of the finest crystal. Like a treasured piece of art, he carefully and most tenderly examined her without doing anything to damage her.

She was not fooled by his chivalrous behavior. She could not be mistaken about the yearning he held so closely in check. Nicholas wanted her. She could see it in every motion he made, but she did not want to be his. Her hands pushed against his chest to free herself from this unwanted embrace.

Only when he chose was she able to step away. He picked up the gown she had dropped. Handing it to her, he said, “You are my wife, Rebecca. You are
my
Lady Foxbridge. I will be back in fifteen minutes. You had best be prepared for dinner, or you may learn how I treat my enemies.”

Without waiting for her response, he walked to the door. When it closed with a distinctive click, she ran to the door. She breathed heavily with fear as she dropped the bar into place. She knew very little of this man who was her husband, but she had learned enough to know he would do as he pleased. If it meant returning immediately to rape her savagely, he would be surprised to learn that his wife was not the docile lass he expected her to be.

Quickly she dressed. She brushed her hair back into the style she had worn to the wedding. Her chin rose defiantly as she tried not to think of the day's events. The woman in the mirror appeared unchanged, but there was a hardness in her heart which had never been there before. Whether it was the core of her pain or the bitterness of learning how truly cruel another human being could be, she did not know. All she knew was that Nicholas would not find it easy to transform her into his lady. She would fight him every inch of the way as she waited for her darling Keith to come for her. When this marriage was dissolved, she would marry Keith immediately. Then they would resume the life they had lost.

When a knock sounded, she asked, “Who's there?”

“It's been fifteen minutes, Rebecca.”

Even the sound of his stygian voice set her heart racing, but she would not let him know how much she feared him. “One moment.”

Checking her appearance a final time in the mirror, she turned to the door. The key clanked loudly as she unlocked it. She lifted the latch, then turned away as if she was not concerned about the man entering the room.

“You look lovely, sweetheart.”

Her heart contracted as she heard the endearment that Keith had used so often. Her pain did not show as she looked at Nicholas. Her face was as cold as her voice. “Thank you, Nicholas.”

Although she hated the man who stood in the room, she could not help admiring his appearance. His dark brown coat was designed in the most fashionable style with the front corners cut back nearly to the side seam in a half-circle shape ending at the split back. His waistcoat and breeches were of the palest tan, which made his full-sleeved white shirt and white stockings appear even brighter. The black of his shoes was only slightly less shiny than his silver shoe buckles. A ribbon of the same brown velvet as his coat tied back his unpowdered hair. His fine clothes put her simple frock to shame.

He walked to her. Grasping her hand, he twirled her slowly to view her from every angle. “Yes, you look lovely, Rebecca. That dress is perfect for you.”

“Stop it!” she cried, pulling away.

“Excuse me? Stop what?” He was plainly baffled. “My dear Rebecca, you haven't given me a chance to start anything.”

Enraged, she repeated, “Stop it! Stop being so condescending. I know my dress is no match for your finery. You don't have to remind me of that with your sarcastic compliments.”

He fought to control his own anger as he wondered where the sweet Rebecca North had disappeared. Five years ago, she would have found his remarks delightful and would have patted his hand with the delicate touch which had reached past the delirium of his fever to help pull him back to health. He asked only, “Are you ready to go down?”

Silently, she nodded. He picked up her fingers and raised them to his lips. There was no kindness in the motion, for his eyes reflected his true sentiments as they drilled deep into hers.

Neither spoke as they went down the stairs and into the dining room, which was just off the front hall which served as the lobby. When he had seated her at one end of the single table, Nicholas excused himself brusquely. Her eyes followed him as he went into the taproom at the far end of the room.

Rebecca was staring so intensely at her hands in her lap that she was startled when a male voice spoke to her. She looked up to see a man standing beside her. “Yes?” she asked.

The man bowed slightly in her direction. He was an attractive man with light brown hair that curled on his forehead. His clothes were wrinkled slightly, so she guessed he was also a traveler taking shelter for the night in this wayside inn. “My dear lady, my name is Winfield Harding. I see you sitting here so alone.”

As he paused, she said, “I am Rebecca Nor—I mean, Rebecca Wythe, sir.”

“It would be a pity for such a lovely lady to dine alone. May I make you the offer of my company for dinner, Miss Wythe?”

She was about to refuse when a hard voice sounded behind them. Fear crossed her mobile face as she saw Nicholas with a mug of beer and a glass of wine in his hands. She wondered how much of the conversation he had heard. Although she had no reason to feel guilty, she knew he would not see it that way. “This lady, who is
Mrs.
Wythe, is not alone, sir. If you would be so good as to step aside, I would like to join my wife for our evening repast.”

Harding faced the man who was several inches taller than he. He glanced from the terror on the woman's face to the anger on her husband's. Wrongly, he translated it to mean she expected Wythe to demand satisfaction from him. With a quick apology, he scurried away before either could say anything else.

“Here, Rebecca,” said Nicholas, tightly, as he placed the wineglass in front of her. “I trust there won't be a repetition of this wherever we go. I admit an ignorance of exactly how you colonials deal with such things, but I don't want my wife flirting with every man she meets.”

“Me? Flirting?” she cried. “You are impossible, Nicholas Wythe! I was just sitting here when Mr. Harding came over. I didn't want to take supper with him, and I do not want to take supper with you!”

When she started to rise, he put his hand on her arm and tugged her back into her chair. A sharp pain ran along her shoulders from the forceful movement. She pulled away and rubbed her wrenched elbow. “Sit down, Rebecca!” he ordered.

“I will stay only if you stop treating me as if I have no feelings. If you hate me so much, why are you dragging me away to England?”

Taking a large sip from his tankard of beer, he replied much more calmly, “You refuse to understand, don't you? I—oh, good evening.”

She looked up to see the innkeeper. Mutely, she listened as the two of them discussed the evening's offerings. While Nicholas ordered for her, she played with the stem of the goblet. She did not raise it to her lips. She did not want the wine to confuse her mind. All her wits would be necessary when she faced what must be later this evening.

When the food arrived, she toyed with it in the same manner. Although she had not eaten all day, she was too nervous to enjoy her meal. If Nicholas spoke to her, she answered in monosyllables or not at all. Like a warm cloak on a midwinter night, she wrapped her misery around her to protect her from more hurt.

How could she eat this food when she had spent so much time selecting the menu she had planned to prepare for Keith on this most special night? She pushed the food around on the plate. It was not until Nicholas put his hand under her elbow that she noticed that he had finished and was politely aiding her to her feet.

As her eyes were caught by his, she could not stop the spasm of fear that raced across her face. They would be going back up to that empty room on the second floor which would be the site of their honeymoon. When she saw the rage erupting in his explosive, black eyes, her terror grew. Her imagination supplied too many sordid details of the lovemaking he would force her to endure.

“Come along, Rebecca,” he said, quietly. “It's been a long day for you. Tomorrow we have an equally long journey. I think you should go to bed now.”

Without a mirror, she knew her face was colorless. Although she tried, she could not force any words past the blockage in her throat. Compliantly, she walked out of the dining room and up the stairs. The time she had dreaded all day had come. It would be best if she let him do as he wanted and had it over. Her best hope would be to give him the heir he obviously wanted as quickly as possible. Then, perhaps, he would do as other gentlemen did and take himself a mistress. That was her best and only hope.

As they reached the door of their room, she said quietly to break the oppressive silence between them, “That was a delicious meal. Thank you.”

Sarcastically, he replied, “How would you know if it was tasty? You didn't take more than three bites during the whole meal.”

She did not answer because she knew anything she might say would enrage him more. When he opened the door, she fought to keep her hands from trembling. He pushed the door open, and she stepped past him.

As he closed the portal, his arm snaked around her waist and pulled her back to him. When he kissed her, she stood without moving. In a husky whisper, he asked, “Can't you pretend to feel something when I hold you, Rebecca? In the carriage, when you awoke in my arms, I could feel the fire deep within you. Find a bit more of it to share with me now, sweetheart.”

“No!” she gasped. “I cannot pretend anything. This afternoon was a mistake. I was dreaming you were—” She paused as she saw the rage increase on his scowling face. “All I can show you is how much I hate you, Nicholas Wythe.”

“Hate?” With a harsh shove, he pushed her back against the bed. He laughed as she tried to scramble away from its lushness. Easily, he kept her from escaping him by putting his arms out on either side of her. Inexorably, he pressed her back onto the coverlet with the strength of his body.

All fright she had known was eclipsed by what she experienced as he forced her clawing hands to her sides. As his lips explored her throat where her pulse beat rapidly, she wished herself away from this man. If she had known five years before that he would return to rape her, she would have let him die.

He raised his head to look into her tear-filled eyes. He could read her thoughts as clearly as if she had written them across her forehead. It was time that Rebecca knew the truth. “Sweetheart, you shouldn't hate me. I saved you from a marriage which would have made you miserable. You should thank me for what I did.”

“Thank you?” She stood shakily. His nearness unnerved her far more than she had thought. “You think you know everything, don't you? The all-wise lord of the manor! This time you are very, very wrong! Keith would have made me very happy. I love him, and he loves me.”

Nicholas chuckled again as he rose. It would serve her right to learn the truth. “And marrying him would have made Hart very happy, right?”