Rebecca (45 page)

“Very well. I will play along with you in this gamble that you are taking. I will keep an eye on Clarisse for you also, so she is not spirited away as Rebecca was.” She placed her bejeweled hand on his arm. “Good luck, son.”

For a horrid minute, his mind took him back to the last time they had been searching for Rebecca and he had been wished good fortune in finding her. That day she had nearly died in the mantrap. The snare she was caught in this time was even more dangerous. The metal jaws of this trap had settled firmly around her to hide her from sight more easily than the copse had done.

“I will need good fortune to best these criminals. Go ahead and do what you must for the ball. I have some plans to make to keep Clarisse as safe as I can without divulging my plot.”

When the ballroom was empty except for him once more, he gazed at the banners of past battles. From some of them, the Lord Foxbridge of that era had not returned. He vowed that, from this conflict, the present Lord Foxbridge would emerge victorious or not at all. Without Rebecca, there would be no life worth living for him. His sister and Curtis could have the Cloister, and the title, which had never been that important to him, would go to their son.

He crossed the room and closed the doors of the ballroom where in the hours to come, hidden by a mask, Rebecca's abductor would arrive to ask for the price of her life.

Chapter Twenty-Three

A hand on Rebecca's shoulder brought her awake with a cry after the second night in her prison. She stared up at the covered face of her jailer and knew her nightmare had not ended with her escape from sleep. Another scream came from her lips as her fingers moved down along her skin bared by the ravaged neckline of her dress. While she had been asleep, the gown had gaped to show the skin normally covered modestly.

She tried to move away, but his other hand held her shoulder to the cot. With a chuckle, he ripped the embroidered front of her gown away from the bodice and placed it in his pocket. She did not have to ask what he intended to do with it. The material would be used to prove to Nicholas that she still lived.

When the masked man's hand slipped beneath the fine silk of her chemise to fondle her, she raised her own hand toward his face. In only one way could she force him to leave her alone. She must convince him that she wanted to try to remove the concealing cloth from his face. He must not be allowed to guess that she did not need to see his face any longer to discover the secret—a secret she had uncovered through his carelessness and overconfidence.

As always, he protected the features hidden under the mask. His hand lifted away from her to bat away her questing fingers. “You are slow to learn, aren't you, Rebecca? I have warned you over and over that it's your life you risk by grabbing for my mask!”

“You learn even slower!” she spat as she stood and straightened her tattered dress. She wrapped the strip of material she had ripped from her petticoats around her bodice like a shawl to keep his eyes from viewing her so eagerly. “I do not wish to be touched by you.”

“‘You do not wish'?” he repeated with an explosion of laughter that resonated along the tunnel. “You have become quite the aristocrat, Lady Foxbridge, from the little democrat you once were. What a hostess you would have been at the ball tonight! As regal as any Foxbridge Cloister has ever known. Of course, Lord Foxbridge has wasted no time in securing a replacement.”

Rebecca's wan face turned to him. “Replacement? What do you mean?”

He swaggered over to her and put his arm around her waist. His other hand slipped around the nape of her neck, and he tipped her head up so he could gaze into her confused eyes. “Clarisse Beckwith will be at your husband's side tonight. Your husband had planned on her being at his side in your bed last night as well, but Lady Margaret vetoed that. It appears Lord Foxbridge has gotten over the shock of your disappearance swiftly. He's quite sure you are dead and is most interested in renewing his relationship with Clarisse. Did he tell you that they used to be lovers? Maybe they have been all along.”

When he paused, waiting for an answer, she answered stiffly, “There are no secrets between my husband and me.” Horror sank through her like a lead weight as she prayed her words were true. She could not understand how Nicholas could deny her so quickly.

Her captor's eyes twinkled in the light of the brand. When he spoke, the thick odor of whiskey bombarded her. “I admit he had me fooled, Rebecca, as much as you. I thought he truly loved you, but I may have been wrong. I may have obtained the wrong woman to bring Lord Foxbridge to heel. He says that he loves Clarisse and always has, despite the fact that he was trapped into marrying you and was too much of a gentleman to file for a divorce. I just don't understand why he did not simply leave you in America and marry Clarisse. No one would have ever known the difference. I guess he didn't want to be trapped by another woman.”

“Trapped?” she asked, baffled. Disbelievingly, she stared up into his eyes that had helped to reveal her captor's identity during the long hours she had had time to think in the wave-walled prison. If he was being honest, Nicholas must have sought out Clarisse to ease his sorrow. It was the strangest turn of events she could have imagined. Nicholas loved her. The warm sentiment in his eyes and in his kiss could not have been false.

He laughed. “He admitted it boldly, my dear Rebecca. How you convinced a chaplain to marry you so you could inherit his riches and fine title. Certainly you remember that!”

A smile crossed her lips. Instantly she understood what she should have realized from the beginning. Nicholas was trying to convince everyone that he had been forced into a loveless marriage in some plan he was effecting to try to gain her release. For some reason, he acted as if he did not really love her so her captor would release her and go after Clarisse to bend Nicholas to his will. She had to trust him to play out whatever plan he had formulated.

“He's touting that publicly?” she asked in feigned outrage. Her actions must match his tale. Trying to imagine how such a woman would act, she snarled, “What else did he think I would do? He was an enemy, but he didn't let me know that until I had saved his life. I wanted something in return for betraying my country. He had money. He had power. He had a woman he wanted to return to. I decided that I would be the woman to share that money and power, and I would take away his chance for happiness with Clarisse.”

Her captor's eyes filled with puzzlement. This was not the Rebecca who had seemed devoted to her husband He wondered which one was the real one. His eyes grew wide as she smiled flirtatiously at him.

“What's wrong, sir?” she asked in a tone she borrowed liberally from Clarisse. “Are you so upset you have been bested by Nicholas that you have no more threats left? We should not be enemies. While I have been here, I have thought long on it. I believe we want the same thing. We should be working together.” She put her arms around his waist. “Together,” she repeated in a breathy voice as she leaned her head against his chest.

His arms tightened around her to feel her slender body so close as he had longed to feel it for the many months she had been at Foxbridge Cloister. When he ran his hands along the back of her gown where few of the hooks remained in place, his fingers slipped inside the rips to caress her bare skin. Instead of pulling away, she murmured softly and moved seductively against him. In shock, he pulled away. Rebecca Wythe was no different from Clarisse Beckwith. She just had an alternative way of getting what both women as well as he himself wanted.

Smoothing her tattered dress along her body, knowing his eyes followed the movement as her hands outlined her form, she moved toward him. Her eyes widened with disappointment. “Have you changed your mind? I thought you wanted me. I'm willing to be most cooperative in exchange for a share of what you intend to exhort from Nicholas.” In a vicious voice, she added, “I will be glad to see him suffer for refusing to make a settlement on me in America so I could marry the man I truly loved. For the last months, I have had to suffer in his bed so he could have the heir he wanted.” Her laugh became glacier cold. “Let everyone wait. I made the decision I would make sure Nicholas Wythe has no heir until he sees fit to give me what I want.”

“What is it you want, Rebecca?” he demanded as he tried to understand this sudden change.

“What do we all want, sir? Money, power, control over our inferiors. Are you interested in getting it with my help?”

He chortled with delight as he drew his gun. Seeing her face blanch, he laughed harder. “I don't trust you, Rebecca. I don't trust your husband either. It seems that both of you are chameleons. Which are the real ones? The devoted spouses or the ones suffering in the contrived marriage?” He raised the gun and held it directly in front of her face. Her sharp intake of breath echoed eerily along the tunnel. “It seems odd to me that, if you hated each other so much, you would go through that remarriage at Foxbridge Cloister.” He smiled broadly at the emotions rippling across her face, knowing she could not see his expression of triumph. “You, my dear Lady Foxbridge, are not a very good liar. It is a shame, however, you did not consider a career on the stage. Behind the footlights, you would have been the scene-stealer every time you walked on the boards.”

“I'm not acting. I …” Her voice faded away as his thumb drew back on the hammer.

He chuckled. “Your game is done, my sweet. I know you love your husband dearly. I'm not so sure of him, so I think I will be bringing you some company tonight after my visit to Foxbridge Cloister.”

Knowing she had overplayed her hand, she cried, “Stop this insanity before it goes any further. Please, don't hurt Nicholas.” As she saw the glitter of amusement in his eyes, she said in a near whisper, “You are right. I love him. I do not want him to die.”

“What you want is of no importance to me, Lady Foxbridge,” he stated as he replaced the pistol under his coat. “What I want is of utmost importance. I want you and the things you tried to pretend were your desires as well. I shall have both before the week is out.” He grasped her and spun her back into his arms. “When I decide that the time is right, you will be mine, Rebecca. I will take your unwilling body until I tire of you.” He ran his hands along her. “It won't be soon that I grow fatigued of your charms, my pretty little lady.”

“Let me go,” she screamed. “I won't submit to you!”

His infuriating chuckle filled the cavern. “I know, Rebecca. That will make it all the more fun to force you to surrender. Farewell for now, my Lady Foxbridge. I will see you this evening.”

Helplessly she watched as he scurried across the plank and pulled it back to the far side. She had tried her last idea to escape him, and it had failed. While he walked away, she wondered how long she would be able to survive his tortures. Knowing who her captor was only made the whole situation more of a nightmare. If he discovered her knowledge of his identity, he would destroy her immediately.

How betrayed Nicholas would feel when he learned the truth!

Rebecca viewed her prison impotently. She had to escape before he could return with Clarisse. There was no choice. If she remained then, her fate was sealed. She would be that disgusting man's mistress to be used whenever he tired of his wife, but only until he grew bored with her. Then she would die.

She had to flee.

But how?

The plank was too far away. Thoughts of making a rope to try to snag it and bring it across the chasm were useless. She had no way to rip the thick blankets to braid them into a strong rope. Nor did she have time to waste on worthless projects. All she possessed were the heavy crate filled with only her captor knew what and the cot.

With a sudden smile, Rebecca moved to her bed. Tipping it over, she examined it. Yes, it was a folding cot like the military used. Perhaps she could get the legs to the proper position to lengthen it enough.

She had to exert all her strength against the hinges, which had rusted in the salt air. It would appear that her captor had not been the first to use this prison. Finally she had to stand with one foot on the inverted bed while she pushed with the other against the obstinate legs. She nearly cried with despair as she felt the metal crosspiece that connected the two straight legs begin to bend with her efforts. Then, abruptly, the legs were lying flat on the ground.

Rubbing her right leg, which ached with the force she was having to expend, she moved to the other side. This set she managed to move with just her hands. She stood to measure the chasm with her eyes. Would the bed be long enough to fit across it? It would have to, because it was her final hope.

She shoved the bed frame to the edge. Then she returned to push the heavy crate forward. Sweat ran along her body as she strained to move it. It would not slide, so she tried lifting it end over end. A delighted smile brightened her face as she heard the crash of glass as she tilted it. She released it quickly, and the crate dropped onto its side. From it ran a dark fluid she did not have to be told was illicit brandy smuggled from France.

It was difficult to be patient and wait until all the liquor had emptied from the broken bottles. When the golden river had slowed almost to a stop, she pushed on the box again. It was so much lighter, she could move it with ease.

“All right. This is your last chance, Rebecca. Pray it works,” she said aloud to the emptiness of her prison.

Once she had dropped all the other items in the small cave over the side of the split in the floor, she turned to the task at hand. Carefully she balanced the heavy crate on the end of the bed farthest from the rim. Even more cautiously, she began to push the cot over the open space.

At first it was not so difficult, but as the bed hung farther and farther out over the pit, she had more trouble holding it steady. The box helped as it acted as a counterbalance. When the legs hit the far side, she struggled to raise them over the rim. Only her determination to escape kept her from giving up what seemed to be hopeless. It took her nearly a dozen arm-wrenching tries to lift the legs onto the opposite side. Inch by inch, she pushed the bed forward until it was perched precariously over the chasm.