The Dutiful Rake (10 page)

Abruptly he released her. ‘I think, Meg, that you must be very tired. You should go to bed.’ His voice was distant, cold. It shocked him, but he couldn’t help it. He had to think. ‘I need to stretch my legs so I shall go for a walk about the town. Goodnight. I shall see you in the morning.’ Without awaiting any reply he was gone, leaving a very confused bride behind him.

Meg retired to her bedchamber, uncertain whether she was relieved at his lordship’s forbearance or not. Did he really think her tired, or was he just being polite? His face had given her no clue as to his real reasons for not sharing her bed. He had seemed so chilly and remote. Perhaps he just wasn’t interested…found her unattractive…regarded it as an inevitable duty and one which he was in no hurry to perform. She swallowed nervously at the thought. How could she possibly share these…intimacies with him if he viewed her with distaste? It would be humiliating!

She poured water into the bowl on the nightstand and cleansed herself thoroughly, trying not to think about
the way he had kissed her…the way he had possessed and plundered her mouth…Had her response disgusted him? Should she not have kissed him back? She was stunned to feel an aching, empty sensation between her thighs as she washed there. Shocked, she gritted her teeth and dried herself as quickly as possible before pulling a nightgown over her head and scrambling into bed. The soft feather mattress welcomed her weary body and she admitted to herself, with a sigh, that whatever his reasons for deciding to go for a walk, she should at least be grateful to her husband for an unexpected night’s sleep.

Blowing out the candle, she settled down and snuggled under the blankets, enjoying the cosy glow from the fire. She had never had a fire in her bedchamber before…except, of course, when she had been sick and Marc had looked after her…Sleepily she allowed herself to think about Marc. He had been so kind to her…it was a pity that he kept on turning into Marcus, Lord Rutherford. Of course Marc would not have dreamed of forcing himself on her if she was tired…but then he wouldn’t have to. Tired or not, Meg would have surrendered herself to his loving without the slightest hesitation…as indeed she had thought she was doing until his lordship put her from him so abruptly. Still puzzling over this, she drifted off to sleep.

She was awakened some time later by the sound of someone moving around in her room. At first she was confused—the fire had nearly died and the room was in near darkness. In her half-waking state, she thought it must be Agnes, but then a very masculine grunt, followed by the sound of first one boot, and then another, hitting the floor, woke her up completely.

She froze. All at once she knew the true meaning of the term
bride nerves.
Marcus must have changed his mind and he had come to…to…possess her body. Half-excited and half-terrified, she lay in the great bed, shaking with nervous anticipation as she listened to the faint sounds of him undressing. Even though her scared brain was trying to persuade her to panic, her body had other ideas. She could feel tingling warmth spreading through her limbs, that extraordinary feeling of weakness that was at once frightening and exciting.

A moment later she felt him get into the bed beside her. What should she do? Let him know she was awake? But if she spoke then he would know she was scared. Was he even going to speak to her before…? She could feel the hard length of his body against her and turned towards him instinctively, trustingly, her arms open, body soft and trembling, her mouth ready for his tender kisses…a world of warm, intimate darkness.

Then the world went mad. She felt a hand reach out for her, grasping, and then she was taken in a rough grip and his mouth was on hers…brutal, greedy. Frantically Meg forced herself to recall her wedding vows and lie still. She had sworn to obey him…it was no part of a bride’s duty to struggle against her husband’s rightful claim to her body…but it was so horrible! His gentle kisses earlier had given her no inkling of what his behaviour would be like in bed! She had expected that he would be a gentle, tender lover…at the very least considerate. Not this brute beast with his hot, lustful mouth that reeked of brandy, slobbering all over her face. His lips were cruel where once they had been tantalising…she could taste blood. The friendly dark had become a dungeon full of pain and fear.

And what was he doing now? His hands were grab
bing at her breasts through the cotton nightgown, actually hurting her. She must lie still…she was his wife…it…it was his right to take her. Terrified, she schooled her body to obedience, even as she felt his hands at the neck of her nightgown jerk apart, ripping it open to the navel. Even worse than her physical terror was the feeling of betrayal, the thought that she had trusted this man, had thought he cared for her at least enough to deal gently with her virginity. His hands were now seizing her soft breasts, crushing them cruelly as he savagely forced his tongue into her mouth.

She gagged, and panicked completely as she felt his weight shift to pin her to the bed. She couldn’t! She just couldn’t! He could have the marriage annulled! She simply could not submit to his desires! She tried desperately to throw him off and heard a light, mocking laugh as her mouth was released momentarily. And then he took it again, even more brutally as he thrust one leg between her thighs, leaving her with no doubt that he meant to have her even if he had to force her. She couldn’t believe it…that Marcus was to all intents and purposes raping her…enjoying her terror…it couldn’t be happening.

But it was. She was fighting a losing battle. His weight held her down, helpless, and his powerful right hand had encircled both her wrists above her head while his left was raising the hem of her nightgown. She could feel it sliding down between her thighs, felt his fingers reaching, probing in hard, merciless lust…could feel a heavy ring scrape against her soft flesh…and then she realised…As clearly as though it were before her, she could see Marc’s heavy signet on his right hand—his left wore no ring!

Her scream of protest was cut off by that hand which
was suddenly clamped over her mouth and a light, unfamiliar voice said, ‘You would be most unwise to do that, my dear. I can assure you that he will not believe you were unwilling. Lie still and I will be on my way before he comes up.’

It was not Marc! It was a stranger! She fought with the strength of desperation to escape that iron grip on her mouth and finally bit savagely. With a curse, he hit her face a stunning blow but her mouth was free and she dragged in a breath and screamed as loudly as she could, struggling fiercely to get out from underneath him.

It was no use. He gave up trying to silence her and seemed to be concentrating his efforts on taking his pleasure as quickly and roughly as possible.

She twisted her legs together tightly and heard him mutter, ‘God help me. Anyone would think you had your virtue to defend!’ She could feel a hand at her throat, gripping mercilessly, she couldn’t breathe…oh, God…Despairing, she could feel him forcing himself between her legs…something hard and blunt…pushing…She screamed again as the grip on her throat relaxed slightly…

And then there was a crash as the door burst open to the accompaniment of a roar of primitive, masculine rage and a blaze of light.

Marcus had taken a rather longer walk than he intended in his efforts to regain his usual sangfroid. And he felt just slightly foolish at his idiotic panic. So much did he want to hurl his stupid decision to the four winds and go back and make love to his bride that he walked right around the town a second time to cool off, before returning to the George. She was probably asleep al
ready and it would be the height of cruelty to awaken her.

Upon his return he made his way upstairs with an oil lamp pressed on him by mine host and past Meg’s door. Ruefully he thought that she must be asleep by now, it would be outrageous to go in and wake her up. Perhaps if he rose early in the morning he might go in and wait for her to awaken…

Comforting himself with this thought, he set his hand to the latch of his own door…and froze as a terrified scream rang out.

He didn’t pause for thought. He knew beyond all possible doubt that it was Meg…something was wrong…she must be having a nightmare…He was already running back to her door. It was locked, but he didn’t bother to knock, just hurled his shoulder at it and burst in as another agonised scream seared through him.

At first he could not believe his eyes and then with a roar of fury he surged across the room to drag Blaise Winterbourne off Meg. Winterbourne was too quick for him.

He rolled off the bed on the opposite side to the door and said mockingly, ‘I did warn her not to be too enthusiastic in her excitement! Never mind. Another time, perhaps. Do let me know when you have finished with her, my dear Rutherford. A little unschooled, I must say, but I’m sure she will be worth the effort.’

Meg, half-fainting, managed to pull up the bedclothes with shaking hands. She was safe but she felt sickened, soiled by his body, his touch. What must Marcus be thinking? Would he believe what had happened? Or would he think she was truly her mother’s daughter? His voice when it came was like a shard of ice, sending fresh shudders through her overwrought senses.

‘Get out of my wife’s chamber, Winterbourne.’ Searing rage held him in its grip, but through it a cold voice counselled discretion. The last thing he wanted was the landlord up. If this story got out, there would be the very devil to pay! Very few would believe Meg’s innocence. He had to protect her! She was huddled under the bedclothes, shaking visibly, her face white and dazed, her lip cut and there was a red mark on her cheekbone that looked as if it would bruise later. His little Meg…if that bastard had actually—

‘Your wife!’ For a moment Winterbourne was disconcerted, but he recovered his urbanity in a flash. ‘Dear me! How very
maladroit
I have been. I thought her one of your little indulgences, my dear Rutherford. Do not trouble to see me out, I know my way.’

Never taking his eyes off Marcus, he pulled on his shirt and breeches, picked up his boots and edged around the bed towards the door, saying, ‘Naturally I shall not breathe a word of this…unless of course you wish me to name my seconds, my lord?’

For a mad instant Marcus was tempted, but a terrified murmur from Meg recalled him to his senses and saner counsel prevailed. If he challenged Winterbourne the story was bound to leak out and Meg would suffer, even more than she had already.

Coldly he replied, “Winterbourne, I would not care to soil my riding whip with a cur like you! Get out! But rest assured, if I hear so much as a whisper about this, I will overcome my reluctance and thrash you to within an inch of your life!’

A
s soon as the door shut behind Winterbourne, Marcus turned to Meg. His heart contracted in his chest as he looked at her wide, terrified eyes, and saw the racking shudders that were convulsing her slender body. Her breath was coming in sobs which bordered on hysteria.

What the hell should he do? He wanted to hold her, comfort her, but when he moved towards her she flinched and cried out incoherently, cowering away from him. He couldn’t blame her. After what had happened it would be a miracle if she ever trusted a man again. He was not even sure if he had been in time…had Winterbourne actually deflowered her? The thought that Meg had been raped made him feel physically ill. His little Meg…so lost and vulnerable behind her polite mask…he had sworn to protect her and he couldn’t even comfort her when he had failed so abysmally!

She was speaking. ‘Marc…I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…I let him…’

He froze in disbelief, his eyes suddenly boring into her, an unbelievable pain lancing through his body. She had
let
him!

‘I thought it was you!’ She could not go on and turned to bury her face in the pillow, sobbing bitterly at the thought that she had even accidentally betrayed Marc who was now looking at her in such disgust. Then she felt a gentle touch on her shoulder, a hand warm and comforting, patting her.

A deep voice, husky with emotion, saying, ‘Meg, it’s all right…you’re safe now. Come…let me hold you…’ Those gentle hands were turning her, lifting her to lie cradled in his arms against the solid, protective bulwark of his chest. He was stroking her hair, whispering words of comfort, of reassurance. Slowly she began to relax under his touch, although her tears continued to flow unabated.

Marcus just held her, his cheek resting on her dishevelled hair, his hands stroking and soothing as he murmured softly. He could never afterwards remember just what he had said to her, but at last her terrible weeping stopped and she lay silent in his arms except for an occasional hiccough. They were quiet for a while and then Meg spoke again in a voice which cracked pitifully.

‘I thought it was you…that you had changed your mind…wanted me after all…’

She had thought he didn’t want her? Oh, God, no! She was still speaking and he forced himself to concentrate.

‘So I…I welcomed him…He didn’t say anything…just grabbed me and started…started—’ She broke off, shuddering convulsively. His grip on her tightened and she seemed to gain strength. ‘He…he started to kiss me…and…touch my breasts…I thought it was you…I couldn’t believe it but…I thought I had to submit so I tried to just lie there…but he was so
rough I panicked in the end. I tried to fight him…and then I realised…realised what I had done…that it wasn’t you…’

She was crying softly again and Marcus stroked her tenderly. ‘It’s over, Meg. He’ll never touch you again. It’s over, I swear it.’

Then, to his amazement, she whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Marc…I betrayed you…’

He was stunned.
She
had betrayed
him?
When he had left her alone? Not even thinking to tell her to lock her door!

‘You didn’t, Meg!’ His voice was urgent, desperate to reassure her. ‘How was it a betrayal to have been attacked?’ He shied from the word
rape.
But then he thought, No, I have to know. I can’t help her if I don’t. How can I help her get over this if
I
fear the truth?

Hesitantly he asked, ‘Meg, did he actually…?’

She shook her head, ‘N…no, at least I don’t think so. You came in just as…’ Her voice failed at the memory of that dreadful, helpless moment when she had felt Winterbourne’s body forcing itself against her in violent lust.

Marcus’s blood practically congealed in his veins as he realised that in another second or two he would have been too late to save her. His voice cracked as he whispered, ‘Thank God! Oh thank God! Meg…I’m sorry…I should never have left you alone. It was selfish…just because I wanted you so much…and I didn’t trust myself not to…’ He stopped. It would hardly reassure Meg to know he had been burning with desire for her, had wanted to change his mind and come to her room.

And what was he to do now? Should he stay to look after her or would she prefer him to leave her alone? She needed a woman to help her but there was no one
he could call. If they had been in London Di would have helped, but here…he couldn’t leave her alone all night.

Meg lay quietly, conscious of the comforting strength of his body. She felt safe in his arms, as though nothing could touch her there…except him. The thought came to her unbidden and she tried to force it away. It was obscene to fear what Marc would do to her…but the fear persisted; not that he would force himself on her, but that even if he dealt with her gently, she would panic in the dark, forget it was him…if he wanted her after this. Perhaps he would not want to touch her. She felt dirty, befouled as though a slime clung to her, filthy and degraded.

Marc was speaking softly. ‘Listen, sweetheart, I will go to my room and change for the night, then come back to look after you, if that is what you want. I don’t want you to be alone, but…’ He hesitated.

‘Yes, please.’ She tried to keep her voice low, hiding the relief that flooded into her. He would stay! She had not dared to ask it of him. She felt that she would contaminate anything she touched.

He released her and stood up, looking down at her worriedly. She sounded so…so utterly lifeless, broken. The torn nightgown hung open, revealing her soft, creamy breasts. Dark bruises were beginning to appear and he swore softly as he realised just how brutal Winterbourne had been with her. The bruise on her cheek was stark against her chalk-white face and her cut lip was swollen. A knife seemed to slice through his heart at the thought of what had so nearly happened. Even if the bastard hadn’t known she was a virgin, to force himself violently on an unknown and unwilling
girl! It sickened Marc to his very soul. Even he hadn’t quite realised how vile Winterbourne could be…

Swearing under his breath, he went to make up the fire and then rifled through Meg’s trunk, finding another nightgown. He took the nightgown to her, saying, ‘Change while I am gone. Bolt the door behind me. The lock is smashed. I’ll knock when I return.’

She nodded, beyond words. Maybe it would help to change. She got up and stood shakily for a moment before following Marc to the door. He touched her bruised cheek gently and went out.

She bolted the door and stared at it, lost, bewildered; the urge to open it and beg him to come back was almost overwhelming…she was being silly—he would be back in a few minutes. In the meantime she must change.

The nightgown he had found for her was on the bed. She put it on and looked with loathing at the ripped one she had removed. It lay on the floor, its torn innocence accusing, a whited sepulchre, rotten, full of corruption. Burn it! She bundled it up and pushed it into the fire Marcus had rekindled. The flames flared up the chimney and for a moment she wished that she could be cleansed, annealed in their purifying blaze. How else could she ever be clean again?

She was still staring into the fire when Marcus came back. His knock recalled her to her senses and she almost ran to let him in. The sight of his tall figure was immensely comforting in the familiar red silk dressing gown. His arms were full of blankets and she looked at them in confusion.

‘What are they for?’

‘For me,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought you would prob
ably prefer me to sleep in the chair…that you wouldn’t want me in—’

‘No!’ Her voice was frantic. She could hear it and tried to control herself, but the words came tumbling out. ‘Please…please…just hold me…please, Marc—’ She forced herself to stop. Impossible to tell him how she felt…that if he didn’t hold her that she would never feel safe…Then, looking up into his bleak face, she realised that he understood.

‘If that is what you wish, Meg.’ His voice was low. He felt humbled and elated all at once that she would trust him like that. Very slowly he went to her and lifted her into his arms as easily as he would have lifted a child. There was nothing amorous in his touch, just solid, protective comfort. He carried her to the bed and settled her in it before climbing in.

‘Do you want the lamp, Meg?’ She might feel safer that way, he thought. Then if she wakes, she can see it’s me.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I’d sleep, but…’ In the dark, though…

‘A candle,’ said Marcus. He got up again and lit one, setting it on the nightstand. Then he came back to bed and blew out the lamp. The little flame danced and glimmered, a glowing island in the encircling dark.

Marcus lay down and reached for Meg, drawing her into his embrace, settling her safely into the curve of his shoulder. He felt her body, tense at first, slowly relax against him until at last her breathing steadied and deepened into the haven of sleep. He lay wakeful for a long time, half-expecting to have to fight his own body’s urges, but although he was profoundly aware of her soft curves nestled beside him, and although it would have
taken very little to stir him to passion, he could hold himself easily in check by concentrating on the trust she had showed in him.

Meg awakened in a cold sweat, confused and terrified from a dream in which Marc kept turning into Winterbourne and a smothering, greedy blackness enveloped her, body and soul. There was a heavy weight across her waist, pinning her down. Marc’s arm, strong and reassuring. The fire was very low but the candle flame still danced bravely. Clean, bright…she envied it its effortless purity. She wanted to wash, totally immerse herself in water to cleanse away the stains left on her, especially the stain of fear. There was water on the nightstand…if she were very quiet…

Careful not to wake him, she lifted Marc’s arm and got out of bed. Perhaps if she washed she might feel clean. Stripping off her nightgown, she stood shivering in the chilly air. A flannel lay on the stand. She dipped it in the bowl and began to wash herself in the icy water, wincing as the cold bit through her. She washed and washed, scrubbing at her body until it felt raw and stinging—her breasts, her thighs…but still she felt mired.

Marcus had woken as soon as she moved his arm but he lay quietly, unwilling to intrude, trying to understand. The faint light gleamed on her white curves as he watched her, creating shadowy mysteries in the intimate hollows of her body, mysteries that he longed to penetrate, possess…He could hear her teeth chattering, but still she was scrubbing obsessively. And suddenly, with a blinding flash of understanding, he knew why she was doing it. He shut his eyes, appalled.

Never in his life had he forced himself on a woman. Ever since he and Jack had caught Blaise Winterbourne at a house party, forcing his attentions upon a terrified
chambermaid, he had thought it to be the most despicable of acts, scorning those who boasted of the defenceless maidservants they had coerced.

Naturally he and Jack had stopped Winterbourne, but even so, he had never quite realised how devastating it would be for a woman—how sullied she would feel afterwards—until now, as he lay watching his bride frantically trying to cleanse the memory from her bruised and shivering flesh, a victim of Winterbourne’s twisted, ongoing vengeance.

At last she stopped with a despairing murmur. ‘I’ll never be clean again…never!’

Marcus flinched at the dull pain in her voice, watching as she dried herself and pulled the nightgown back on. It slid down over her breasts, puckered with cold, her slender waist and those flaring hips, the long line of her thighs, all graceful, tempting curves. He shut his eyes to block out the vision but it danced before him mercilessly in all its seductive beauty, inviting him to touch, caress, burn kisses over the silken skin…show her how tender and intimate the act could be…erase, or at least counter, the dreadful memory of her near rape. It was too soon, he told himself. Perhaps if she will let me tell Di, or if I can persuade her to tell Di…

He could hear the soft pad of her feet as she came back to the bed and he lay there, gritting his teeth for control. It would be safer for her if he went and slept on the chair, but he knew if he did that she would read it as a rejection of her, a confirmation of her vileness. And he could not tell her the real reason and frighten her still further. She trusted him, had no one else to turn to. Though it killed him, he would not betray that trust.

Meg got back into the bed, shivering violently. She longed to cuddle up against Marc’s warmth, feel his arm
around her, holding her fear at bay, but hesitated to wake him. So she lay huddled under the blankets, trying to ward off sleep in case she should dream again. She forced herself to think about Marc’s kisses, how different they had been, how tender and…exciting. She had been a little scared, but only of her own response, the wild, aching need that had pierced through her. She had not been scared of him, and when she had thought he had come to her bed to possess her, her heart had soared in an ecstasy of joy…She found that tears were sliding down her cheeks again and buried her face in the pillow to muffle her sobs.

She felt a gentle hand grip her shoulder, heard a deep voice say, ‘Come here, little one.’ She turned at once, wriggling into his arms and clinging to him, pressing herself against him, conscious only of the solid heat of his body, the reassuring strength of his arms. Somehow the fact that he was willing to hold her like this made her feel cleaner.

The sensation of her trembling body seared into his unruly flesh. He suppressed a groan with extreme difficulty. She must not know he wanted her…wanted her with a desire that shocked even him in its raw, primitive longing. He forced himself to stroke her hair gently, holding her against him protectively while his body screamed silently at the torture it was subjected to. It had been a physical relief when she had not nestled back up to him at first, but he could not, just for the sake of his own comfort and sanity, leave her to cry herself to sleep.

He could feel her tears soaking through his nightshirt as she wept, and said quietly, ‘Tell me, Meg. It will make you feel better.’

‘I…I can’t.’