Eleven years of incarceration, eleven years of his warders’ brutality, eleven years of madness. The misery he must have endured didn’t bear thinking about.
He shrugged. “It could have been worse. My uncle in his kindness,” he bit out the words, “saved me from confinement in an asylum. I doubt I’d have survived otherwise.”
“Even so, eleven years a prisoner,” she said, aghast.
Abruptly, the fine food lost its flavor. With trembling hands, she set down her knife and fork. She noticed the marquess had eaten even less of the extravagant meal than she.
He shrugged. “I believe it was for the good of all concerned. At the time.” This last with a caustic edge.
“You speak of your uncle. What of your parents? What of your brothers and sisters?”
“My parents died before I fell ill. They had no other children. My uncle was my legal guardian when I was a boy and as I never regained my wits, he has continued in that role.” He frowned across the elaborately set table. “Didn’t Lord John explain this? Surely he’d want you in possession of the basic facts, if only to stop you bolting in hysteria when faced with your client.” He paused. “But of course, you did bolt, didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t hysterical,” she snapped. “And for the last time, I don’t know your uncle.”
His face tautened with disdain. “And for the last time, I tell you I don’t believe you.” He shoved back his chair and stood. “I weary of this conversation, madam. I bid you goodnight.”
Just like that, he stalked out of the room. She heard his firm footstep cross the hall then the slam of the door as he left the house.
Thank heaven she was alone at last. The aching tension that had knotted her muscles since he’d fetched her from the bedroom eased a fraction and allowed her an unfettered breath.
Perhaps the marquess’s mistrust was part of his affliction. Josiah had definitely gone a little strange toward the end. But he’d been old and sick. She didn’t have the experience to judge the marquess’s sanity. In her untutored opinion, he appeared disconcertingly intelligent. Certainly nothing escaped those perceptive eyes.
Was it possible to be both mad and coherent at the same time?
The urgent question, though, wasn’t whether he was mad but what he intended to do. Until now, he’d only touched her to help her. Nor had he indicated he meant violence.
Until now.
She shivered and stared bleakly into the shadows. He was so much stronger than she. She remembered the latent power in his muscles when he’d carried her. If he threw himself upon her, she had no hope of fighting him off.
Should she flee? She couldn’t escape the estate. But the night was fine, if cool. Sleeping outdoors wouldn’t hurt her.
Outdoors she risked running into Monks and Filey.
Dear Lord, she couldn’t face that. Whatever the marquess did, it had to be better than the degradation she’d meet at their hands.
She rose and staggered, grabbing the table for balance. She hadn’t touched a drop of wine in years. On her empty stomach, even the small amount she’d imbibed made her head spin. She sucked in another deep breath and strove for clarity.
Why hadn’t she been more careful? The last thing she needed was alcohol slowing her reactions. She was such a fool. She bent her head and waited for the dizziness to pass.
Her bedroom. That was her only sanctuary. She’d barricade the door. When the marquess returned, at least he wouldn’t find her waiting like a dog expecting its master.
How long did she have? He’d marched out in a huff but he might decide roaming the night wasn’t the only way to work off his bad temper.
She had to make herself safe. And quickly.
She needed a weapon. Her trembling fingers curled around the knife she’d used for dinner. It wasn’t sharp enough to do real damage, but it might slow him down.
Clutching the knife, she hurried upstairs so fast that her candle threatened to flicker out. She hurled herself into the elaborate bedroom and kicked the door shut behind her. Then she slipped her knife into her pocket and raised her candle to find the bolt.
No bolt. No lock of any kind.
Of course, this house was a madman’s prison. His jailers would need continuous access. She should have realized there would be no way to secure the door. With unsteady hands, she slid the candle onto the dresser.
A heavy oak chest sat against the wall. She could pull it in front of the door then pile other furniture on top. The marquess was strong but she’d make sure not even Samson could break into this room to ravish his reluctant Delilah.
She ranged herself against the far side of the chest and pushed hard.