“Will you ransom me? Oh, no!” Her face, already pale, was now paper white. And he knew what she was thinking. He would send the Earl of Northcliffe a note and he would come and Georges would kill him. He had never before in his life seen such naked pain. He wouldn’t let it touch him. He had seen more death in his lifetime than this tender pullet would in a dozen lifetimes. He’d brought about more deaths than an English regiment.
She rushed into speech. “No, Douglas won’t come to me, he won’t, I swear it to you. He is in love with my sister, Melissande. He had to keep me, his cousin married me to him by proxy. It was all a horrible mistake. Douglas wants me gone, truly. Please, monsieur. Please, he won’t care.”
“I don’t suppose you can cook? I’ll just bet you are one of those utterly useless English ladies who never soiled her hands in her life.”
“I am not useless! I am a fine gardener, though.” She paused, then continued slowly, “I really can’t cook anything that would look toothsome. I am sorry but in truth, I’m not at all hungry.”
He grunted, then turned toward the small kitchen set back in the far corner of the room. He said over his shoulder, “Don’t move.”
She didn’t. She sat there staring at the door, at him in the small alcove, at the thick layer of dust on every surface in the room.
“Where are we?” she called out.
“Be quiet.”
“I know we’re in France.”
“How do you know that?”
She hadn’t been completely certain, and she was pleased to have her conclusion so easily verified. She had remembered smelling the sea; then deep inside her, she remembered the rocking of a boat.
Some minutes later, he came into the room carrying two plates. One held slices of thick bread, the other a stew of sorts, reeking of garlic. Alexandra nearly gagged.
He said only, “Eat a piece of bread. It will probably settle your guts.”
She chewed on the bread, trying to avoid looking at him downing the noxious stew.
The few bites stayed down. She looked toward the small crock of butter but was afraid to smear any on the bread. Georges continued to spoon down the stew.
When she couldn’t bear it any longer, she said, “What are you going to do to me?”
He raised his head and simply looked at her. “I’m going to strip off your clothes first and I’m going to bathe you. Then I’m going to rape you as your husband did to my Janine. I will keep you with me until you are pregnant. Then I will send you back to Douglas.”
She stared at him. Men were unaccounta
ble. “But,” she said, cocking her head to one side, “that doesn’t make any sense, does it?”
He flung his spoon against the wall, rising from his chair, and leaning toward her, his palms flat on the rough wooden surface. “You will cease your unexpected prattle! I don’t like it. It annoys me. Do you understand me?”
“No, I don’t. It seems vastly stupid and just plain dishonorable and ungentlemanly to even consider doing such a thing. To force me? To keep me a prisoner and humiliate me like that? No, it isn’t reasonable. Besides, Douglas says it can take a long time to create a babe. Will you keep me with you here for the next five years?”
He growled in fury, in frustration. “Damn you, beg me not to do it!”
She stared at him.
“Ah, be quiet!”
She was still quiet.
He said, “I am going to fetch you some bathwater now. I want you sweet-smelling when I take you.”
She couldn’t allow him to do that. She knew she wouldn’t allow him to do that. The only problem was how to stop him. He was the stronger; he had hit upon this revenge and she realized that he was a man, who, once committed to a goal, couldn’t be easily swerved from his set course. The thought of five years in her company didn’t even seem to deter him.
What to do?
* * *
The main street of Etaples was crammed with stalls with people hawking everything from potatoes to blackberries. Tony and Douglas dismounted, leading their horses, pressing always forward.