Reynolds purred, “My poor Lady Drummond. Your father wanted you to marry a Puritan, I believe.”
“He wanted me to marry Silas. Their lands abounded. I remained faithful to my intention to wed Captain Trethveyan until my father ordered his men to seek him out and have him killed.” Elizabeth drew in a breath. “That was when I wrote to Charles of my decision to marry Silas and had my father’s man deliver that, instead of the death sentence my father decreed.” She looked down at her trembling hands. “As soon as I was able, I gathered my belongings and fled the castle to seek Captain Trethveyan. He was lodging at the White Swan, where he’d told me he’d wait for me—forever, if he had to.”
In the expectant silence she toyed with her wine.
“But he didn’t wait, did he, Lady Drummond?”
* * *
Charles rose, ostensibly to put another log on the fire. He hoped Reynolds would not notice his shaking hand. Good God, this was news to him, though he could never say so. He needed a diversion, so he’d not be caught out by the expression on his face. When he finally spoke he struggled for a tone of insouciance. The heavy atmosphere did not augur well for Elizabeth, given Reynolds’ temperament. If he could keep it light, he might keep Reynolds from descending into the grim moods that precipitated his unpredictable violence. He glowered at Elizabeth. “I wasn’t going to wait around when you’d made your choice.”
She gave him a narrow look. “After today’s experience, I’d say I chose the better man.”
“You were found wanting, eh, Trethveyan?” chortled Reynolds. “You’ve every right to take the lady to task given that she’s a prisoner. Insults will not go unpunished. On second thoughts,” he added, rising and placing his hands on Elizabeth’s shoulders. “I’d be happy to bring the lady to heel, myself.”
He dipped his hand into her low-cut bodice and Elizabeth gasped and reared back.
“Enough, Reynolds!” Charles spoke sharply, sickened and desperate to navigate the uncertain waters.
“You’ve claimed her for mains, old chap,”—Reynolds’ grin broadened—“but surely I’m allowed a little entrée?”
Charles imagined how he would feel if Elizabeth were his wife and Reynolds—or any other man for that matter—were making free and easy with her. He’d have his sword out of its scabbard and at the rogue’s neck. Right now there was nothing to be gained by taking umbrage, and everything to lose. He had no claim upon Elizabeth but Reynolds was playing on the disappointed lovers’ scenario as if he were directing the stage version of The Triumph of Beauty. Charles had heard enough whispers to make him very afraid of what Reynolds had in store for Elizabeth. Apparently, Reynolds liked to rustle up whores and arrange them in various tableaux for his perverse proclivities, directing them as if he were treading the boards in Covent Garden.
Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Elizabeth’s suppressed panic and tried to rein in his agitation. “Let me remind you that we are gentlemen, Reynolds,” he said, a great deal more mildly than he felt. “With all due respect, our bargain made no mention of entrées for you.”
“Impertinence!” Reynolds said it with a grin, but there was an edge to it. Both his hands had disappeared beneath the silk bodice of Elizabeth’s gown, which was cut low enough that he’d successfully exposed one full, creamy breast topped with a rosy red nipple.
Charles turned his head away from the entreaty in Elizabeth’s face. She looked close to tears but he could not afford to lose his temper and rush to her defence. The acknowledgement compounded his self-disgust. So she had tried to flee her father and seek his protection. All these years he’d believed a very different version of events.
“Is it impertinence to remind you that tonight was your opportunity to balance the debt you owe me? Will you stop that, Reynolds!” he spoke sharply this time, for Reynolds was down on his knees, his head now beneath the lady’s skirts and Elizabeth was staring at him, panic-stricken. She’d half risen but Reynolds had captured her ankle.
“No!” she cried, bending to force his head down, and at the anguish in her voice Charles could maintain his charade no longer. Raising the flat of his sword, he delivered a stinging thwack to his commander’s backside. The action could see him severely disciplined and, if Reynolds called in the soldiers, Charles would have no chance of preventing further humiliation to Elizabeth—but he could not stand by.
Reynolds was obviously disoriented but appeared, perversely, to enjoy the sensation. He reared up, an enormous grin splitting his face as he licked his lips. There was a glint of madness in his eyes.
“A spanking whets my appetite like nothing else!” he declared, hurling himself upon Elizabeth and thrusting up her skirts. “Gets the blood moving,” he panted, “so I can outperform my lady’s prize rutting bull. Trethveyan, we can settle the score some other time,” he slurred, fumbling to release himself from his breeches.
God, no! The sight of Elizabeth’s bare legs and exposed breasts as she struggled beneath another man inflamed him. Resisting the impulse to slay Reynolds with his sword upon the instant, Charles sought for the right response, one that would ensure Elizabeth’s dignity without exacerbating Reynolds’ lust for revenge.
“No, we will not!” he spoke coldly and crisply, with sufficient threat to make Reynolds look up.
“You want her that badly, Trethveyan?” He leered up at Charles. Elizabeth had turned her head to one side and her eyes were closed, her jaw clenched.
The balance of power shifted a little in Charles’ favour. “I want her more than you ever could, Reynolds,” he said, softly. If Reynolds was experiencing difficulty in getting it up, Charles would provide him with a dignified exit. Reynolds had drunk a considerable amount. He’d not have the stamina to keep up his belligerence.
“Well, you have more of a vested interest in seeing her brought to heel—uppity little strumpet, thinking a Puritan could satisfy her in bed.” The slurring was becoming more pronounced, “Still makes the old ticker skip a beat, eh? Tell me, d’you want her for love or revenge?”
It was a loaded question. Reynolds would snuff out softness at the first opportunity. Charles could perfectly easily envisage Reynolds seeing Elizabeth killed in some discreet fashion just to enjoy Charles’ pain. Revenge was like meat and drink to him. The sport of Elizabeth’s humiliation at the hands of a spurned lover would satisfy the sadist in him.
“She spurned me and I’ll not forgive her for that.” Charles spun on his heel and walked towards the fire, as if his pulse wasn’t racing and his heart in turmoil.
Turning to enjoy the warmth of the flames behind him, he smiled. “Was this not supposed to be a civilised evening? Lady Drummond might deny it now, but she cannot resist me. Our earlier encounter proved it. I would like to prove it again. There is more satisfaction in whipping up her reluctant desire than using force.”
Reynolds rolled over, pushing his flaccid cock back into his breeches, and said contemplatively, “Aye, there’s gratification in the subtle approach, I’ll give you that.”
Charles hid his relief. Reynolds needed this honourable retreat, thank God. He’d been unable to perform but who knew what other carnal humiliations he could devise, nevertheless. Silently he watched Reynolds grasp Elizabeth’s hand and pull her to her feet, reverting to the clipped courtesy of the Cavalier. “Too much wine, eh, Lady Drummond? Here, allow me to assist you into your seat. Now, where were we? Ah yes, discussing the evening’s entertainment.” He glanced at Charles. “Trethveyan here wants a more mutually entertaining approach. He feels I’m taking the lion’s share. What do you desire, Lady Drummond? You?
?ve sampled my friend’s sexual prowess once already today? Are you ready for more or do you want to sample more of me, eh?” He strutted back to his seat.