Chapter Seven
As Sirena stepped into the garden, the light breezes caught the ends of her hair and blew them softly against her cheeks. Her face turned to the sun, she bit into her lower lip to keep it from trembling. The scene she was about to play with Malcolm strummed at her nerve endings. She hoped Tyler hadn’t noticed her fidgeting at breakfast and the way she had kept asking him the time. Malcolm should be arriving at any moment, and it was only with the help of the heavens themselves that Wren had an appointment with her dressmaker that morning. Otherwise Tyler would have had to be brought into the little plot so that he could keep Wren away from the garden.
Sirena smoothed the folds of her sea-green gown. If she was going to play the part of a seductress, she had decided to look like one. The material matched her eyes perfectly, and she had applied a touch of Spanish paper to her lips and cheeks to heighten her coloring. Trying to find humor in a situation she herself had created, she smiled and hoped she wasn’t out of practice. Flirting and seduction were arts that were never lost to a woman. She waved a lace-edged handkerchief in the air; the linen had been liberally doused with scent. Poor Malcolm, she sighed with a touch more confidence. He would hardly be a match for her wiles. Later, much later, years from now, Wren would thank her. If Wren ever found out, God forbid.
Sirena settled herself on a bench near a bed of roses, a long legal paper clutched in one hand. Slowly, sensuously, she swung her foot to and fro, careful that her slim ankle and trim slipper peeked from beneath the hem of her gown. Men liked a show of ankle, and Weatherly would be no exception.
She cast a critical eye at the sun and knew that Malcolm would arrive within minutes. A promise to continue their discussion of the night before in an “intimate setting” was all she had needed to offer him to be certain he would fall prey to the plan.
When she heard his footsteps on the flagstones, she made no move to indicate she knew he was near, but bent her head over the legal paper she had snatched from Tyler’s desk at the last minute.
“Mrs. van der Rhys,” Malcolm said, bowing low and touching his lips to her hand in a too-familiar and ardent manner. His eyes, however, focused on the legal document in her lap; papers of that nature always represented money in one form or another. It was just possible she was working with Sinclair on the arrangements for Wren’s dowry. Commendable, he said to himself, liking Sirena more by the minute.
“Malcolm,” Sirena cooed, “how prompt you are. An excellent virtue. A sign of a dependable man. And you Englishmen certainly do have a flair when it comes to dressing. You must give me the name of your tailor, and I’ll have Regan stop by and order some new clothes before we leave for Java.” She touched the fabric of Malcolm’s frock coat, letting her long, slender fingers trail lightly over his chest. “You are simply dashing.” Sirena smiled and appraised the man beside her. She could understand Wren’s infatuation with him. Any woman might find herself likewise smitten. His dark hair was crisp and curled softly on his well-shaped head, a rakish lock spilling boyishly onto his forehead. His features were handsome, almost pretty, but his strong, square chin lent authority to his face. He had a habit of lowering his chin and looking up through long, spiky lashes, the kind young children have after they’ve been crying. Only Weatherly’s mouth gave a hint to the man within. Well-defined but narrow lips, which Sirena knew could curl with cruelty, were studiously curved into a smile showing gleaming, strong teeth. And beneath the stylish clothes was a sinewy, long-limbed body hardened by years of riding and athletics. Malcolm Weatherly was a vain man, and this trait would provide the key to his undoing.
Malcolm was flattered and his heart beat a little faster at her light—was it also teasing?—touch. “How is your headache this morning?”
“Oh, it’s gone,” Sirena said airily. “The trick to getting rid of a headache from the night before is to have a glass of wine before you get out of bed the next morning. Actually, Regan is the one who told me about drinking wine on rising. He said something to the effect that sounded like ‘a little bit of the hair of the dog that bit you.’” She laughed at the befuddled look on Malcolm’s face. “Sometimes Regan can be very crass. Pay it no mind; a gentleman like yourself would never say anything like that, I’m sure.”
“Perhaps with another man, but never to a lady or within her hearing,” Malcolm simpered.
“Now, Malcolm, there’s a little something I want to discuss with you, and I do hope you will give me your word that what we say now will be just between the two of us.” Sirena’s voice was low and throaty.
“Dear lady, you have my word,” Malcolm whispered, his eyes wide and his hands trembling at his sides.
“Now that you’ve met my husband and stepson, I’m sure you can see they’re not . . . not quite like other men. They don’t have the flair, the style, that you English have. They’re more—how can I say it and not sound disloyal?” Sirena pretended to frown. “Earthy,” she declared happily. “Yes, they’re earthy. They don’t understand young love and romance and things like that, whereas I, being a woman, do. I want you to know that no matter what they say, no matter what they do, I’m on your side.” She leaned forward so that her breasts almost spilled from the low-cut gown. “I think that you are the perfect choice for our little Wren.” Her slender hand reached up and touched Malcolm’s cheek, and she purposely widened her eyes, a look of innocence on her face. “I feel it here,” she said, taking his hand and placing it on her bosom, “that you will take care of her and we won’t have to concern ourselves with her well-being. I just feel it here,” she repeated dramatically, pressing his hand against the soft swell of her breasts.
“And you’re right,” Malcolm agreed as he tried to loosen his collar. “You can trust me with her life—with your life, too,” he babbled, his eyes becoming moist.
Sirena’s breath quickened at the hot look in Malcolm’s eyes. Fool! her mind shouted. Where is Regan? How long can I keep up this playacting? Regan had promised that he would give her ten minutes alone with Malcolm. Surely it was long past that now.
Her ears picked up the sound of a footfall at the end of the path. At last, Regan! Sirena made her move. Her eyes became heavy-lidded as she licked at her lips, making them wet and inviting. “Come here, closer,” she whispered throatily. “I have something I want to say to you, something for your ears alone.” She bent forward slightly, one breast almost entirely exposed as Malcolm fought to keep his eyes on her seductive face.
“You can trust me, Sirena, with whatever it is you have to say,” he whispered back, quivering at what he knew he shouldn’t be seeing.
Sirena was careful not to move. “I wish,” she breathed heavily, “that I were the one you were in love with, not Wren. There, I’ve said it and I’m not ashamed!” She heard Malcolm utter a loud groan and found his head buried in her bosom. “Darling, you feel the same way, I can tell,” she murmured, gasping for breath. She clutched his head to her as he burrowed deeper into the soft flesh between her breasts. “I knew you cared for me last evening when you offered me the wine. Stay here forever,” she pretended to moan.
“Forever and forever,” Malcolm echoed hoarsely, his hands feverishly attacking the beautiful woman’s curves.
Sirena’s mind raced. Hurry, Regan! Now! Now! The warm wetness of Malcolm’s mouth revulsed her. If ever she had any doubt of Malcolm’s love for Wren, his actions now were proof of the bounder he was. The footsteps came closer. Hurry, Regan, hurry!
“Of all the despicable tricks!” Wren’s voice rang through the garden. “How could you?” she screamed at Sirena. “Aren’t you ever satisfied? Isn’t Regan enough for you? How could you do this to me, of all people? Whore!” Wren’s face was drained of all color, her eyes dull and hard. “I’ll never forgive you for this, Sirena. Never!”
Sirena was dumbfounded. Where was Regan? Why wasn’t Wren at the dressmaker’s? Malcolm was flustered and looking like a plucked peacock. And here was Wren, blaming her, Sirena, not this simpering oaf who was trying to maneuver himself away from Wren’s ire. Sirena was being blamed for Malcolm’s perfidy. She had to do something, say something to make Wren understand it had been only a ploy to save her from Malcolm. “Wren. . . you don’t understand, I wasn’t—”
“I don’t want to hear a word you have to say. My eyes told me all I needed to know. You have to be the center of attraction. You need men, all men, to throw themselves at your feet and adore you. Regan, Caleb, the boys, they’re not enough! No, now you’ve set your wiles on Malcolm, on my man! Well, it won’t work, Sirena, because I know Malcolm loves me! He’ll always love me. Me! Do you hear me, Sirena? And what’s more, I never want to see you again.” Wren choked. “I . . . don’t . . . we don’t need you, do we, Malcolm? We don’t need anything from her. Not her blessing on our marriage . . . not her money . . . not anything!”
Malcolm’s mouth fell open in amazement. This wasn’t exactly what he had had in mind when he had begun courting Wren van der Rhys.
“You don’t mean that, Wren,” Sirena pleaded. “You’re my daughter, my child; sometimes I think you are more mine than the children I carried within me. . .”
Wren turned her head away, refusing to face Sirena, feeling betrayed by her. Her heart was near breaking. She wanted to throw herself into Sirena’s arms, wanted to listen to any explanation Sirena might offer, yet she couldn’t bring herself to do that. If she listened to Sirena, it would mean that Malcolm had betrayed her, and that was the one thing certain to destroy her.
Malcolm gazed in amazement at the two women. What were they saying? What had Sirena meant when she said that Wren was more her child than the children she had carried? Wasn’t Wren Sirena’s child? “Wren, speak to your father. . .”
Wren turned to face him, her amber eyes sparked with rage. “Regan is no more my father than Sirena is my mother. I only have you, Malcolm,” she said with a sudden softness in her voice. “I need you. You must take me away from here—now! Please!”
Speechless, Malcolm followed Wren’s lead as she took his arm and pulled him away.
Sirena sensed a presence near her and looked up into Regan’s agonized eyes. “We did all we could, Sirena,” he said, “and it looks as though we made a botch of it. Wren came home early and must have slipped through the gate near the stables. I was just about to make my grand entrance when she discovered you here.”
Wordlessly, Sirena held out her arm and Regan drew her close. “What will we do now, Regan? We’ve lost her. We’ve lost our daughter,” she murmured through stiff lips, choking back the tears.
“We’ll find her again, sweetheart, you’ll see.”
“But she’s leaving, going off with Malcolm.”
“No, she won’t. I’ll bet on it. I heard everything. She told him she wasn’t really our child. I doubt he’ll have any use for her now that she’s decided to quit herself of us. She’ll come back, you’ll see. Caleb will bring her back.”
But Sirena was not to be consoled, and the tears that coursed down her cheeks burned her skin.
Outside the garden, Wren waited with Malcolm for the groom to bring his phaeton around. “I’ll gather my things and meet you at your apartment,” she said softly, still holding back racking sobs. “I imagine it will take no more than a few hours. Hold me, Malcolm, hold me!” she cried, hurling herself into his arms. “I’ve never spoken to Sirena that way. I’ve always loved her, always been sure of her love for me. I . . . I don’t blame you, Malcolm. Sirena is beautiful, and she threw herself at you.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Wren,” he said coldly, his tone so stiff and detached that Wren pulled away and looked up at him with bewilderment. “I mean I don’t want you to come to my apartment. You’ve ruined everything with your silly schoolgirl mentality. I’m afraid I have no further use for you, Wren.”
“Use for me? Malcolm, what are you saying?” Her voice quivered and her hands trembled. “I love you, Malcolm. I’ll always love you.”
“Don’t say that. Can’t you understand? I’ve enough to do with feeding myself. I can’t support you, too. I haven’t a farthing to my name, thanks to my wastrel uncle. I’ve barely enough to keep body and soul together, let alone pay my tailor’s bill. Within days my creditors will be hounding me again. I can’t afford you, Wren.”
“We’ll do something. Well survive. I’ll find some work, and you can do so many things—”
“Stop it, Wren. Get it through your head that I can’t afford you. Here’s my carriage.” Barely waiting for the vehicle to come to a stop, Malcolm sprinted inside. “I’m sorry it worked out this way, Wren, but you’ve only yourself to blame.”
“I’ll come to you, Malcolm, I will! I’ll do anything for you, work my fingers to the bone—”
“Don’t, Wren. Don’t make this any uglier than it is. Don’t come to me. Stay away from me. I can’t afford yon.” Banging the side of the coach with his fist, he shouted at the driver to go faster. Wren was left alone on the drive, tears streaming down her cheeks, a look of confused astonishment in her golden eyes.
Without a backward glance at the girl he had wanted to marry, Malcolm gave his driver instructions to the home of Lady Elizabeth Rice. Now, more than ever, he was interested in listening to what she had to say about the jeweled collar the King was having made for his son’s birthday. Now, more than ever, he needed what revenue he could gain from the sale of those jewels. Providing, of course, that he would be successful in acquiring them. Settling back on the leather upholstery, he mentally reviewed a list of all the markets and fences on which he could unload the collar for the top price. The name of Lord Farrington kept cropping up. The Prince’s birthday was still two weeks away, which would give Malcolm two days at the very most to relieve the goldsmith of his art work. The first thing he had to do was to contact Farrington. But that would be after he had spoken to Lady Elizabeth. He anticipated her smooth, white limbs welcoming him into an embrace and felt a veil of moisture gather on his upper lip. Sirena van der Rhys had set his blood on fire, and it would take the ministrations of the sensuous redhead to quench his thirst.
The tension in the Sinclair home was unbearable. Wren stayed closeted in her room, refusing to come out even for meals. Sirena snapped and snarled at anyone foolhardy enough to approach her. Regan paced Tyler’s study, thinking and shaking his head. He had tried to speak to Wren and been refused entry to her room. Tyler seemed preoccupied with something he refused to share with anyone. Caleb had come to dinner and left early after a long, silent meal. Only Camilla seemed oblivious to the tension in her home. Her thoughts were fixed on her coming child, and that was her only interest now.
Sirena came downstairs after lunch the next day with orders for errands to be made. On her way to the kitchen she passed Camilla in the sitting room, busily stitching what looked like a baby blanket. “The least you can do is say something,” Sirena snapped. “Don’t you know what’s going on in your own home? Haven’t you tried to speak to Wren and find out what she’s thinking? And the baby hasn’t been born who needs seventeen blankets. Don’t you ever do anything else?”
Camilla raised her pansy eyes, her needle poised in midair. “Whatever are you talking about, Sirena? Is something wrong with Wren? I mean, is she ill? I already know that you two are having a squabble of some kind. And you’re wrong, Sirena, this is the nineteenth blanket I’ve stitched. England can be quite cold and damp in the winter, and a mother can never have too many blankets.”
“Spare me your wisdom, Camilla,” Sirena answered curtly as she headed for the kitchen.
Regan had overheard the conversation between Sirena and Camilla and almost found himself ready to make excuses for Sirena’s short temper. Wisely, he turned and went in the other direction. He had enough trouble with the women in his family as it was, and he didn’t care to have Sirena’s rage directed toward him, which was exactly what would happen if she ever discovered him apologizing for her behavior.
Upstairs, Wren paced, wringing her hands and dashing away the tears that continually formed in her eyes. Malcolm. Poor, sweet Malcolm. Pretending he didn’t love her to spare her from a life of hardship. Didn’t he know she loved him more than life itself and that she would rise above anything just to be with him, to be his wife? Sweet, noble Malcolm. The past two days had been a haze of heartache and tears, and looking ahead to never seeing him again was unbearable beyond belief. It was not to be comprehended. He was her love, her life. His cruelty had been a pose, an act, and he had been driven to it by his love for her. Her love for him became overpowering, and she threw herself on the high bedstead and sobbed into her pillow. “I won’t let you do this, Malcolm. I won’t let you keep us apart because you think I’m not strong enough to face poverty. I’d face death itself if I could be by your side.” With all the aching urgencies of young love, Wren yearned for Malcolm until she thought her heart would break. The nights she had spent in his arms, feeling his lips against hers, hearing him whisper how much he loved her, needed her, rushed back to her. She decried her silly schoolgirl fantasies about walking down the aisle to meet her husband as a virgin. Now she wished she had succumbed to Malcolm, had allowed him to make love to her; then nothing on earth could keep them apart. They would have made themselves one forever.
Suddenly, with a will and a determination she hadn’t known she possessed, Wren stumbled from the bed and pushed a chair up to the clothespress. She climbed on the chair, reached for her portmanteau and pulled it down to the floor. Breathing heavily, she flung open the clothespress and searched through her wardrobe, her fingers seeking the most modest gowns she owned, automatically discarding the opulent silks and satins which had always been her vanity. A working girl couldn’t wear elaborate clothing, and if she was going to help Malcolm support them, she would take only the most utilitarian items she owned.
The small trunk was heavier than the few belongings stuffed into it, and she had little difficulty carrying it. She was on her way to Malcolm, and she would make him happy, she was certain of that. If Malcolm loved her only half as much as she loved him, their marriage would be made in heaven.
Wren didn’t look back, for she feared she would falter. Regan and Sirena loved her, but they didn’t understand her. She couldn’t allow herself to think about them. She was embarking on a new life, and her only concern could be for Malcolm and his happiness.
Wren placed her portmanteau by the door of Malcolm’s apartment, then allowed herself a moment to catch her breath. Fortunately, she had been able to slip out of the house unnoticed and had managed to heft the trunk to the corner of the avenue, where she had hired a hack.
Downstairs, Malcolm’s landlady had asked her impertinent questions and then snapped her mouth shut when Wren had stabbed her with an icy look. It was obvious the woman knew her betters when she met them. Grudgingly, she had pointed out Malcolm’s door and watched as the young girl with the imperious attitude struggled up the stairs with the trunk. Arms folded across her buxom bosom, the landlady shrugged her shoulders. It was none of her business, she thought, as long as the rent was paid. And a long time coming that was, tool Perhaps the young miss would set things aright. If not, the girl’s presence at least gave her a lever for having the dashing Malcolm Weatherly thrown out on his elegant ass.
As Wren sat atop her trunk just outside his door, Malcolm stood before his dressing table, holding a package. Gently he unwrapped the cloth. The black velvet slipped through his trembling fingers as he fumbled with the folds. His eyes shone with greed; his lips were slack as he spread out his treasure with tenderness. The light filtering through the worn draperies spun a halo of gold and glitter upon the King’s collar. Even as he looked at it he couldn’t believe it was here, in his possession. It had almost been too easy.
Because the goldsmith had assumed he was working under great secrecy and hadn’t wanted to call attention to his shop until after the collar had been delivered, he had failed to hire a guard. At first Malcolm had been thwarted by the heavy iron bars on the jeweler’s windows and door. But the day he had spent studying the small shop on Cheap Street had been worthwhile. Upon first inspection, it had appeared that the shop was self-contained and that the only way to the upper floors of the building was by the outside stairs. Then, shortly after noon, Malcolm had looked up and seen the jeweler pass by one of the windows on the second floor. Having kept himself in full sight of the outside stairs and not having observed the goldsmith use those stairs, he had rightly assumed that there was also an entrance to the second floor from within the shop. And the second floor’s door and windows were unbarred. Late that night Malcolm had climbed to the second floor, the lock on the door giving easily under the pressure of his knife. It had been simple thereafter to locate the route to the floor below and help himself to the collar.
Malcolm was mesmerized by it. Made of heavy gold and large enough to go around a man’s waist, the piece was intricately wrought and set with precious stones. Fiery diamonds were the largest of these, offset by sapphires and golden topaz. The sunlight caught each facet of the gems and highlighted their brilliance.
The sudden knock on the door made Malcolm start with such force that he found himself trembling. Guilt-ridden, he quickly wrapped the collar in the jeweler’s velvet and hastily pushed the cloth into the bottom drawer of the dresser.
“Coming! Who’s there?” he called, struggling to keep his voice under control.
“Malcolm! It’s me, Wren!”
“Wren!”
The door swung open and Wren threw herself into his arms. “I had to come,” she cried. “I couldn’t stay away any longer. I love you, Malcolm.”
“What are you doing here? I told you how it was. Please go home, Wren.”
Not to be put aside again, Wren pushed her way into the room. “I won’t go away. I came to be with you, for always. No, don’t say anything; hear me out first. I know how noble you’re being. I know you don’t want me to do without the things I’ve always had. But you’re wrong, Malcolm. I haven’t always had them. I know what it’s like to do without. I know what it’s like not to have enough to eat or to pay for lodgings. I didn’t always live with Sirena and Regan. I was almost ten years old when Sirena found me and took me to live with her. Before that, I’d been living on the streets or worse. I had to work for my living. Only one person in the world besides Sirena was ever kind to me, and that was Lottie, a foxy old crone. So you see, darling, I haven’t always been a spoiled little pet. I knew what life was like for the people in the slums even before I could walk.”
Malcolm regarded her with increasing astonishment. Not only had Wren misled him about being the daughter of the van der Rhyses, she’d also lied to him about who she was. An urchin, a street urchin born in the London slums, and now she had the audacity to suppose she might be good enough to wipe his shoes!
Before he could utter a word, Wren was in his arms again. “When will we be married, Malcolm? You can’t send me back, you know. I’ve already told them I was coming to you. I . . . I even told them we were lovers,” she lied, hoping he would believe there was no turning back for her, desperate to convince him she had given up everything just to be with him because he was so important to her. She couldn’t let him send her back now that they were together again, now that her arms were around him and she was so close to belonging to him forever.
“Did you bring any money with you?” he asked curtly.
“Only my allowance that I’ve been saving. Thank the Lord I didn’t pay my dressmaker’s bill. Altogether I’ve over fifty pounds,” she announced proudly. “A very nice start for a married couple. Here,” she said, holding out her purse.
“This isn’t going to go very far,” Malcolm snapped. “The least you could have done was to bring some jewelry or something we could sell.”
“Please don’t look so upset,” she pleaded. “Everything will work out, you’ll see. Truly it will.”
“Truly it will,” he mimicked in a whining voice. “Well, truly it won’t. You don’t seem to understand, Wren. Go home.”
“Don’t, Malcolm. Please don’t send me away. You said you couldn’t afford me. Well, you won’t have to. I’ll work, I’ll do anything, only don’t send me home.”
“Two days ago I said I couldn’t afford you.” He glanced covertly at the dresser, where the collar was hidden. “Now I don’t want you. I don’t need you anymore.” He chuckled cruelly, thinking about the price the collar would bring him. “Go home, you silly schoolgirl!”
“No! I won’t! I’m not a silly schoolgirl any longer. You need me, Malcolm. You do.” She was in his arms, her mouth seeking his, her lips parted, her tongue searching for his. She pressed herself against him, felt his warmth against her, was aware of a rising urgency in him.
His arms came around her, tightening, pulling her toward him. The exhilaration he had experienced over the stolen collar was emphasized by the offerings of this beautiful girl. Yes, she was right. He did need her. For the moment.
“You see, darling,” she whispered against his mouth, “you do need me. You want me.”
“You’re so right, Wren. It’s time I learned what you are all about.”
The harsh tone of his voice and the rough way he pulled her toward him, crushing her mouth beneath his, startled Wren. This wasn’t the Malcolm she knew. That Malcolm had been sweetly passionate, tender, hesitant.
Suddenly fear gripped her as she stared at him. She had expected to see her love mirrored in his eyes; instead, she saw hot, burning coals. His lips tore heedlessly at hers while she stood frozen with terror. His hands worked at the buttons on her dress, and he grasped her breasts in a careless, hurtful way. His breathing was harsh and labored as he bent her backward, his mouth never leaving hers.
Wren knew what was happening and was powerless to stop it. All protests died in her throat, and she fought him with every ounce of strength she could summon. This couldn’t be Malcolm. Not the Malcolm she knew and loved. This was someone else, a perverted creature with only lust, not love, on his mind.
The pain he was inflicting on her with his urgent thrusts was hot and searing, unlike any pain she had ever experienced in her life. She wanted to scream till her lungs burst, and yet no sound came forth. His fingers wrenched her flesh, and he sucked at her nipples until Wren prayed she would die. The agony and shame she felt were more than she could bear, but the dull void of love lost engulfed her and rendered her senseless with a force greater than any physical attack.
The torment and degradation continued. Wren’s young body was stiff with shock as Malcolm drove into her again and again. Her insides felt hot, swollen, as if they were being torn to shreds by the ceaseless force of the man’s deep thrust. Blood seeped between her legs as she tried vainly to beat at him with her small, clenched fists.
Her attempts were futile against his strength as he savored her smallness, savored the fact that she was a virgin no longer, exulted in his possession of Wren and the collar both in the same day. He had always wanted to do this to her, ever since the first night he had kissed her and known that one day she would give herself to him. Malcolm hadn’t wanted Wren to give —he had wanted to take! When his passions had gone beyond his bearing them, she would coyly pull away from him and straighten her gown, pleading her stupid virginal morals and saying something about his being naughty. Naughty! When his loins had ached for release and his blood had refused to cool!
Half-conscious from the brutal attack, Wren felt Malcolm go limp, his deep thrusts abating as he remained inside her, his mouth on hers, his saliva merging with hers till she wanted to gag, to rid herself of him.
Malcolm got to his knees and gazed down at her half-naked body, then hurled the final insult at her. “Your friend Sara’s body is far more beautiful than yours; her breasts are larger, rounder and softer. She came to me willingly and we were together as one, each of us giving and taking. You’re like a lump of clay,” he jeered.
Wren lay on the floor, making no move to cover her nakedness. What did it matter now if he saw her or compared her with Sara? Nothing mattered anymore. How could she have thought she loved this cruel, taunting man who was preening before the tarnished mirror, arranging his clothes as though nothing had happened? She wanted to cry, felt the need to shriek and howl, but she couldn’t. All she could do was stare at the man who was tying his cravat with a nonchalance that frightened her more than if he had shouted and cursed at her. She saw his booted foot above her, but didn’t believe, couldn’t believe, he would kick her. She took the blow full in the left breast and rolled over in pain, retching as she did so. He stepped over to the dresser, fumbled in the bottom drawer and withdrew a black bundle.
“I’m going out now to see if I can turn this pittance you gave me into a sizable wad of money. I’m locking you in here; if you aren’t here when I return, I’ll hunt you down like an animal, do you understand? You wanted to come here and stay with me; now you’ve got your way. Don’t think you can go running off to Regan to tell him how badly I used you. I’d be forced to kill you first. I want no screaming and yelling when I’m gone, or I’ll have the landlady call Bedlam and tell them your mind snapped and you should be committed.” His toe prodded her in the armpit as he tried to make her roll over. “Tell me you understand what I’ve just said to you.” Wren nodded to show she understood, and Malcolm laughed. “You can’t come close to a comparison with Sara,” he called over his shoulder as he walked through the door and then locked it.
The sound was final, terminal, as Wren staggered to her knees. She sank down on the lumpy mattress and pulled the spread over her battered body. Had he meant what he had said? Would he do as he had threatened? She admitted she was afraid to find out.
“Please, God, send Regan and Sirena to me. I didn’t mean what I said. Please help me,” she prayed aloud.
She sat huddled under the spread for what seemed an eternity. Finally she crawled from the bed and searched for her clothes. What time was it? She should light a candle. Was he coming back, and if he did, what would he do? Please, God, help me, she begged over and over as she dressed.
At last she fell into a fitful sleep, only to awaken and cower in a corner of the bed when she heard a key in the lock. The door was thrust open, and Malcolm and four burly seamen entered the room.
“There she is, there’s your prize,” Malcolm chortled drunkenly. “Get up,” he ordered, staggering over to the bed and dragging Wren by the arm to the middle of the floor. “I lost you in a game of cards to these fine gentlemen,” he hiccuped. “Take off your clothes so they can see what they’re getting.”
“Please, Malcolm, you’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re doing. Please don’t do this to me,” she pleaded tearfully.
“If you won’t do it, then I’ll do it for you,” Malcolm leered, pulling at her gown and ripping it down the front till her body was exposed to the slavering seamen. “There!” Malcolm cried, lunging backward till he fell on the bed.
Wren tried to cover her body with her hands, but the men pulled and jabbed at her, each intent on doing what he wanted with her. She allowed it. She permitted it. She told herself she had no choice. She suffered and survived the onslaught. She knew it was the only way she would live to see another day.