The Nightingale Legacy (Legacy 2)

He just smiled and sat down beside her on the narrow bed. She froze and he saw it and smiled more widely. “I know you’re afraid, though you’ll try your best not to show it to me. You’re like your father in that. I remember when we were boys how he led the rest of us into trouble that made his parents’ hair rise off their necks, but he tried desperately never to show fear; he scoffed at any of us who did. So I know you’re terrified, no use in your trying to hide it. Scream and cry if you like. I care not. Actually it would add spice to our proceedings. No one will hear you. No one will come to your aid. Now, shall we get on with our fleshly revels?”

“I think you’d best wait a moment, Mr. Ffalkes.”

“My name is Roland. Since you will be my wife shortly, I think it appropriate for you to call me by my given name. I now give you my permission to do so.”

“I will call you fool. No, old fool. That surely fits you the best.”

He struck her cheek with his open palm. The sharp, stinging heat of the blow made her gasp, but even that she managed to hold in. No, she wouldn’t show him fear, but dear God it was difficult, so very difficult.

“Now, I see that you’re silent again. Women should be silent, you know.” He rose then and she realized he was wearing only a dressing gown. It was a royal blue brocade with heavily stitched cuffs, and he’d belted it around his fat stomach. He pulled on the belt and the dressing gown parted. His belly was whiter than a nun’s wimple, hard and protruding. Lower, there were tufts of grayish-brown hair, and embedded in that hair was his man’s sex. She thought she’d gag.

She stared at his sex, at the thin legs. She didn’t gag. She laughed. At first the laughter sounded forced and strangled with fear, but then she got it right and laughed and laughed. Soon she was choking on her laughter, seeing him now standing there rigid, the thick vein throbbing in his neck, his face tightening, becoming florid.

“You,” she gasped on her laughter. She couldn’t point at him so she jerked her chin toward him. “That thing—it is so pitiful. You’re pitiful, and you’re fat as a stoat. You’re an old man, this is ridiculous.” And she kept laughing.

He lunged at her then, throwing himself atop her, his weight crushing her down into the thin mattress.

“You bitch, you damned bitch. Close your mouth. Shut your damned mouth!” He straddled her, then struck her once and then again. He was panting hard and now she was silent. She wished she could insult him more, but words were beyond her now, far, far beyond. He ripped the bodice of her gown to her waist. He stared down at her chemise, then very slowly he ran the end of his blunt finger along the top of her breasts. “Very nice,” he said. “You’re doubtless a virgin. I haven’t had a virgin since Owen’s mother over twenty-five years ago. How very quiet you are now, my dear Miss Derwent-Jones, or should I now call you Caroline? I hate your name, but I will make do. There was a girl, you see, and her name was Caroline, and she wouldn’t have me. She wanted your father. Ah, the triangles of life. He loved your mother, so that was the end of Caroline’s dreams. I wonder what your mother was thinking when she named you Caroline, for your dear father must have resisted. Perhaps the other Caroline believed your father had done it because he regretted not wedding her? A question with no answer. Ah, but that’s neither here nor there, is it? Shall we continue, my dear?”

“Continue? That is nonsense and well you know it. I should better call you father or grandfather.”

He slapped her again, not hard, just enough to make her head hit back against the thin pillow.

“Now, let’s see the rest of you.” He jerked the chemise to her waist, but didn’t seem interested in looking at her breasts. She felt the cool night air on her flesh, saw his old hands on her, and wanted to scream with the horror of what she knew was going to happen to her. He got off her and stood looking down at her, then he nodded, as if deciding something, and stripped off the rest of her clothes.

“Very nice,” he said, then shrugged out of his dressing gown.

She closed her eyes then, felt his hands on her belly, kneading her, stroking lightly over her pelvic bones, stretching his fingers over her, measuring her. “You’ll bear many children before you die of it. My poor Ann died with her second, the babe with her, but it was only a daughter, of little use to me.”

“If you rape me I will kill you.”

His head jerked up. She was staring at him. She said again, “If you rape me I will

kill you. Believe me for I am deadly serious. Know, too, that I will never wed you, never.”

“Yes you will. There will be no choice. You will be ruined if you refuse. No one would speak to you. You would be a pariah, your child a bastard, spat upon by the world.”

“I don’t care. I will have my inheritance. You can’t force me to wed you.”

“Actually,” he said slowly, “I can. Now, let’s get it done.” He began to stroke his hands over his sex, pulling on it, his head thrown back, his eyes closed.

She tugged on the bonds that were tight around her wrists. There was just a little give, not much, but enough so that she could twist and turn and loosen the rope even more. She heard his gasping for breath, but she didn’t look at him. She’d retch if she did.

Then he was over her, shoving her legs up, and without thought, without hesitation, she brought her knees to her chest and kicked him in the groin as hard as she could. He toppled off her backward onto the floor, holding himself, crying and moaning, cursing her, but he was helpless, at least for the moment. Ah, but not for long.

She felt the slickness of her own blood on her wrists, but she continued to work and twist the ropes harder and faster. Oh, God, she had to hurry, if he got hold of himself before she was free… She wouldn’t think of it, wouldn’t consider it. Finally, with the slippery blood on her hands, she managed to ease a hand free. Then the other. He was sitting up now, still holding himself, still moaning.

“You damned bastard!”

She picked up the small wooden table and struck him hard over the head. The single candle went flying but she managed to catch it before it struck the dirty floor.

“Oh my God, what have you done?”

There was Owen, his hair sticking up on his head, barefoot, his shirt hastily tucked into a pair of breeches. He stared at her, then down at his father. “I told him not to try it with you,” Owen said, not moving, sounding strangely pleased. “Good God, Caroline, you’re naked.” Surprisingly, he looked away from her down to his father, who was now lying on his side, his hands still cupping himself. He was unconscious. “My poor father. You did him in. I came to stop him, you know.”

“Did you now?”

“Yes. But you didn’t need me. I don’t think you need anyone. I told him you were strong.”