Highwayman Lover Page 42

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  They arrived at Hudswell Hall that evening as they had to Roding Castle the day before, amidst a flurry of frenzied gossip. By now, the news of Charlotte’s broken engagement and forthcoming marriage to James had reached the rumor mill—news made increasingly shocking as most had yet to fully absorb the revelations of Charlotte and Kenley’s arrangement.

  James’s friends and family swarmed upon Charlotte. Within moments of her arrival, she was surrounded by people smiling at her, bowing before her, offering a din of overlapping congratulations and fond wishes.

  “Here is our bride-to-be,” Camden Iden said, affecting a slight bend at his waist in her regard. “And by far the most fair in this ballroom, I dare say.”

  “Here, now, Hallingbury, she is spoken for, and well at that,” Julian Stockley exclaimed with a laugh, clapping Camden heavily on the shoulder. Julian bowed for Charlotte. “You have done our Roding a great service, or taken great pity on him,” he said. “Either way, you have raised him a fair measure in our collective esteem. He should be eternally grateful for your tender mercies.”

  Margaret Houghton appeared out of nowhere, forcing herself against Charlotte in a crushing, unexpected embrace. “We shall soon be sisters! Is that not thrilling?” she squealed in Charlotte’s ear. Charlotte murmured something in polite reply; the words did not matter, as they were lost beneath Margaret’s gushing commentary on how beautiful she was, and what a divine bride she would be come Sunday.

  “When is my darling not beautiful, Margaret?” James asked, stepping into Charlotte’s view. He brushed his hand against his sister’s shoulder, and she drew away from Charlotte. James took her place, drawing uncomfortably near; when he bowed, he let his gaze linger longer than was courteous against her breasts, as was his habit.

  Charlotte dropped him an obligatory curtsy, but offered no greeting. James slipped her hand against his and kissed her knuckles. “You have made me happier than any man has rightly due,” he said. He canted his head, taking into account the diamonds draping her throat, pinned to her ears. “I see you received my affectionate tokens. They suit you well, as I knew they would. Of course, they are only pale complements to your visage.”

  The crowd about them murmured and cooed appreciatively at his flattery. Charlotte said nothing. James did not turn loose of her hand; in fact, he turned, drawing her in reluctant tow away from the party guests and toward a less-crowded corner of the ballroom. Here, he turned to her, stepping close, so that the circumference of her hoop skirt pressed against his legs.

  “I must apologize for my behavior last night,” he said. “I admit, I was untoward, but when the matter comes to you, Charlotte, my reason and sense of propriety often abandon me.”

  He licked his upper lip, the tip of his tongue drawing slowly, thoughtfully. “I cannot express how eagerly I am anticipating our wedding,” he said, leaning toward her. Charlotte turned her face away, her brows narrowing, and she frowned to feel his lips and breath brush suddenly, intimately against her ear. “And our wedding night.”

  Charlotte shrugged, and he drew back, chuckling softly at her resistance. He hooked his fingertips beneath her chin to draw her gaze. “You do not know how much I want you,” he whispered. “How long I have wanted you… how I have longed to explore and discover your every sweet and secret measure. Even now, I am hardening to imagine your supple flesh growing flushed with heat at my caress. I will leave you breathless and pleading at the anticipation of my next touch, the inevitability as I take you, fill you, pierce that barrier that marks a woman from a child so deeply nestled within you. You will writhe against me with pleasure, Charlotte. It will shudder through you as I pump my seed against the delicious warmth of your maiden’s womb.”

  Charlotte swung her hand around, slapping his fingers away from her. She glared at him, her brows furrowed deeply. “You will only ever see me shudder with revulsion,” she said. “You disgust me, James. Do you think I would ever find pleasure from your vile touch? Go ahead and look forward to our wedding night. You might claim my body, but you will never hold my heart.”

  James held her defiant gaze for a long moment and arched his brow, the corner of his mouth lifting wryly. “Very well, then,” he said. He leaned toward her, nearly brushing his nose against hers. “It is only the former I have ever wanted anyway. I have never cared a whit about the latter.”

  Charlotte spat at him, spraying his cheek and mouth. She turned and shoved her way through the crowd, hurrying away from him. She could hear him behind her, chuckling as he brought his hand to his face, wiping at her spittle with his fingertips.

  Her cheeks were ablaze with shame and rage; tears stung her eyes, and she gasped softly for breath. She felt people reach for her, well-wishers trying to draw her attention, speaking to her, smiling and laughing, and she ignored them all. She forced her way to the foyer and darted for the front doors. She shouldered past the arriving guests, the valets and footmen arranged at the threshold to take coats, hats, and muffs, and rushed out into the cold night, down the stairs and into the yard.

  She snatched her jupe in her fists, hiking her skirts to run. She raced clumsily across the grounds, her breath hitching, her tears spilling. She wanted to scream, to shriek her defiance until she was hoarse. She ran for the stables, her mind whirling in frantic, desperate measure.

  She had no particular intentions; she was seized with the urge to simply snatch a horse from a groom, swing herself astride it, kick it mightily, and run away. In the end, she ran through the barn toward the far wall, toward a ladder leading upstairs and into the loft. She climbed it, ignoring the curious, bewildered glances she drew from the stable hands as they tended to horses. Charlotte climbed up to the loft and crumpled onto her knees. She clapped her hands over her face and wept, shuddering uncontrollably.

  “I will not marry him,” she said. “I will not.

  They cannot make me. I… I will run away. Tonight— this very moment, I… I will run away. I will not marry James Houghton! I will not!”

  “Yes, you will,” she heard a deep, low voice rumble from behind her.

  Charlotte whirled, hiccupping in breathless start as she scrambled to her feet. Edmond Cheadle had followed her up the ladder and into the loft. She watched as he settled his boot against the floorboards and walked toward her.

  “You seem to have an affinity for lofts,” Cheadle remarked. Charlotte shied back from him, stumbling and wide-eyed. He smiled at her surprise, the corner of his mouth hooking to realize her fear. “Do you find fond reminders here? I know I surely do.”

  Charlotte’s eyes widened again, her breath drawing to a horrified halt. He… he knows, she thought, as Cheadle’s dark eyes, glittering with insidious and clever light fixed upon hers, impaling her.

  As her face drained to ashen, her expression growing stricken, Cheadle’s smile widened. “Did his touch please you?” he asked. “It certainly seemed to, the way your breath fluttered, the way you moaned and begged for him. I drew myself to my own conclusions just to watch, if you gather my inference.”

  Charlotte gathered it well, and felt her gut wrench with sudden nausea. The idea of Cheadle hiding among the hay bales and dim shadows, taking himself in hand and coaxing himself to climax left her shuddering with repulsion. He stepped toward her again, still smiling, and she recoiled, staggering and gasping in alarm.

  “Theydon is a man of stronger merits than I would have given him credit for,” Cheadle said. “Myself, if you were to plead with me so; if I was knuckle-deep and two-fingers wide inside of you; if I was faced with the sweet prospect of taking you deeply, shoving through that little maidenhead of yours like a spear through linen… myself, I could not resist or refuse.”

  “What do you want?” Charlotte whispered, shying again from his approach.

  Cheadle’s eyes trailed along her bosom, and he chuckled as Charlotte instinctively drew her arms protectively about herself. “What I want is to let my hand visit those places only recently vacated
by Kenley Fairfax’s,” he said, licking his lips slowly.

  Charlotte looked frantically about. They were alone; the isolation that had seemed so ideal for her and Kenley at Roding Castle now proved ominous. If Cheadle meant to assault her, she had no avenue of flight; he was taller than she was and broader besides. If he took such a mind, she had precious little hope of fending him off, no matter how furiously she tried. She blinked at him, shrinking back, and he laughed at the bright fear that darted through her eyes.

  “I will not,” Cheadle said, holding up his hands in mocking concession. “My lord would be displeased if I enjoyed the first taste of his virginal bride. Do not worry for that.”

  Charlotte whirled, darting for the ladder. Cheadle fell in immediate step behind her; she felt the floor shudder with his swift, heavy footfalls, and she cried out as his broad fist closed against her arm. He jerked her backward, nearly flinging her off her feet. She slammed against the wall of the stable, rapping the back of her head soundly. Before she could even reclaim her wits or wind to try again for the ladder, Cheadle crushed against her, pinning her fast, using his tremendous bulk to keep her still. Charlotte struggled against his weight, opening her mouth to scream; her voice cut off in a muffled mewl as Cheadle’s large hand clapped firmly over her mouth.

  He leaned toward her as she squirmed and offered stifled protest against his palm. “You will marry Lord Roding,” he said, his hand crushing against her face, mashing her lips painfully into her teeth. She glared at him and shook her head, screaming “no” with all of her might against his hand.

  He rammed the cap of her head into the wall again, hard enough to rattle her teeth, and she moaned, dazed, her eyelids fluttering. “Yes, you will,” he said. He lowered his face within centimeters of hers, and she whimpered around his hand, frightened.

  “You will be on time for the service and at your loveliest,” Cheadle told her. “You will smile as you proffer your vows and you will wed him in proper fashion. You will do as you are told—willingly, gladly— you will do it, or by my breath, your beloved Lord Theydon will swing from the gallows.”

  Charlotte fell immediately still. She blinked at Cheadle, her eyes enormous, her breath hiccupping beneath his palm. Cheadle laughed softly. “He will dance the Tyburn jig, and he will not be alone,” he purred. “His cousin will join him, with your rot brother to mark the time.”

  Charlotte whimpered softly in confusion and alarm. Reilly? she thought wildly, panicked. Kenley and Lewis? What is he talking about?

  Cheadle cocked his brow. “This is a good look for you,” he murmured, smiling. “Frightened, complacent, that stubborn ferocity in you quelled in full. It suited your brother well, too, when we spoke last night.”

  Charlotte’s eyes widened anew. What?

  “He and I were able to come to a mutual understanding,” Cheadle said. “As I am sure you and I will. He has fulfilled his part of our bargain, and so I will offer you the same barter that so persuaded him. Do as I tell you—precisely as I tell you—and no one stands beneath the limbs of the Tyburn tree.”

  His hand clamped more tightly against her face, forcing a pained mewl from her. “And if you cross me, if you continue this ridiculous refusal of my lord’s proposal, then I promise you, all three of them will hang.”

  Charlotte whimpered, trembling in terrified confusion.

  “Have we come to this same understanding?” Cheadle asked. “Will you marry my lord with no further complaint? Will you see them all spared? Answer me. Nod your head or shake it.”

  Charlotte did not understand—not at all—but she nodded her head, her eyes enormous. “Yes,” she said, her reply muffled against his hand.

  “Good,” Cheadle said. His hand slipped away from her mouth, and he stepped back. Charlotte gasped sharply for breath and scuttled away from him, cowering against the wall. He made no more effort to approach her, turning instead for the ladder to take his leave.

  “You should return to the party,” he said, glancing at her over his shoulder. “I am sure your absence has been noted, and my lord has grown lonely for your company.”

  Charlotte watched him mount the ladder and climb down for the barn floor. She listened to the sounds of his boot heels hooking against the ladder rungs, the rustle of straw as he stepped onto the ground below. She heard his footfalls, heavy and thudding as he walked toward the threshold of the barn. She did not move all the while; she hunkered against the wall, trembling and ashen. She could not so much as breathe until the last sound of him, the final hint of Cheadle’s presence had long since faded.