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“It is obvious what has happened,” she told him. “This is what comes of incessant gluttony and drunkenness. Your dissolute habits have led to mental decay. Don’t expect any pity from me. You have brought it all upon yourself.”
Lord Browdie was beginning to believe he would go mad if he spent another minute with this termagant. He had thought that the bare room and impossibility of escape would awaken her to a sense of her peril, that within five minutes at most the witch would be terrified into submission—but no.
For more than half an hour Catherine Pelliston had stoutly denied ever having been in the brothel. She had plenty else to say besides, enough to make his head throb. If it had not been for those rich acres and the dowry and a gnawing hunger for revenge on Lord Rand, the baron might have been more sensible and beaten a tactical retreat.
He was not sensible. A fortnight of watching, waiting, and plotting had in fact made Lord Browdie a trifle mad.
He was moody by nature, vengeful when thwarted in any whim. Catherine had thwarted him repeatedly since the day she’d run away and he blamed every unpleasantness that followed, from the humiliating rebuffs of other marriageable females to the tradesmen’s bills Lynnette mounted up, on her. Besides, Catherine had played him for a fool—was even now doing so, the lying slut.
“Going to keep it up, are you?” he growled. “Going to keep pretending it wasn’t you? Don’t think I’ve got witnesses? Well, I do, and you ain’t changed all that much they won’t know you close up. Lynnette seen you and Granny and Cholly and Jos.”
Catherine stared coldly past him at the wall, which enraged him further.
“You remember Cholly, don’t you? Big, handsome fellow. He told me you was pretty entertaining between the covers, for a beginner and one mostly asleep.”
The colour drained from Catherine’s face and her knees buckled. She had been standing behind one of the chairs. Rather inelegantly she sat down in it.
“Oh, that jogged your memory, I guess. Surprised? Don’t see why you should be. That’s what they always do with the new ones—give ‘em to Cholly or Jos first—so when the gal wakes up, it’s too late to be crying about her honour.”
The possibility that she’d been deflowered while unconscious had never occurred to Catherine, and the thought was devastating. Still, that could be lies. Lord Browdie did look half-demented. No wonder, she thought sourly. He hadn’t had a drink in over an hour at least.
Whatever happened, she must not give him the upper hand. She had betrayed herself for a moment, which was dangerous. Summoning up twenty-one years of rigid training, she stiffened her spine and retorted icily, “You are not only mad, but a swine. I have nothing further to say to you.”
He would like to beat her until she screamed for mercy, but he knew from painful experience that women didn’t fight fair. They kicked and clawed and yanked your hair and bit, behaving generally in the most unsporting way. Also, Catherine may have inherited her father’s temper, and that was an ugly thing unleashed. He’d rather save beating as a last resort. Besides, his throat was parched with all this palavering.
“The trouble with you, my girl, is you ain’t thinking straight. I’m going to get us something to drink, so we can sit and be cosy until you get sensible. Just remember that if you’re gone too long—like ‘til tomorrow morning, maybe—you’ll have a lot of explaining to do.”
He moved to the door. “Oh, by the way—your hostess is deaf as a post when she’s paid to be and screams ain’t nothing special around here. I won’t be but a minute, hut no one’ll pay you any mind, m’ dear, so make all the noise you like.”
True to his promise, he returned in a very few minutes with two bottles of wine and two greasy mugs. When Catherine disdainfully declined the cup offered her, he flung himself into the other chair and attended to quenching his own thirst. A bottle and a half later, he grew imperiously confident. She was only a slip of a girl, after all, easily overpowered if it came to that. Not a bit like the buxom milkmaid he’d tried to rape a few years back.
He pointed to the mattress and jovially informed her that while she was thinking things over she might as well show him what Cholly and Rand found so entertaining. Catherine suppressed a shudder and resolutely refused to understand him.
Lord Browdie’rose unsteadily from his chair and staggered towards her. He was breathing hard and she felt a surge of nausea as the wine-laden fumes rose to her nostrils. Then she saw a hairy hand reaching for her bodice. Shuddering, she knocked it away, and hastily made herself stand to face him.
Her limbs weak with fear, she clutched the chair back for support, but the chair overbalanced and she stumbled with it. As she was righting herself, he grabbed her hair, making her cry out with pain. Fear blazed into rage. How dare he touch her!
Furious, she dug her nails into his hand. He jerked away with an angry yelp.
“You little hellcat!” he screeched. Then he lunged at her.
There was no time to think and nowhere to run. Catherine grabbed the chair and swung it at him. He tried to dodge her, but wasn’t fast enough. The chair caught him on the hip before it finally broke against the wall. Lord Browdie stumbled backwards, cursing. More cautious now, he stood a moment, eyeing her with hatred as he gasped for breath.
“That ain’t smart, Cathy,” he warned, his voice hoarse. “No use fighting me. It’ll end the same whether you do or don’t, only you’ll make me mad and that’ll be the worse for you.”
Yes, the end would be the same, she knew. There was no way out of this filthy room, and he meant to rape her. She could not dwell on that, because the thought sickened and weakened her. She focused on him. How long could she fight him? He was bigger, stronger, but she was younger. Who would tire first? The longer she held out, the greater chance that her family—someone—would realise something was amiss and try to find her. But how? When? How long?
Then she saw his body tense. Catherine darted towards the pile of broken wood. Just as he threw himself at her, she snatched up a chair leg and swung it at him. He dodged, then lunged again. She quickly sidestepped him and swung her weapon once more, lower this time, aiming for his knees. Had she aimed higher or lower she’d have only struck padding and done little damage, but she aimed true.
She heard a crack as wood struck bone. Pain shot through her wrists from the force of the blow, making her eyes fill with tears, but she didn’t dare let go of the chair leg. In a wet blur she watched Lord Browdie topple to the floor while his howled curses pierced the air.
There was another, more resounding crack. The heavy door shook and shuddered an instant before swinging into the room and crashing against the wall. Lord Rand came crashing in after it, Jack and Jemmy at his heels.
Catherine still held the chair leg. She swung it again reflexively, too blinded with pain and rage to know what she was aiming at. Lord Rand caught her wrists midswing.
“That’s enough, Cat,” he said. “You can’t kill everybody, just because you’re a trifle out of sorts.”
She stared blankly at him for a moment. Then the chair leg dropped from her suddenly nerveless hands and she threw herself against his hard chest.
“Oh, Max,” she cried. “I thought you’d never come.”
Lord Rand must have forgotten who was supposed to be the hero in this scene, because he never looked at Mr. Langdon. He never looked at anybody. His arms closed around Miss Pelliston in a crushing embrace, and he buried his face in her hair.
“Oh, Cat,” he murmured. “My poor, dear, brave girl.” His hands stroked her back, then the back of her neck, while she sobbed against his chest. “It’s all right now, sweetheart,” he comforted softly. “It’s all right, my gallant darling.”
He uttered more tender praise and endearments, and even some gentle teasing, as he told her she might have left him something to do besides clean up the mess she’d made. Fortunately, most of this was unintelligible to all but the young lady. That she understood was evident, because the sobbing gradually eased, though her face remained buried in the viscount’s coat.
Mr. Langdon politely looked away... and caught Lord Browdie attempting to crawl out the door. Jack drew out his pistol and pointed it at the baron’s head. Lord Browdie froze.
Jemmy, for once in his life, was mute. Less courteous than Mr. Langdon, he watched the embracing couple with every evidence of satisfaction. He had not been able to contribute much to the rescue beyond tripping up Mr. Langdon when the viscount kicked in the door. Even though Lord Rand had not looked like he meant to wait for his friend, the boy must have recalled Mr. Blackwood’s advice regarding the gentry’s need for firm guidance.
Catherine, trembling in Max’s arms, had evidently forgotten that the man holding her so possessively belonged to someone else because she remained there quite contentedly even after her tears had ceased. When she did finally remember, there was a brief struggle—the viscount’s memory proving more sluggish—before she managed to break free.
Lord Rand gazed blankly at her for a moment while his handsome face coloured. Then he cleared his throat and turned to Lord Browdie, who was cowering by the door, alternately moaning and muttering imprecations.
“We seem to have a problem of protocol here,” said the viscount, “and of course I want to do the proper thing. What would that be, I wonder? Do I beat you to a bloody pulp? Shall I give Jack leave to pull the trigger? Or, since you’ve lost your way to Bow Street, shall we simply take you there and let the magistrate sort out etiquette? Let me see—kidnapping, violent assault, and attempted rape of a gentlewoman. I wonder if they’ll hang you, send you to the Hulks, or simply transport you for life.”
