Clara felt she had at least some knowledge of kisses now. Ralph, when once in his cups, had kissed her – it had been wet and sloppy. Rookdean’s kiss had been all masculine carnality: aggressive, yet tempered by real passion and ardour.
Sir Matthew’s was… violent.
He bruised her lips, grinding his mouth on hers, his teeth scraping. Her hands were crushed against his chest, leaving his hands free to roam. One went to her nape, where it tangled, his fingers hard as he pulled her head back viciously, to angle better her mouth to his. The other hand squeezed her derriere painfully, his nails digging in.
She cried out at the pain and violation, but her scream was muffled by the cruel mouth. He tried to thrust his tongue between her lips and Clara felt nausea rise within her. She struggled in earnest, biting his tongue before he could intrude, but it only made it worse, as he slurred drunkenly.
“Yes, you little vixen. Show me what you’ve got.” And then he bit her lip. It wasn’t the gentle nipping of Rookdean, but a sadistic travesty of that moment.
His mouth covered hers again, and Clara had a brief sensation of how drowning must feel – she couldn’t breathe – her nose was squashed and her mouth covered. Struggling, she freed one hand from his chest and hit out at his face, all the while trying to kick him with her half-boots – futile against his hessian-clad shins.
When Thomas Leigh had kissed her in her twelfth year, she had bashed him, leaving him with a sore eye and a humiliated face. Now her right hand failed her: it had no strength, and the blow she struck had no effect.
Tears of frustration and anger stung her eyes, but finally she pulled her left arm back and raked her nails across his cheek. He groaned, but it actually seemed to be a groan of pleasure. She felt the sleeve on her dress tear, and his hand was suddenly on her bare shoulder, pushing her pale pink bodice down.
He looked down at his work and, in that moment, Clara got the opportunity to scream. It was quickly muffled, as his hand suddenly clamped down over her mouth, and she felt his teeth bite at her shoulder.
“You bloody monster…” Someone yelled, and suddenly, all pressure – hands and mouth – was removed.
She didn’t recognise the voice – it was harsh and guttural. Clara fell back onto the bench, desperately trying to draw breath into her lungs. Her eyes were blurry with tears, and she raised shaking hands to wipe her mouth. She dragged the back of her hand across her eyes and saw…Sir Matthew was flat on the path: his nose bloodied.
Kneeling over him – an avenging angel.
His blonde hair was dishevelled and sticking up; his face was caught in a snarl, as he exacted his vengeance. His fist raised itself again, even though the man beneath him was unconscious.
“Rook! No, that’s enough. The man’s down.” Lord Winterbourne appeared in a flurry – breathless and wheezing.
“He should be dead!” Rook roared. “Did you see him? He’s an animal.” And he raised his fist again. Jack caught it in his hand.
“Even an earl can hang, Rook. We will see he is ruined – that is enough. You are the one scaring Miss Lockwood now.”
Rook looked over to her and, despite what had just happened, she shivered with pleasure at his look – it was burning and intense. He looked like a warrior of old, fighting for the right to the Lady, and now he meant to claim her.
He lowered his head panting, clenching and unclenching his fists, until finally he stood. When next he looked up, he was…Rookdean again.
“As usual you are right, Jack.” He started to shrug off his coat. “If you could get rid of that scum, I will see to Miss Lockwood. Perhaps you could also instruct her aunt to meet us in her chambers.”
“Of course, Rook,” Jack replied, hefting with seemingly little effort or gentleness, the unconscious Taylor over his shoulder. “Bring Miss Lockwood in via the servant’s entrance. Give me a little time though; I’ll notify the housekeeper to keep the way clear.” With that he loped off, seemingly unaware that a man’s weight was draped over him like a sack of potatoes.
“Miss Lockwood…” Rook stopped there, seemingly lost for words.
They both began at the same time…
“Thank y –”
“I am sorr –”
Clara gave a small smile, which seemed to ease Rookdean’s concerns. He came nearer and draped his jacket over her shoulders, but he seemed to loom over her, and Clara shivered.
“Please sit my lord, I insist,” her voice was a bit wobbly, but considering the circumstances, she thought she was doing rather well. He sat next to her at a respectable distance, but reached over to pull his coat tighter around her body. His eyes darkened, and his lips thinned, as he saw the bruise on her shoulder from the man’s bite.
“I am sorry you had to suffer that, Miss Lockwood.” He shook his head. “Please do not think all men are similar. He is an…aberration. He never should have been invited to this house, and I take full responsibility. I also apologise for my behaviour. I should have taken him elsewhere: it was not good for you to see more violence.”
“No, honestly, my lord. I did not mind.” Clara reached out her hand to his. “I kicked and fought, but there seemed nothing I could do. Even when I did hurt him…he seemed to like it,” her voice broke.
Rook seemed to hesitate, and Clara bit her lip to try and stop it trembling, but a sting caused her to raise a hand to her mouth.
“Don’t,” Rook said huskily and gently took the hand away. He brought out a handkerchief from his waistcoat and patted her lip with it. It came away slightly bloody, and he glowered. “He bit you hard enough to draw blood, the bastard.” At his utter tenderness, she could not hold back, and one tear made its escape.
