Love’s Savage Bonds
By Jeb
Chapter One
How can a room so tall feel so confining?
Lady Catherine Redmond sent her dark brown eyes once more to the huge, vaulted ceiling of the Coutts Manor ballroom, and for the hundredth time felt as though it had begun to press down upon her. The heavy paneled wood, the burnished gold and shining crystal—could one be imprisoned by such things?
“One year today, my dear. And wouldn’t your mother have been delighted to see you so well and happy?” Catherine nodded vaguely in the direction of the woman who addressed her— an aunt of some sort on her husband’s side—and smoothed her peach-colored organdy dress for the sake of having something to do with her hands.
One year. I have been the wealthiest woman in the district—“Mistress of the Manor”, and wife to Lord Philip Redmond—for an entire year.
The gown was Paris—of course; the stones that encircled her throat and bedecked her full, firm bosom were the loot of some Continental monastery, which she wore that Philip’s friends might admire them… and her, too—another of his “possessions”.
“And doesn’t Philip look positively marvelous tonight!” The woman laid a hand on Catherine’s arm as she nodded in the direction of Catherine’s husband, Lord Philip Redmond.
And, to be sure, Philip was a sight to weaken a woman’s knees. His coat, of royal blue, hung upon him as all clothes did: as though it had fallen from the heavens for no other purpose than to drape his figure. Exquisitely-tailored trousers accented his slim waist and legs, and his golden locks and Adonis’ profile seemed to have the women in the room dividing their gaze between looks of adoration at him, and looks of jealousy at Catherine.
As she took in the sight, Catherine smiled wryly to herself. A haberdasher’s dream… if only he wasn’t so convinced of it himself! Still, to be the wife of a devilishly handsome, and impossibly rich man… well, who’d ever have dreamed it would happen to her?
Not that Catherine wasn’t a considered to be a catch herself: the smooth skin of her lovely face glowed with youth and health, the glittering gold light from the crystal chandeliers danced in the mass of raven tresses piled atop her head, and no gown in the entire ballroom covered a bosom so fine. But a man like Philip could choose from so many women; it seemed almost churlish not to regard herself as terribly fortunate.
Making her way about the vast ballroom, teeming with liveried servants and elegantly-clothed guests, Catherine did her best to “mingle”, though the majority of the guests were Philip’s friends, rather than hers. She took her time, endeavoring to give every well-wisher a few moments of her attention. Being mostly Philip’s friends, though, their conversation, like his, had a tendency to dwell on such matters as the cost of her clothes and jewelry, or the scope of their estate.
Seeking a moment or two of respite, Catherine stepped out the door of the ballroom, and turned down the salon’s main hallway. She deliberately turned her back to the far wall… but that didn’t help.
It never did. She could still feel them… the eyes.
This is ridiculous! She forced herself to turn and once more confront the portrait gallery there: Philip’s family, in lush oil, framed in deep mahogany. Philip himself, of course, not long out of school, his late mother and father, gazing sternly down… and his brother, Charles.
Catherine had heard of men whose gaze could turn a woman’s insides to water; but what of one who could turn her to flame?
Looking at the painting of Charles Redmond, she wondered if she was in the presence of some work of unholy genius, showing unparalleled skill with a brush… or was this, simply, life? Was Charles so dynamic a figure that the force of his presence could not be contained by mere canvas and oil?
Tumbling dark hair curled down over a brow that already seemed to hint at tilting at the world’s troubles. His lips were full and thick, all sensual amusement.
And his eyes… in the painting, they were so dark as to seem almost black. They didn’t seem unkind, she thought—certainly nothing to match the ominous stories she’d heard of him—but in their intensity they were the eyes of a man fully able to take that which he would… eyes that seemed to Catherine to follow her all through this huge house.
She'd asked Philip to take down the portrait, but he had just laughed. "Can't be done, my dear. Chap who painted it's apparently making quite the name for himself in the City now. The thing's value has probably trebled in the past six months alone, and one doesn't hide such a treasure-- one shows it off." And, so, Catherine was left with the constant choice of avoiding the painting, avoiding the eyes… or braving their power.
As she re-entered the ballroom, she pulled up sharply. Her husband was entertaining a small knot of his cronies, and while Catherine regarded most of them as harmless boors, she noticed once more, with distaste, the presence of a lean, dark-complected man affecting to listen, but whose tiny pale eyes roamed the room in search of more interesting topics.
"Catherine, my dear," Philip barely broke the train of the story he was telling as he summoned his wife, "... and then, of course, the blasted gypsies were at the sheep again. Damn thieves!" He concluded, and was greeted with laughter from most of the group... though the dark man's laughter seemed strictly for show.
The man was not as tall as Philip, but so whippet-lean as to appear even taller. His suit was dark and simple, but its cut and cloth clearly of the finest. While Philip's other guests reached for refreshed glasses, or boxes of snuff, the dark man sent his eyes in Catherine’s direction. She tried to turn away, but her husband waved an imperious hand, beckoning her over.
The slender man had seemed to be listening to his host more out of indulgence than interest; now, though, at Catherine's approach, his eyes seemed to awaken, and glitter like those of a serpent.
“You know Colonel Lefanu,” Philip nodded to her.
“My Lady.” The dark man's Parisian accent was light; his speech had the precision of one who has learned a language from an expert tutor, and for professional reasons.
Catherine gritted her teeth as the Frenchman bent over her hand, his cold fingers clammy on her skin; he never failed to make her feel as though she were some new paté that he was sampling.
"Colonel." She drew back her hand, returning her attention to the room. Her curt dismissal seemed to amuse the Frenchman, a sentiment that her husband clearly did not share.
"Really, Catherine..." Philip reached a hand to take his wife's arm in reproof. Catherine gave a shrug of mild irritation and easily slipped her arm from her husband's grasp.
You would think, if I mattered so much to him, he’d try to hold me more tightly, she thought to herself, with more emotion than logic. And, besides, while Philip was entitled to have his circle of friends, surely not even a hostess' courtesy required her to stay there and be tasted like some exotic dessert! Can't he see? Catherine fumed. Is he blind? I can practically READ that snake's thoughts! Was her husband that oblivious? She shivered at the even more frightening prospect that Philip, did, indeed, notice what was happening, but did nothing to stop it.
"Philip, I must dash-- why, here’s Major Cathcart-- it has been ever so long since I've seen him."
Philip grunted, starting into another of his stories, but Colonel Lefanu purred, "I hope we shall see you again this evening, My Lady;" he made even this casual conversation sound almost filthy. Catherine thanked God the man never used her Christian name-- she doubted she'd have been able to stand hearing it again. It was with real relief that she made her way to the tall, grey-haired figure in the red uniform tunic and white trousers.
"Major Cathcart!" In her relief at finally being away from Lefanu, Catherine had to restrain herself to keep from running to her old friend’s arms. His ramrod bearing, unbowed despite his 70 years, was like a bit of Papa, here in England. The two men had served together in the Crimea, then India, and Cathcart was now retired. She wasn't sure that the old soldier was still supposed to wear his uniform to an affair of this type, but none could doubt the pride and dignity with which he bore it.
Cathcart started to spread his arms for a hug; then his face reddened and he seemed uncertain what to do with his hands. "My dear… Cath… My Lady…” he stammered.
"Please, just ‘Catherine’," she remonstrated. It had been like this ever since the wedding-- since the day when she had gone from being just Catherine Tompkins, simple solder's daughter, to being Lady Catherine Redmond, wife and consort to the Lord of the Manor. Such a bother! “It wasn’t that long ago that I sat on your knee in pigtails.” She smiled warmly at the memory. “But you’ve not introduced me.” She smiled at the portly gray-haired woman in the wildly printed frock at the Major’s elbow.
“Oh!” The Major flushed even further. “My sister—Miss Cathcart. Here for a visit.”
“Lady Catherine,” the woman beamed. “Such a pleasure.”
"Miss Cathcart," Catherine smiled prettily as she took the portly, grey-haired woman’s hand.
“My brother tells me that you and he and your father spent some time together in India, of all places!”
Catherine nodded. “Yes, a few years ago. I was 15 when Father’s regiment was called to India. Mother wasn’t well enough to accompany him to run his household, and I fear that I made a proper nuisance of myself until he agreed to take me instead.”
“That’s right,” the major beamed. “She was the youngest of the mem-sahibs… and by far the prettiest!”
Catherine blushed as she continued. “Four years later, of course, came the Mutiny. Even though we were hundreds of miles from the worst of it, Father would take no risks, and sent me back home, while he remained there. As fate would have it, my return coincided with the… untimely death… of Philip’s father, and Mother decided to ‘strike while the iron was hot’, so to speak, and arranged the match.” She paused, and continued as though thinking aloud. “I suppose the fact that Philip and I had known each other as children had something to do with it.”
“Childhood sweethearts, then.” The plump face beamed.
Catherine’s smile flickered, briefly. “Well… childhood playmates, anyway.” Her voice and face grew more thoughtful. “Philip was never quite like the other boys—he seemed to have no interest in sports and games, I suppose because he wasn’t that physically strong. If he wanted his own way, he used his family’s money to get it. We played, as children do, even telling each other that we’d marry one day… but I don’t think I ever expected it to happen…” she cast her gaze about the vast room, “…certainly not like this.”
“Your husband has an older brother, has he not?” Miss Cathcart inquired.
Catherine paused, swallowing hard, as the eyes of that painting seemed to dance before her vision. “Charles. I… I barely remember him from when we were children—he was a few years older than I, and he was still away in The City when I left for India.”
“But if Philip is the younger son, how did…?”
“Do you not know the story, then?” Their party was joined by a strikingly handsome woman in her forties, in the black livery of household staff. There was little to suggest the woman’s age save the narrow streak of white that ran through her thick brown hair, and a perhaps too-knowing look on her face.
“Mrs. Williams, our housekeeper,” Catherine sighed. She’d more than once asked her husband to speak to the woman about the familiarity she displayed around guests, but it seemed to make no difference.
“The Master’s brother was what we call a VERY bad seed,” the buxom housekeeper seemed almost proud of the fact. “Engineered a swindle that beggared dozens. It drove poor their uncle, who had vouched for Charles, to suicide, and left their heartbroken father just enough time to disinherit the wretch before he himself died of the strain.”
“Yes, well…” The Major hemmed and hawed as Catherine stared at the floor.
“A bad seed,” the woman repeated enthusiastically, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Do you know? He killed two men making his escape from England.” At that, she gave Catherine a sharp look and moved off.
Once more, the portrait came, unbidden, to intrude on Catherine’s thoughts. She needed no old wives gossiping to tell her that Charles Redmond was dangerous… but she wondered if an old biddy like the Major’s sister, or a shrew-tongued servant like Mrs. Williams could have any idea just HOW dangerous. Life and limb were one thing-- any man could learn to threaten those; even Philip. What Charles’ eyes seemed to intimate went much, much deeper than that.
Miss Cathcart stared after the woman, and tried to think of something to say to the horribly embarrassed Catherine, but the Major interrupted, gently but firmly.
“No more interrogation now, my dear. Lady Catherine has other guests, you know.”
“Oh, of course!” Miss Cathcart gushed. “It was so lovely to meet you.” Catherine caught the Major’s eye just as Miss Cathcart recognized someone across the room, and Catherine took the Major’s arm for a few moments of private conversation.
“I apologize for my sister,” he began, but Catherine waved it away.
“Nonsense. It was my housekeeper who instigated the unpleasantness.” As she often seems to do when I’m around! “Your sister’s curiosity was only natural. But… Major, I wanted to ask you something.” She paused, as though making up her mind, and went on.
“Major… do you think that… this…” here, she gestured about the fine, big room… “Is truly what my father wants for me?”
“Now, Lady Cath—“
“I’ve told you, Major,” Catherine smiled. “Just ‘Catherine’.”
“Well, miss,” the major avoided the awkwardness, “your father is the finest officer I ever served under.” The flush of pride in his face was followed by a darkening of his countenance. “But he was also the most honest.”
“And why should that fact bring a frown to your face?”
“Well, your father never enriched himself with plunder, the way so many of the officers did. There’s no country mansion or hunting lodge ahead for him. Nothing but a Colonel’s half-pay retirement… and, sadly, no rich dowry for his daughter.”
”Oh, but Papa knows I don’t need such things!”
“Nevertheless, I know it preyed on his mind—that question of just how you were to be provided for. And I know he was most pleased at the thought that your new husband could provide for you so well.”
Catherine sighed. “He does that.” She swept a hand down the front of her dress, the jewels’ glint seeming somehow dull and lifeless to her. “It’s just that I…” her voice trailed off.
“He’s not… he’s not treated you badly?” The old man’s face tightened, and Catherine experienced a reassuring flash of what it must have been like for Father to have this man at his side.
“Oh, heavens, no.” Catherine hastened to correct the misapprehension. “No, he’s always been… very... gentle with me.” She thought of the softness of her husband’s hands, and the way that even the most intimate touch of his had a tentative... or was it casual?... way about it. “He… he takes very good care of me.”
“Well,
see that he does,” the old man admonished. “And should you have any troubles at
all, you know where to find me.”
Catherine blinked back tears. “Yes, thank you.” She went up on her toes to
plant a grateful kiss on the old soldier’s cheek. As he went to rejoin
his sister, Catherine looked around for Philip, saw him once more engrossed,
and decided she had been on display enough for one night, and quietly mounted
the stairs to her room.
***
"Has everyone else gone to bed?" Catherine leaned back in the chair at her nightstand, her silk nightgown a welcome relief from the constricting ball gown. Molly, her young maid, had just loosened the elaborate arrangement of Catherine's hair, and had let the heavy dark tresses flow into her skilled hands as she took up the brush and began to brush her Mistress' hair.
"Yes, ma'am. Your husband just saw Colonel Lefanu out."
Thank God for that. Catherine closed her eyes, and relaxed back into the gentle rhythm of the maid's brushing. Usually, ten minutes of this treatment had Catherine fully relaxed and ready for sleep... but her mind was restless, and as the girl smoothed Catherine's dark, silken hair about her shoulders, she sat straight up in the chair.
"Just pin it up, Molly," Catherine told the girl. "I think I'll sit up and read for a bit."
"Yes, ma'am." Catherine picked up her book as the girl's skilled fingers gathered the heavy mass of hair and wound it atop her head, securing it artfully with a single pin. Catherine smiled, nodded dismissal, then settled back into her chair as the girl departed.
Drowsiness would not come, though. The book did nothing to hold Catherine's attention, and sleep held no attraction for her. She closed her eyes, trying to will herself to sleep, but Charles Redmond’s portrait kept tumbling before her eyes.
She looked down at the book: a woman’s reminiscences of travels through India, which Catherine had enjoyed comparing to her own.
India. That was it. That was what haunted her about the painting of Charles Redmond.
In India, Catherine had quickly come to realize that there were things about the intimate life of man and woman that she had never dreamed, but which teemed beneath the surface of that wild, exotic country. It felt to her as though every native man or woman that she met must be possessed of carnal skills and secret knowledge that both terrified and intrigued her.
And that was what she felt when she looked at the portrait of Charles Redmond: terror and intrigue… and a sure sense that his knowledge of the ways of man and woman was very deep indeed.
Catherine sighed, and tossed the book aside. I’m not sleeping anyway. Might as well make some tea. Mrs. Williams would be appalled at the idea of her rustling about in the kitchen without supervision, which made the idea all the more appealing.
Catherine picked up a small candle, and quietly made her way down the dark stairs, turning toward the kitchen… then stopped as a noise from down the hall came to her ears.
Philip’s study? What on earth would he be doing there at this hour? She was tempted to simply continue on to the kitchen, but he’d certainly hear her, so she might as well at least look in on him.
She stepped to the door, seeing light flickering from underneath it. She pushed on the door and peered inside.
“Philip?” Across the room, a small lantern was set at one end of Philip’s desk. The rest of the room was in wavering darkness, but there was no sign of her husband. She set down the candle on the sideboard.
“Philip?” she repeated, stepping all the way into the room… when she heard the sound of the door closing behind her!
As though it had materialized from out of the ether, a man’s enormous hand clamped itself over Catherine’s face; the palm sealed her lips closed, and she could feel fingers of iron pressing into her cheek as she was pulled backwards.
The feel of his hands was so different from that of Philip's that they might have been different species altogether. Where she could easily shake free from her husband's grip should she choose, these hands were as inescapable as fate. It was as though she were in the power, not of a man, but of a monsoon-- a force of nature, such as she had experienced in India: so completely overwhelming as to render even the thought of resistance pointless.
The hand over her face pressed her back until her head came to rest against a thickly-muscled chest. Wildly, she tried to cast her eyes up to look behind her to her attacker, but his face remained lost in the shadows.
She heard a rustle, then the snap of fabric rending, and she gasped as the hand slipped from her mouth.
“Not a sound, girl.” A resonant voice in her left ear, and she winced as her arms were pulled behind her with terrifying ease.
His fingers went to work: for all their evident size and strength, they were deft and sure. Catherine felt a length of the thin, plush cord which he had evidently pulled from the curtain rod wrapped around her bare wrists. Its bite was not cruel, but it was unyielding as he bound her tightly, passing the cord over itself to cinch her hands in a tight hold. Her wrists crossed over each other, her hands waved uselessly against her back.
“P… please…” Catherine couldn’t decide if she faced greater danger by defying him, or by not trying to save herself by raising the alarm.
“I told you to keep silent.” The voice was low, and not loud, but didn’t need to be to penetrate Catherine to the marrow.
There came a sharp tug, the sound of fabric ripping, and Catherine realized that he'd torn a strip from the skirt of her nightdress! She took a breath, readying an outraged protest in spite of his warning, when she felt her mouth covered by a wide band of the silk!
Not even her fear was greater than her outrage as Catherine squalled a muffled protest against this treatment. She felt the cloth press firmly against her lips, the pressure making it hard to move her jaw. She tried to throw her head to one side, to free her mouth from the binding, but his strength was too great, and he succeeded in wrapping her head tightly; the silk followed her face's contours, and bit tightly into her cheeks.
Catherine squirmed, and kicked backwards, her bare heel bouncing harmlessly off a soft leather boot. Undeterred, her shadowy assailant continued to wind the cloth around her mouth, a second layer now atop the first, muffling the struggling girl’s cries.
Stay calm, she told herself. If he meant to kill me, this cloth would be about my throat.
She felt the band around her head tighten even further as he fastened a knot, catching the downy hairs at the nape of her neck; her mouth was as well stifled as she could imagine it being, her attempts to cry for aid reduced to subdued whimpers.
She made another futile yank at his arm, and tried once more to kick back at him. Her captor lightly avoided the blow, and chuckled.
"What a hellcat I seem to have caught here. Let's have a better look at you." And with that, he spun Catherine around to face him, sending her at the same time staggering backwards out into the light, her back against the opposite wall.
As the bound girl stumbled out of the inky shadows, the pin in her hair came free, and as she faced her attacker for the first time, the mass of sable tresses fell loosely about her shoulders and over her breasts, a cataract of liquid midnight, framing her face, and gleaming in the flickering lantern light… and as she stood helplessly glaring back into the shadows, she heard him give a sharp intake of breath.
"By God..." came the plangent voice... "Doesn’t my brother just have the devil's own luck in everything!"
Brother? Catherine had barely thought the word when the man stepped out into the light, and she found herself staring with horror into the black eyes that had so often gazed down at her from the portrait in the hall: her husband's brother, Charles Redmond.
Now she shrieked into her gag, desperate with fear, kicking out blindly, sending a chair toppling over with a loud crash, as she tried to race past him; his iron grip on her arm stopped that.
"Damnation!" the man cursed. "Now you've done it! The house will be up in no time." He paused, looking in frustration about the room. Whatever he came for, he's not found it yet. Catherine somehow felt this to be a small triumph.
"All right, then," his dark eyes raked her disheveled appearance. "By God, if I can't get at anything else, I can at least take one of his treasures with me." Without another word, he reached down, wrapped an arm about Catherine's waist, and threw her bodily over his left shoulder!
The ease with which he did it was terrifying--she might have been no more than a bundle of rags. Her unbound hair trailed down behind him, and the wild kicking of her bare feet seemed almost distressingly comical under the circumstances; his strong hand kept her firmly in place on his shoulder.
As he made his way toward the door, he seemed to be taken by a thought; he paused to glance down at the desk, his eye coming to rest on the sliver snuff box and the jewel-encrusted knife that Philip used to open his letters. With a move of his free hand, he swept the trinkets into the pocket of his muddy brown greatcoat.
Ducking down the main hallway before anyone had responded to the sounds, Charles raced from the house, the madly-flailing Catherine over his shoulder, raging uselessly into her gag. The bound girl tried to look about her, to see if rescue might be at hand, but the profusion of her long, dark hair fell about her face, trailing near to the ground, as she hung over his shoulder.
In the dimness, a huge shape rose up: a horse, so black as to be near-invisible in the dark, and one of the biggest that Catherine had seen—seventeen hands if he was an inch. The animal had been standing as still and silent as the night itself, but at the approach of its master, it seemed almost to come to attention, preparing itself for the ride ahead.
Catherine felt herself lifted off her captor’s shoulder, and flung, face-first, down onto the horse's back. Charles then produced some sort of cord with which he deftly fastened her ankles together, then threw himself up into the saddle behind her. One hand rested on her back as the other chucked the reins, and at a barked command, the steed took off at a gallop.
Catherine flinched at the sudden movement, terrified of falling, trussed as she was, but Charles Redmond’s powerful legs guided the beast with an expert’s control, and his hand on her back ensured that she stayed firmly in place. The tang of sweat and old leather filled her nostrils.
Catherine twisted to try and look back, fearful that she would be taking her last look at her home, but again her sable tresses flew into her eyes, obscuring her vision. Thinking it pointless to strain her neck muscles if she couldn't see, she lowered her head, in terrified defeat, as the horse thundered on into the night, bearing away its rider and his helplessly bound and gagged prize.