Page 2 of The Duke of Swords (The Highwaymen #4)

RAE’S FATHER SOBBED brokenly while she was stuffed into Fateux’s carriage. She looked at him and she hated him.

Perhaps she had hated her father for a long time, now that she was being honest with herself about it. Perhaps her father had disappointed her long before this.

But this, practically sold off to a man as a concubine, well, it was disgusting.

It was beneath them both. If her brother had been alive, this would never have happened.

But once her father had suffered that grief, he’d never been the same.

And what was more, there was no future with her brother gone. She was a burden, not an heir.

She wanted to be stronger.

She wanted to say to her father that she would endure this indignity for him, that now she would be borne off to be used by Fateux so that her father could repair his standing and his finances, since his debt would be erased. She wanted to be noble and withstand the suffering.

Maybe if there had been someone besides him, maybe if she’d had a younger sister or something?

But as it was, she knew it was wrong, that she was not meant to be sacrificed for the good of her father. Parents were meant to sacrifice for their children, not the other way around. This was all wrong and she could not be strong in the face of it.

So, she struggled.

So, she sobbed, tears smearing her face, snot coming out of her nose, her tiny ineffectual fingers scrabbling at Rutchester’s face even as he threw her into the carriage. She called Fateux all manner of names, using words she’d never spoken aloud, words forbidden for proper ladies to speak.

But Fateux thought it all a lark. He enjoyed her broken father’s sobs, and he enjoyed her screams and swears.

When he got into the carriage, she was too exhausted for any more fight. She slumped into the seat, sullen, beaten, done.

“Might be fun to break, this one,” said Fateux to Rutchester.

Rutchester said nothing.

“Oh, yes, you don’t approve,” said Fateux, rolling his eyes. “You’re such a celibate bore sometimes, really.”

They rode for several hours. She was tired, tired enough to sleep, but too frightened to do so.

The sheer nerves of it all kept her awake.

When she arrived, she had the feeling that she was stretched too tight, her skin taut over her bones and muscles.

It hurt at the back of her eyelids. She felt ready to either scream or burst into hysterical laughter.

Fateux told Rutchester to take her to his bedchamber and disappeared.

Rutchester got out of the carriage and stood there, waiting for her.

She didn’t move.

He poked his head in. “It’s a strategy, if that’s what you’re doing right now.”

“What is?” she breathed.

“Going limp,” he said. “There in body, absent in spirit? With Fateux, I’d advise at least pretending to be present.

He might get cruel otherwise. Respond. It can all be fake responses—best if it is, really.

I recommend stressing how much it hurts, letting yourself cry, being piteous. It’ll hurrying him along.”

“You… recommend…?”

“It’s going to happen. Make your peace with it now if you haven’t. Do you want me to carry you again?”

“No,” she said.

“Then get out of the carriage and walk.” He blinked at her.

“Let me leave,” she said.

He shook his head.

“You can say you heard a noise and you were distracted and when you came back—”

“It won’t be as bad as you think it will be,” he said, and reached into the carriage to haul her out.

She fought again.

It was odd, because this time, she felt strangely detached from the fighting, as if she were simply going through the motions as she tried to scratch his face and rip at his cravat.

He ended up carrying her over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

She wanted to cry, but that feeling of being stretched too tight had swallowed all the tears.

He left her in a bedchamber and bolted the door from the outside, leaving her trapped.

Then, time passed.

It was a lot of time. She had no way to mark the time, no clocks or hourglasses or anything of the like, but she watched the oil in the lamp, and it was long enough to eat up the level of the oil.

Finally, Fateux appeared. He was drunk, or she thought so, anyway, because she could smell the scent of whisky clinging to him. He was whistling as he entered the room.

She had been sitting on the bed, gazing at the lamp for however long it had been. Now, she tried to get up, but her foot—the one she’d twisted in the forest—gave way and she fell back onto the bed with a cry.

“What’s wrong?” Fateux was taking off his cravat.

“I hurt my foot,” she said, cringing. “It’s how your stupid mastiff found me.”

“Mastiff?” said Fateux. “Rutchester? He’s not even nearly affectionate enough to be a dog.”

“Don’t,” she said softly. “Please.”

“Don’t what?” he said, stripping off his jacket.

“You know what.” Her voice cracked.

“Do I?” He went back to whistling. He was unbuttoning the buttons on his waistcoat.

She bit down on her lower lip. “Please,” she said again.

He stretched out over the bed and took both of her ankles in both of his hands.

She shrieked because that hurt . Her ankle was badly swollen and tender.

“Oh, come now, that’s just your legs, girl,” said Fateux, rolling his eyes.

“My foot, it’s hurt,” she said through clenched teeth, even as he tugged her across the bed, all the way across, until her bottom was flush with the bottom of the bed.

“Oh, yes, you said,” said Fateux, dropping his hold on her feet. He began to lift her skirts, fighting through the layers of her shift and petticoats.

“Please,” she said, trying to scoot away.

“Stay still, and it’ll be easier,” said Fateux, clamping a hand down on her hurt ankle.

She screeched as the pain splintered through her.

“You don’t have to take on so,” said Fateux, annoyed.

“Stop hurting my foot,” she ground out.

“Right, right,” he said softly. “The foot.” He pushed her skirts out of the way, baring her drawers beneath everything.

She tried to shy away.

“Still, I said,” he said, a heavy hand on her thigh.

“Please don’t,” she said again, still trying to move away.

He pulled her drawers off, baring her between her thighs.

She let out a little cry. She knew it had something to do with this part of her, of course, but she wasn’t exactly clear on the particulars of it all. Her heart started to pound. Her body felt strange and fissured, like there were cracks opening up in her skin. “Please,” she said again.

He put pressure on her thigh, leaning on her there as he fumbled with the falls of his trousers. “Stay still and you just might enjoy yourself,” he breathed, humming under his breath.

She shuddered. “Don’t.”

He shoved his trousers half down, and she caught sight of the hair on his legs, some of it gray, but she didn’t see it .

In a moment, though, she felt it.

She mewled as it touched her. It was hard and smooth and hot and strange, and he was trying to stab her with it.

Suddenly, she realized what was going to happen. He was going to put it in .

“No,” she said, half-sitting up, pushing at him, pushing wherever she could. “No, no, that won’t fit, that won’t—”

“Certainly it will.” He was laughing. His eyes were bright.

“ Please. ”

But then it was happening, and it hurt .

It hurt, and she couldn’t even make noise, because she was so stunned.

“There,” he grunted, pushing his way deeper into her. “See? Fits just fine, silly girl.”

She made a choked noise.

He was moving now, each movement a bit of agony, because he was too big, and because his skin was rubbing against hers, abrading her in the most tender of places.

“No, please, stop,” she managed.

He bent over her and slapped a hand over her mouth. “It doesn’t matter if I stop now. You’re no longer a virgin anymore. Try to enjoy it, hmm? Does it feel good?”

“It hurts,” she said, her voice muffled because he had has hand over her lips.

“Shut up,” he said. “You’re making it quite difficult to keep my cockstand.”

“It hurts!” she said, louder, even more muffled.

He went at her hard, faster, and it hurt even more, and she reached up to try to pull his hand away from her mouth, to claw at his face, to do something, anything—

He retreated, uttering a string of swear words.

She lay there, gasping, panting, as he did up his trousers.

He left the room, bellowing out Rutchester’s name.

Rutchester appeared in the doorway.

“I don’t want her in my bed,” said Fateux. “Put her in the wing downstairs.”

“As you wish,” said Rutchester. “But I don’t see why this couldn’t be done by a servant.”

Fateux put a finger in his face. “Still, so self-righteous, I see.” He grabbed Rutchester and propelled him into the room. “There. Look your fill.”

Belatedly, she realized she was exposed, her skirts pushed up, her legs bare, her body entirely unclothed from the waist down.

Rutchester caught sight of her there, betwixt her thighs, and his expression changed. She saw it. It was like watching a wolf catch the scent of blood.

She snapped her legs closed.

Fateux chuckled. “Yes, celibate and unfeeling, aren’t you, then, Oliver?”

Rutchester glared at him with real hatred.

Rae pushed her skirts down, sitting up, bringing her knees up at the same time, folding in on herself.

“Do what you like with her,” said Fateux, gesturing.

“I don’t wish to do anything ,” said Rutchester, his voice a growl.

“Mmm,” said Fateux knowingly.

“I’m losing control,” said Rutchester in a strange, strangled rumble. “If you send her off with me, I may hurt her. I feel the need to break something.”

“Or the need to fuck something?” said Fateux, nudging Rutchester towards her. “Is that what you’d like?”

“ No. ”

“Are you certain?”

Rutchester let out another strange noise. He was across the room in two quick steps. He picked up the oil lamp and hurled it at the far wall, where it splintered and broke, sputtering out, drowning them in darkness.

“Oliver!” yelled Fateux.

Rutchester tore out of the room, leaving them both behind.

Fateux went after him.

Carefully, she climbed off the bed and smoothed her skirts into place. She was fine, really. Nothing was broken. Nothing was ruined. She was just herself, as she’d been before, except he’d… but he had not taken anything from her. She had lost nothing.

Why did they act like it was so important if that was all it was?