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

It must get less limp when he stabbed her with it, she supposed. Otherwise, it wouldn’t work.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she said in a blank voice. “I don’t think I’m ever going to enjoy having violence done to me.”

“Oh, as if I’m being violent.”

“You keep hitting me,” she said.

But she regretted it, saying those things to him, being bland and blank, because two nights later he came back, quite drunk, smelling of port, and he was rough with her, and he squeezed her hurt ankle on purpose many times.

He pinned her to the bed, one hand on her neck, and she was stunned at how big his hands were.

She could hardly breathe, and she lost consciousness a few times as he did it, as he stabbed her between her legs and worked himself in and out of her.

He hit her again too, and he shook her by the shoulders. “Say you like it, you stupid wench,” he growled into her face. “Say you like it and convince me or I shall hurt you again.”

So, she tried, but she was crying, tears leaking out of her eyes and flowing down over her jaw, down into her ears, because she was lying on her back. She was sniffling, and it hurt in so many different places.

She tried, though.

“I like it,” she said. “Oh, yes, I like it so much.”

“Beg me to finish inside your cunt,” he said.

“Finish in my cunt,” she repeated. “Please, oh, please.”

Then he put his hand on her neck and she couldn’t breathe again and she lost consciousness again.

When she came back to herself, he was done.

That was the last time he raped her.

The next morning, he came in and apologized. “That’s not like me,” he said. “You just got to me, saying those things before. Anyway, I was drunk.”

She was frightened of him now, and she felt the need to reassure him that he was forgiven, because she didn’t want him to do it again. It seemed expedient to please this man, she realized. She now had the impetus to attempt to do so. If she must pretend, she would pretend.

However, she did not truly believe it was her own fault, even though he had claimed she had driven him to it. She suspected he was simply trying to excuse himself.

He had the surgeon come back to deal with the bruises he’d given her.

She was alone with the surgeon, and she tried once to ask him to help her. “Don’t leave me here with him,” she said in a faint voice as he handed over some salve to rub into her skin to help with the swelling. “Could you not help me get free of this place?”

The surgeon grimaced, and he would not meet her gaze.

She pressed him. “Once my foot is better healed, I would not need any assistance. If you could but—”

“I can’t cross Fateux,” the surgeon said, gently interrupting her, his voice regretful. “I owe him, you see.”

What did he owe him?

“I am sorry,” said the surgeon, giving her a regretful look. He hurried out of the room before she could say anything else.

But things improved. Sort of.

Fateux left her alone, and she was allowed to have run of the house.

She dined alone for breakfast and luncheon, and there was a great deal of food.

There was a library, and she was allowed to read any of the books on the shelves.

She only had to see him at dinner, and they carried on polite and formal conversations about trivial topics like the weather.

They found they had a shared interest in dog breeds.

They spoke of that sometimes. In this way, several weeks went by.

One day, she heard the servants scrambling about because the Marchioness de Fateux, his wife, had arrived and was walking around the house as if she owned the place.

Rae didn’t know what to do with herself. She supposed that the marquis’s wife would not take kindly to her. Women never liked their husband’s other women, after all. But since she was here against her will, it made her annoyed. It wasn’t as if she wished to be servicing the man, after all.

And, at any rate, he hadn’t touched her in some time.

She tried to leave the library, where she had been reading, and get to her own bedchamber without being seen.

But as she was hurrying down a hallway toward a set of stairs, the marchioness was coming down them.

The marchioness was a slim woman, beautiful in a severe way. She did not look as old as she was, but she did not look young, either. Gazing up at her, Rae wondered if the woman had ever looked young.

“You’re not a servant,” said the marchioness, scrutinizing Rae.

Rae bowed her head. “I am but trying to get myself out of the way of your ladyship. I’m sure you don’t wish to look upon me.”

“Your name,” said the marchioness severely.

“Rae Smith,” said Rae.

“You’re the daughter of that knight,” said the marchioness.

She made a face. “Well, I’m sincerely sorry for the behavior of my husband, I must say.

Champeraigne, were he still alive, would have prevented it as best he could.

He would not have prioritized punishing your father in any way that wasn’t financial.

He wanted money, plain and simple. It was cleaner that way.

My husband, I’m afraid, is really a horrible man. ”

Rae didn’t know what to say to that.

“You don’t like him, do you?” said the marchioness, letting out a trill of laughter.

Rae shook her head, staring down at her own toes. “No,” she whispered. “No, I don’t.”

“Of course not,” said the marchioness.

At that moment, Fateux himself appeared. “Seraphine, are you terrorizing this poor girl?”

“Me?” said the marchioness, putting a hand to her chest. “I’m the one terrorizing her? Oh, yes, that’s quite how it is.” She laughed again.

“What are you doing here?” said Fateux. “Have all of your lovers gotten tired of paying your room and board?”

“I am your wife,” said the marchioness. “It is up to you to take on the expense of me, after all.”

“Get out,” said Fateux.

“I am your responsibility.”

“You remember what I offered you,” said Fateux. “A real marriage, wherein you are mine and mine only—”

“And if I agree, this one?” The marchioness gestured to Rae. “You’d give her up? You’d be mine and mine only?”

Fateux scoffed. “I’m done with that one. She’s a cold fish. Certainly, my darling, it’s a bargain. I’ll cast her out right now.”

Rae should have felt a surge of hope at that, but she didn’t. She felt a squeeze of fear, against all rational sense.

The marchioness laughed again.

“Let us talk alone, Seraphine,” he said to her.

“Certainly,” she purred.

But later, the marchioness was gone, and Fateux never spoke of her again, and she never returned, and Rae certainly wasn’t cast out.

She should simply leave, on her own, she thought. Her foot was healed now, and she could put weight on it.

Escape. It was feasible, even easily done.

She might simply walk out any one of the doors in the midst of the night.

She did not think anyone would see her or stop her.

But she was wary of doing it, now. It seemed folly in some ways.

Was she not safe and well-fed and comfortable here for the most part?

Wasn’t her situation better in many ways than it had been with her father?

Did she really think she could improve her life by running?

Where would she go?

So, shamefully, she stayed.