flames flicker up the chimney. For the first time in twelve months she was warm, well-fed, and clean. It felt strange, as if physical comfort belonged to the past and should have no part in the life of fear and despair she now knew.
She had lain awake for hours, listening tensely for Captain St. John's return, steeling herself to endure the rape she knew she must suffer. But as the minutes slipped past and he did not come, that expectant, watchful fear temporarily receded. In its place came a surge of desolation and loss so intense she almost cried out with the pain.
She had waited all day to be alone with her grief for Philip. It had been barely dawn when she had stood painfully dry-eyed in the gray light and listened to the scrape of shovels, the sodden thud of mud hitting bark as they'd buried him. She hadn't cried. She'd forced herself to hold it all back, waiting, waiting to be alone.
Only, now that she finally had the uninterrupted solitude she had craved, she found she couldn't cry after all. It was as if she sensed, somehow, that she wasn't capable of dealing with Philip's loss yet. Whenever she tried to let herself mourn, her thoughts just slid away. It was like peering into a great, fathomless abyss. She knew that if she fell in, she would never have the strength to pull herself out again. So she was careful to stay away from the edge.
She let her mind drift away to Madeline, then regretted it. In the past, whenever the agony of her longing for her golden-haired daughter threatened to overwhelm her, Bryony would pick up Philip and hug him to her for comfort. Except now she'd lost Philip, as well. She was utterly, frighteningly alone in this vast, wild, unknown land.
A part of her wanted to give up. Cease struggling, cease fighting to survive. But she knew that, for Madeline's sake if nothing else, she had to go on. She would live with loneliness and hunger. She would bear rape and the lash. She would endure whatever torment Hayden St. John subjected her to. And at the end of six and a half years, she would find some way to get herself back to Cornwall. Back to Madeline.
She tried to focus on the future, but Hayden St. John's dark, harsh face kept intruding. Hayden St. John. Her master.
It was an idea so hard to accept that she actually forced herself to say the word aloud to the empty room. Her master. It tasted odd on her lips. The loss of freedom and control over her life that she'd experienced in prison had been difficult enough to deal with. But at least it had been impersonal—she had been part of a system, one of many, controlled by many. Nothing she had experienced in the past twelve months had prepared her for this final degradation, for being so totally subservient to one man. For being owned by him.
She rolled over and hugged her pillow to her chest. She found she couldn't even enjoy her solitude tonight, because she was convinced it was only temporary.
Her mind kept resurrecting the image of the way he'd looked earlier that night, leaning back against the table, one long, well-muscled leg swinging idly, his face taut. He'd been watching her then, she knew, the way a man watches a woman he wants. She'd seen it in the way he was looking at her. Felt it. Even after she'd lost her temper and told him why she'd been transported, even when he'd had his hands around her throat, she'd felt it still.
How long would it take him to act on it? she wondered. How long?
She was still awake, several hours later, when Simon began to stir. Sighing, she picked him up and put him to her breast. And, somehow, in the warmth of his sweet-smelling body and in the gentle tug of his eager mouth, she found the peace she needed to get to sleep.
She awoke with a start.
She sat up and glanced over at Simon's cradle, but he slept soundly, his position unaltered from when she'd put him down. Puzzled, she was about to lie down and go back to sleep herself when she heard the stamping of horses' hooves and the rattle and
She had lain awake for hours, listening tensely for Captain St. John's return, steeling herself to endure the rape she knew she must suffer. But as the minutes slipped past and he did not come, that expectant, watchful fear temporarily receded. In its place came a surge of desolation and loss so intense she almost cried out with the pain.
She had waited all day to be alone with her grief for Philip. It had been barely dawn when she had stood painfully dry-eyed in the gray light and listened to the scrape of shovels, the sodden thud of mud hitting bark as they'd buried him. She hadn't cried. She'd forced herself to hold it all back, waiting, waiting to be alone.
Only, now that she finally had the uninterrupted solitude she had craved, she found she couldn't cry after all. It was as if she sensed, somehow, that she wasn't capable of dealing with Philip's loss yet. Whenever she tried to let herself mourn, her thoughts just slid away. It was like peering into a great, fathomless abyss. She knew that if she fell in, she would never have the strength to pull herself out again. So she was careful to stay away from the edge.
She let her mind drift away to Madeline, then regretted it. In the past, whenever the agony of her longing for her golden-haired daughter threatened to overwhelm her, Bryony would pick up Philip and hug him to her for comfort. Except now she'd lost Philip, as well. She was utterly, frighteningly alone in this vast, wild, unknown land.
A part of her wanted to give up. Cease struggling, cease fighting to survive. But she knew that, for Madeline's sake if nothing else, she had to go on. She would live with loneliness and hunger. She would bear rape and the lash. She would endure whatever torment Hayden St. John subjected her to. And at the end of six and a half years, she would find some way to get herself back to Cornwall. Back to Madeline.
She tried to focus on the future, but Hayden St. John's dark, harsh face kept intruding. Hayden St. John. Her master.
It was an idea so hard to accept that she actually forced herself to say the word aloud to the empty room. Her master. It tasted odd on her lips. The loss of freedom and control over her life that she'd experienced in prison had been difficult enough to deal with. But at least it had been impersonal—she had been part of a system, one of many, controlled by many. Nothing she had experienced in the past twelve months had prepared her for this final degradation, for being so totally subservient to one man. For being owned by him.
She rolled over and hugged her pillow to her chest. She found she couldn't even enjoy her solitude tonight, because she was convinced it was only temporary.
Her mind kept resurrecting the image of the way he'd looked earlier that night, leaning back against the table, one long, well-muscled leg swinging idly, his face taut. He'd been watching her then, she knew, the way a man watches a woman he wants. She'd seen it in the way he was looking at her. Felt it. Even after she'd lost her temper and told him why she'd been transported, even when he'd had his hands around her throat, she'd felt it still.
How long would it take him to act on it? she wondered. How long?
She was still awake, several hours later, when Simon began to stir. Sighing, she picked him up and put him to her breast. And, somehow, in the warmth of his sweet-smelling body and in the gentle tug of his eager mouth, she found the peace she needed to get to sleep.
She awoke with a start.
She sat up and glanced over at Simon's cradle, but he slept soundly, his position unaltered from when she'd put him down. Puzzled, she was about to lie down and go back to sleep herself when she heard the stamping of horses' hooves and the rattle and
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