The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(72)
She should have known that such relaxation was a mistake. When the door to the chamber was flung open with enough force to strike the wall, she jumped from the settee on which she’d been curled up. Her book fell to the floor as she stared uncomprehending at Robert.
Her brother was more disheveled than she’d ever seen him, which was saying something. She’d long known him as a drunkard, but she’d never seen this particular light in his eyes. It made her uncomfortably aware that she was in dishabille—a brocade, silver-worked robe over her fine linen smock, not even any slippers. She would have felt considerably better armored in petticoat and kirtle, bodice and heavy sleeves.
“Robert,” she said warily. “May I help you?”
“Help me? Since when, dear sister, are you worried about helping me?” Though his voice was slurred, his movements were sharp.
“I will not speak to you when you are drunk. And I will not speak to you at all about business matters. If you have concerns about your allowance, you may take it up with the board.”
It was surprisingly difficult to feel authoritative in bare feet. Robert crossed the stretch of floor between them and studied her.
“Bitch.”
The insult was as vivid as a blow and rocked her back equally. “You’d better go, Robert,” she said evenly. “I will not listen to this.”
But as she attempted to move around him to the door—to summon the servants—his hand shot out and grabbed her by the arm. Hard.
“You’re not going anywhere, little sister. Do you think I’m afraid of your feeble maids and clerks? They don’t even know I’m here. I let myself in.”
“I think you are afraid of my husband. As you should be.”
“Your husband,” he spat, “is not in Edinburgh. And his only interest in you is in restoring his fortunes. I can pay him off as well as you can. But you…oh, I will make you pay for your insolence. Thinking you can order me around just because Grandfather was taken by your wit and your fawning. I am the oldest. This business belongs to me. You will not take it.”
“You are hurting me, Robert.”
“Good.” His grip moved to her shoulder, both hands now holding her caged before him. “I mean to hurt you. I mean to humiliate you. I should have done it years ago before you had time to become this…unnatural creature.”
She twisted in his grasp, but all she accomplished was to make him shake her until her head hurt. She opened her mouth to yell for the servants and Robert clamped a hand over her mouth.
All her life, Maisie had been taught by her grandfather that she was clever and talented and that her mind made her the equal of any man. It was a shock to be so forcibly reminded that, despite whatever talents she possessed, she was too small to effectively defend herself. She clawed and kicked but accomplished little except tearing open the ribbons that tied her robe. Robert in his rage backhanded her so that she fell, stunned, to the carpet.
Then he was on her, both hands circling her throat while his weight kept her pinned down. He’s gone mad, she thought through the swimming of her head, followed instantly by, I’m going to die.
His weight was pulled off her so suddenly that she choked and was momentarily blinded by the release of pressure. Slowly, her vision cleared enough to recognize the man who had turned his own violence back on Robert.
Stephen had come home.
—
After more than two weeks on the border and riding two hundred miles in the last thirty-six hours, Stephen couldn’t decide which he wanted most—a bath, food, or his wife.
My wife. It was getting harder, keeping away from her. Every night they spent under the same roof he found himself severely tempted to take advantage of her good nature and claim he wanted children. He wanted to believe he refrained because he was a good man—but he knew it was mostly his pride. He did not want to be taken out of pity. He loved her too much for that to be endurable.
Still, his tiredness was lifted by pleasure when he turned his horse over to a groom in the open yard a block away from the house. He let himself in and, aware of his travel-stained clothing and almost two weeks’ growth of beard, made for the stairs to clean up before seeking out Maisie. She was likely out in the city, in any case, tending to business.
He was three steps up the front stairs when he heard a crash from behind the closed door of the reception chamber. With a hand on his sword hilt, Stephen ran lightly down and opened the door, trying not to look too threatening in case it was simply a clumsy servant upsetting something breakable.
It took him a precious few seconds to comprehend the tableau before him. Two bodies on the floor, clearly struggling, a man’s back stretched over a much smaller form with little bare feet…Stephen had already moved forward to intervene when he saw the spill of silver-gilt hair spread across the Ottoman carpet.
He stopped thinking then. He did not take time to draw his sword, but flung himself at the man and jerked him off so hard the assailant’s feet left the ground. When he saw it was Robert Sinclair, his rage, if possible, intensified. He didn’t need weapons. He’d learned to fight dirty from his brother-in-law Julien, and Stephen took vicious pleasure in hurting Robert now.
The man folded almost at once, and the only thing that stopped Stephen from beating him into unconsciousness was the desire to get him out of sight. With his fist clenched in Robert’s filthy doublet, Stephen pulled him near enough to choke on the fumes of cheap wine.