A Lady Under Siege(31)
“You wish me to speak to people you’ve dreamt? You are mad.”
“Am I? If so, I’m sorry.”
He turned away to keep her from seeing a tear streak his cheek. He wiped it with his sleeve and turned to her again. “I’ve already lost a wife,” he said. “I can’t stand to lose our child. I can’t stand it.”
Sylvanne was unmoved. “If it’s pity you seek, don’t ask it of someone so ill-treated by you,” she said. “For what you have done, God will spare you no mercy.”
“From what I’ve seen of the future, there is no God,” Thomas answered. “It’s every man for himself, and every woman too.”
There was a gentle knock at the door, and Kent entered, followed by Mabel, who was excitedly chattering to him. “And such gorgeous draperies! Must have come clear from Persia, I should—” She cut herself short as she realised into whose presence she had entered. She glanced from Lord Thomas to the sickly girl upon the bed, then to Sylvanne, seated in a chair in an odd posture, wondering at first why her Mistress kept her arms behind her back.
“Her rooms are ready, Sire,” Kent announced.
“Madame, wait till you see them—you’ve never dreamt of such luxury!” Mabel gushed.
“My dreams come up short, do they?” Sylvanne replied, not taking her eyes from Thomas.
He ignored her remark, and informed her, “I’ve had several fine steers slaughtered for my returning soldiers to feast upon, and made certain the choicest cuts were set aside for you. If beef is not to your liking, feel free to ask the kitchen for any fish or fowl you please, cooked to any taste your palate fancies. You’ll be served meals in your rooms, for now. You’re staying in my wife’s quarters. I’ve tried to make it as comfortable as possible.”
“Have you changed the sheets since she died?”
He met her icy glare with a gentle, supplicating look. “Please don’t hate me,” he pleaded. “Go and eat what I’ve offered, then have your maid bathe you, aided by my wife’s former maidservants, whom you will find to be sweet-natured, trustworthy girls. Then sleep. Perhaps in restful sleep you’ll feel your pain subside, and your heart begin to soften.”
“He talks of softening my heart while he keeps my hands shackled,” Sylvanne said.
“Of course, of course,” said Thomas. “How thoughtless of me. But you must promise to be good.”
“You don’t know the meaning of that word,” Sylvanne snapped.
“Yes, well. Eat. Bathe. Sleep. Tomorrow is a new day.” He gestured to Kent to take her away.
17
“Hello, anybody up? Good morning! Hello!”
Meghan woke with a start on the living room couch. The room was bright with sunlight. She threw off the duvet, and staggered to her feet, bumping the coffee table she’d pulled close the night before to keep her two phones within arm’s reach. In her groggy, half-wakened state she thought at first one of them must have rung, but which? No, a voice had called, that’s what it was—she turned and could see across the kitchen counter to the back door, where Derek knelt outside, bringing his grinning, expectant face close to the broken window pane.
“Slept on the couch, did you?”
Meghan came to the kitchen in her pyjamas. “I didn’t feel comfortable sleeping upstairs, knowing the door wasn’t lockable,” she explained. “Don’t!”
It was too late—Derek had already stuck his hand through, unlocked and turned the handle, and given the door enough of a push that the wine glass, perched precariously atop the paper towel roll, teetered and crashed to the floor tiles. Derek flinched at the sound, and closed the door sheepishly. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Didn’t know you’d booby-trapped the place.”
“Jesus Christ,” Meghan answered irritably. “Don’t try to come in until I sweep up.” She rummaged in the cupboard under the sink for a dustpan and a hand broom, and set to work brushing up splinters of glass on her hands and knees. Derek watched her through the closed door. She felt his eyes on her and realised self-consciously that on all fours like this her thin pyjamas were stretched tautly across her behind. She stood and then lowered herself to a squat instead, not that it made much difference. She was still a woman in pyjamas being watched by a man through a window.
“I’ve already been to the hardware and got the glass, it opens at seven a.m. for tradesmen, you know, even on Saturdays,” Derek nattered from the sunshine of the deck. Through the missing pane she could hear him well enough. “They’re all there, too, the poor bastards, working weekends. You have such a nice little deck here. Very cozy. Great view of my place, all the prized possessions piled in my back yard. It looks a mess, but believe it or not I know where everything is. And don’t ask me if I want coffee.”