She was concentrating so hard on her hazardous climb, she didn't hear the pounding feet in the room above. But she heard George's wild bellow. Looked up, saw his face suffused with rage, staring down at her. She let go and dropped the last ten feet to the soil. She landed awkwardly, twisting her ankle. For a fateful minute or two she sat in the soil, gasping with pain. Then she heard George's bellow again, knew he was running downstairs, would appear out of the kitchen door. She was up and running through the drizzle, ignoring the pain of her ankle, making for the driveway around the house. Instinctively seeking somewhere out in the open, where there might be other eyes to witness.
She could hear George behind her now, hear his heavy, panting breath, imagined she could almost feel it on the back of her neck. In ordinary circumstances she could have outstripped him easily. But she was barefoot and the gravel was sharp. Her ankle turned with each step, bringing tears to her eyes. She rounded the side of the house. The gravel drive stretched ahead to the lane. If she could make it to the lane, maybe there'd be a carter passing, a farm laborer… someone… anyone.
George ate up the distance between them. His breath raged in his heaving chest, his great belly jounced, his massive hands were in fists, but he was gaining on her. She was slowing, her feet troubling her. He reached out, seized the hem of her shift, hauled her backward as she fought, kicked, scratched, hair swinging wildly.
Somehow she wrenched herself free, hearing the thin material of her shift rip as she hurled herself forward, toward the gate to the lane… so close… three more steps…
George's breath was on the back of her neck, his hands reaching for her. The sound of iron wheels on the lane, jouncing over the rough pebbled surface… With the last gasp of breath Juliana leaped into the lane, in front of a hay wagon.
The driver pulled back on the reins, staring in disbelief at the frantic figure in the path of his shire horses.
"Please…" Juliana struggled for sufficient breath to speak. "Please… help me… I-"
She got no further. George had seized her from behind, clamping his hand over her mouth, twisting her hair around his other hand, holding her head still. His voice was calm, sensible. Not his voice at all as he explained to the astounded farm laborer that she was deranged, was kept confined for her own safety. That she'd escaped from her chamber by attacking the servant who'd brought her food. That she was violent and dangerous.
The laborer looked at the half-naked, wild-haired, frantic figure struggling in the hands of a man who was clearly in full possession of his senses, who spoke so rationally, with such assurance. The girl gazed at him with desperate, almost feral, eyes, and he shuddered, muttering a prayer, averting his eyes from the danger of a lunatic's stare. He shook the reins urgently as George pulled the madwoman aside, and drove off, urging the horses to greater speed.
Juliana bit deep into George's palm. He bellowed and slammed his flat palm against the side of her head, dazing her. Then he hoisted her over his shoulder before the ringing in her ears had subsided and carried her back to the house.
Lucien stumbled out of the drawing room, glass in hand, as the front door shivered behind George's kick. "Good God." he slurred. "Now what?"
"Thought she could escape… tricky bitch," George declared. He pushed past Lucien into the drawing room and threw Juliana into a chair.
She lay still, slumped into the cushioned depths, her head numb with shock and the stinging pain of the blow. For the moment she was defeated.
George poured himself a measure of cognac, downed it, and poured another. "The sooner she's locked up in Winchester jail, the better." He drained the second glass. "Let's go"
"Go where?" Lucien lounged against the door frame. His eyes burned with fever, tremors racked his body, and he clutched the cognac glass as if it were his only connection with life.
"To the Forsetts," George said, throwing his glass down. "They'll identify this whore before a magistrate, and you'll identify her as your wife and say how and when she became so. They'll arraign her and lock her up. And then…" He wiped his mouth slowly, lasciviously, with the back of his hand. "And then… my dear stepmother… I shall pay you some visits in your cell."
Juliana still said nothing. She was drained of physical strength and knew she couldn't get away from George again. Not here… not now. Maybe the Forsetts would offer her protection. But she knew that was a fond hope. They wouldn't want to be touched by any scandal created by the ward they'd thoroughly disliked and resented. They'd repudiate her as soon as look at her.
"Come, Edgecombe," George said brusquely. "We'll ride. I'll take the whore up with me."
Lucien shook his head, opened his mouth to speak, and was promptly engulfed in a coughing spasm worse than any Juliana had witnessed. When he could speak, he gasped, "Can't possibly, dear boy. Couldn't sit a horse like this. Stay here… rest a bit… you go about your business." He gulped at the cognac.
"Oh, no," George said with soft fervor. "You're coming, Edgecombe. I need you. You won't see a penny of that money until you've done what I need you to do."
Lucien stared at him, the realization in his eyes that he couldn't withstand this man… this oaf whom he'd despised and thought he was using for his own revenge. Lucien wasn't using Ridge, Lucien was being used, and George now carried himself with all the cold, calculating assertion of a man possessed.
George took a menacing step toward him, his great hands bunched into fists. Lucien shrank back, all the strength of his own malice dissolved in the face of this threat, leaving him as weak and timid as any coward facing a bully.
"All right," he croaked, pressing the bloodstained kerchief to his mouth. "All right, I'll come."
George nodded brusquely and turned back to Juliana's slumped figure. She'd closed her eyes as the easiest way to absent herself from what was happening. He hauled her to her feet and grasped her chin, his other hand again twisting in her hair. "You don't want to be hurt, do you, my dear?"
She shook her head, still keeping her eyes closed.
"Then you'll do as I bid you, won't you?"
She nodded, then felt his mouth on hers, hard, bruising, vile, pressing her lips against her teeth. He forced his tongue into her mouth so she could taste the stale sourness of his brandy breath. She gagged and went suddenly limp.
George drew back and looked down into the white, closed face. He was holding her up by her hair as she sagged against him. He smiled. "Not quite so full of yourself now, Lady Edgecombe?" he taunted. "And when you've spent a week or so in a jail cell…" He chuckled and spun her to face the door. "Let's go."
In the hall he paused to pull a heavy riding cloak from a hook on the wall and swathed Juliana in its thick and musty folds. She walked as if in a trance as he pushed her ahead of him out of the house and to the stables, Lucien stumbling behind. The wind still blew cold and damp from the sea, and Juliana was pathetically grateful for the cloak, even though she knew it had been provided not to lessen her miseries but to avoid drawing attention to her. Lucien shivered and shook, and it seemed he had no strength left even to cough.
A groom brought two horses from the stables, saddled them, looking curiously at the trio but knowing better than to say anything in front of his master. He assisted Lucien to mount. Lucien slumped in the saddle like a sack of potatoes, feebly grasping the reins, his head drooping.
George lifted Juliana onto his horse and mounted behind her, holding her securely against him as he gathered up the reins. Juliana tried to hold herself away from the hot, sweaty, triumphant maleness of his body, but he jerked her closer and she yielded before he did anything worse.
They trotted out of the yard and took the road to Forsett Towers.