Chapter Thirteen
“All of this, ‘it lies in the lap of the Gods…’.”
Mr Daniel Lockwood – classical scholar, philosopher and bachelor / Homer.
Clara’s eyes fixed on Sir Matthew Taylor, as his chin started to nod onto his chest. The carriage was travelling fast, and although she had contemplated it, she had rejected just flinging herself out of the door. It was likely she would do herself permanent damage.
Strangely, she wasn’t scared. She was absolutely seething. Men! They were absolute imbeciles – did Taylor really think he could force Ralph to concur to their marriage? Even if he did, she would never walk down the aisle. He could beat her all he wanted – it was better than a life-time of torment. She did admit that she was being brave now, but having never felt the back of a hand, she could afford to be valiant.
If only she had some type of weapon. She scanned the carriage, but nothing stood out. She looked at Sir Matthew again. He was wearing a rather dusty, grey coat, and his cravat was…she saw it! Twinkling there in his cravat was a long stick pin with a fox’s head topping it – its eyes glittering ruby-red with mischief.
But how was she to reach it? He would feel her presence if she got closer. She would have to provoke him somehow, but the idea did not particularly appeal. What other choice did she have? She drew in a deep breath.
“You won’t get away with this, you know?” Clara said loudly. Taylor’s chin jerked up at her voice, and he hit his head on the back of the carriage. Good, thought Clara with an inward smile – that will put him in a bad mood.
“Shut up, you little shrew. I’m trying to sleep.” He closed his eyes.
“Where are you taking me? I won’t marry you.” She tried again, even louder.
She saw his face harden, and Clara’s heart stopped at the cruel twist to his lips. Was this sensible? She had no time to think on her actions, as hands suddenly grabbed hold of her wrists and pulled her onto his lap. She sprawled over him, her face level with his.
“I don’t think you heard me. I said shut up.” His eyes roamed over her face. “You’re prettier than I remembered. Except for that hand, but I’ll stuff it under the pillow when I tup you. Perhaps, you are right though – better to get reacquainted on this carriage ride.”
Clara felt his hands release her wrists. They travelled up her arms, and one tangled in her hair, which had fallen loose. She automatically jerked back, and he laughed. “Do you know, I think I’m going to enjoy you.”
Her stomach churned at the thought, but Clara pulled herself together and spat out at him, “I willnotmarry you.” She had known that Sir Matthew was an obnoxious man, but she hadn’t realised he could be so violent.
“You will when you are so ruined that no other man will have you. You’ll beg me…” He pulled her face towards his and ground his mouth upon hers. Clara froze for a moment in horror before banishing her disgust and creeping her hand towards his cravat.
He forced her mouth open, and Clara could not be sure she wouldn’t gag. She was also horrified to discover that the man still had his eyes open – what if he saw her creeping hand? This was her only chance. She remembered feeling Rook’s body under her and decided toaccidentlybrush against him harder – the sensation might distract him.
She wiggled in a way that may have seemed like an effort to move her body away, but instead pressed her torso harder against his. She felt his arousal against her belly and knew she’d have to bathe for a month! He groaned against her mouth, his eyes closing, and Clara took her chance to grab the stickpin, pulling it from its clasp.
The horrible man was now getting more rabid – his kisses turning to bites – and Clara dithered about where to hit him with the pin. It was clutched in her hand, and although her aim would be true, she may not have the strength to penetrate his coat. Suddenly, she felt his hand squeeze her breast, and her decision was made. With all her might, she thrust the pin into his outer thigh, and then flungherself back away from him with a fierce cry – the stickpin still held firmly in her right hand.
“You bitch, you little bitch. What have you done?” he roared, clutching his leg. Taylor lunged forward at her, and Clara aimed the pin blindly at his advancing body. Another screech echoed around the coach, and the vile man’s body fell back against the opposite seat. He was clutching his inner thigh now, and Clara could see blood start to spread across his breeches. The pin had embedded itself almost to the hilt – the fox’s eyes glinting in red delight.
The roars of agony had obviously alerted the coach driver, as the horses started to slow. Clara took her chance and flung herself out of the carriage door. She hit the dusty track with a thump, narrowly avoiding a wheel. Pain shot through her hip at the hard landing, but the carriage did not stop. She could hear Sir Matthew roaring at the driver to take him to the nearest doctor, all thoughts of Clara forgotten in his distress.
Clara shuddered, as she watched the coach disappear into the distance, and slowly rose to her feet. Her body felt battered, her lips were bruised, and only now did her swollen fingers ache. But she was free.
It then occurred, she actually had no idea where she was. They had hurtled through London at quite a pace and she was now staring at countryside. Fields with sprouting seed lay on either side, but no farmhouses, cottages or anything else could be seen.
“Bloody men.” Clara started walking in the direction they had come from and cursed to herself again. It helped.
“Always calling melittle.Well, I showed him whatlittlecan do with a stickpin. Why I was scared of the man just a week ago? Heaven knows. What was I thinking? And as for Rookdean – I’ll give him a piece of my mind if I ever see him again. I wouldn’t have him if he came buttered and covered in jam.”
Clara had been walking for a while, still muttering, when she heard hooves. She looked up to see a cloud of dust approaching her. It stopped a way in front, and a man slithered from a rather large, black horse.
“You!” she yelled.
He started towards her, a strangled, “Clara,” emanating from his throat.
“You…you are an absolute, total, unmitigated arse!” Rook stopped in his tracks at Clara’s insult. “A mutton-mongered arse!” she roared, hoping she’d used the term correctly. “I wouldn’t have you if you fell to your knees in front of me and told me your first name, you…you…”
Clara watched in amazement, as Rook stumbled over to her and fell to his knees, his fine breeches scratching in the dust. She never actually expected him to do it!
“My name is Dionysus, and I love you, Clara Lockwood with all that is in me. My body, my soul and my heart – they are yours – to do with as you will. I beg your forgiveness.” With that pronouncement, a rather limp bunch of lilies and roses appeared in front of her. She felt only slightly appeased.
