Fletcher arched his eyebrow. "Old? You always did take that two month difference in our ages too seriously. Well then, stand aside and allow this tottering old man to reap the privileges of his station."
The two of them walked through the entryway of the Jenkins' home and into the paneled library. Although sizable and elegant, the room was warm and comfortable. Gracing the library was an oversized desk of darkest mahogany. With the exception of the fireplace, the entire room was filled with shelves and shelves of books.
Fletcher remembered this room. It felt familiar and natural to be here—where they had first been tosspots on Mr. Jenkins' brandy, where they'd tried their first cigars and coughed until their throats were raw, where being young and cavalier, they'd planned their strategies as to how they were going to talk Kyndee into dancing every waltz with them at the next social gathering.
When he entered the room, Caleb sank into the nearest chair as though exhausted by Fletcher's sudden reappearance. "Rasc, I don't understand this. What happened to your voice? The rasp...it’s so damn—” He cleared his throat. “Where have you been all this time? There was no word. We gave up hope years ago. Have you been to Seabrook? God, Rasc, do you know about—" He stopped and sucked in an anxious breath. "Do you know about your father?" he asked, visibly sorry he had to be the one to break the terrible news.
"Yes, I know," Fletcher said with bitterness. He walked to the fireplace, leaned his arm on the mantel and rested his chin on his hand. "I know about my mother's blindness, too."
"I'm sorry, Rasc," Caleb said, his voice heavy with compassion. "I know how much you loved your father and how much he loved you. He tried everything to find you. Must have been horrible for you to hear that after coming back from— Where the hell were you anyway?"
Fletcher groaned and ran his hand across his eyes. "Let me pour myself a glass of sherry and get comfortable. It's been a long ride and an even longer ten years." He pointed to the tray. "May I?" He poured them both a glass from the decanter and held up his glass to toast his friend. "God, it's good to see you, Caleb, and it's good to be home."
* * *
It was late into the evening before Fletcher finished his tale, and Caleb finished his questions.
"That bastard!" the sandy-haired man shouted as he shot from his chair and paced the room. His brown eyes darkened; his face wore a black scowl. "How could he have had the nerve to weep as he told the tale of your kidnapping, as he begged forgiveness of your parents for coming back alive when their precious Fletcher had been taken." He shook his head in distinct disbelief. "The son of a bitch kept saying over and over, 'It should have been me; it should have been me'." Caleb snorted in disgust. "I remember how your distraught parents had comforted him as he had clung to them like a frightened child. What an actor! When all the while it was him—plotting and scheming." He smacked his fist into the other palm. "I want to kill him!"
"I know, Caleb, I know," Fletcher said, quiet and pushing back deeper into the Chippendale chair. He pressed his glass to the side of his face because exhaustion suddenly wearied him. He had forced himself to tell Caleb everything, at least almost everything—some parts he could never tell, not ever. But having finally shared those hellish years with someone who understood him, having shared the heavy burden of his hate, he experienced a long sought after yet fragile and fleeting moment of peace and drank it in like nectar. "Would it be possible to stay here with you for a few days? Sorry I didn't give you any advance notice," he chuckled, "but it didn't seem quite the thing to do under the circumstances."
Caleb pushed the hair from his forehead. "Blasted! Of course, you old rascal; stay as long as you want. There's plenty of room, and anyway we've a hell of a lot of catching up to do. Tomorrow, I'll tell you about what's been happening around here while you've been gone." He grunted. "The political folderol and hand-dipping are enough to make you madder than a hornet, but I can see by your face that you're beyond rational thought."
"That I am," Fletcher answered. His close friend, and a glass of fine sherry...yes, it felt good to be there. Closing his eyes and yawning, he exhaled a deep breath, and laid his head against the wing of the chair.
"Come on, Rasc, don't fall asleep here. You're too big and heavy, and my back's too weak to carry you up the stairs the way I did that one night when I found you...ah...shall we say...indisposed in the stable with a certain young lady?" He lifted his brows at Fletcher and glanced at him sideways.
Fletcher opened one sleepy eye and arched an eyebrow, casting Caleb a sly grin. "I had a lot of explaining to do the next day, but oh was it worth it!"
Caleb swung his arm around Fletcher's shoulders, and they walked to the stairs. "It's the same room; the third on the left. I think you know your way. I'll have your bags sent up and your horse bedded." He cuffed him lightly in the shoulder. "Rasc?"
Fletcher stopped on the step and turned. "Yes?"
Caleb's eyes flashed sincerity as he extended his hand. "You old rascal, I can't tell you how good it is to have you back. Damn, it's good!"
Fletcher grasped Caleb's hand firmly. "Thanks, young rascal. See you in the morning."
As he felt himself slipping into sleep, Fletcher realized they had never once mentioned Kyndee. Strange, he'd have thought it would have been one of the first things out of Caleb's mouth.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be time enough.
* * *
Brutal hands tore Kyndee from her slumber. Hands clutched at her, tearing her gown. She fought against the hands and screamed. A hand clamped down her mouth.
"Hush up, my little wife. There'll be no screaming in my house for others to hear," said Buck. "Did you think you'd have this bed to yourself forever?" He released his one hand from her mouth, but pinioned her two hands above her head with his other one.
"Buck, please. You're hurting me," pleaded Kyndee. She smelled brandy and fear crept into her spine.
"Don't play coy with me, Kyndee. I know you didn't want to marry me. You think I don't know that you still pine for Saint Fletcher—the illustrious royal pain Fletcher, everyone's knight in shining armor Fletcher? Give it up, woman; he's not coming back. You're Mrs. Stedman now, and the only male Stedman is me. I am the lord and master here. This plantation is mine, your father's plantation is mine and, my very dear Mrs. Stedman, you are mine."
For a man who probably had been drinking heavily, his words were perfectly clear. Buck always did hold his liquor well. It was his foul temper that he rarely held in check.
"Buck, please," she begged again.
"Fletcher treated me like excess baggage, some poor relation needing their charity. I didn't need their charity. I had money of my own that came to me when my parents were killed. But the Stedman name was everything, wasn't it? And I wasn't a Stedman. The Bannistre name wasn't quite as high and mighty."
He kissed her roughly; it hurt her lip as he crushed it against her teeth.
"Well, things do have a way of working out, don't they? I have the love of Fletcher's life because her family needed charity. My charity. Now I'm a Stedman, the only Stedman. I have his name, his home and you, my dear—for as long as we both shall live. Yes, things do have a way of working out."
Buck kissed her ear as Kyndee squirmed and tried to turn away, but it seemed the more she struggled, the more she played into his hands. His hands were like iron bands, strong and unyielding.
"No!" she screamed. "Don't. Buck, not like this!"
He slapped her. "I told you, there will be no screaming," he growled. "Don't tell me, 'Not like this.' Being unschooled in the matter of marital relations you, my little lady, are no judge of what this should or shouldn't be. I have schooled women better than you in what I like and dislike in my bed. I find schooling a wench a loathsome task, but since my usual tart is unavailable, you'll have to learn and learn quickly. I have little patience were my needs are concerned." His chuckle was low and ugly. "In fact, I have little patience at all."
Continuing to hold her hands