Kyndee rose carefully and soundlessly from the bed, went to the washstand and poured water into the basin. It didn't matter that the water wasn't warm; she relished the coolness. She wanted to wash away the scorching feel of his touch, the lingering remains of his scent, and the essence of his seed. On the cloth she saw stains of blood, her own blood and, trembling, she scrubbed herself with renewed vigor.
Her innocence was to have been given. It should have been taken with gentle tenderness and whispered endearments of love. Instead her husband seized her treasure as the ultimate trophy, fueled by his never-ending revenge and resentment of Fletcher. Kyndee grieved for her loss and her plight. Her body protested and ached from his abuse, but her mind hurt with the knowledge that she was pledged to this man forever.
When she finished washing, she curled in a blanket on the chaise and wept silently. The tears dripped from the corners of her eyes to the colorful threads in the angelic scene of the petit point pillow beneath her head.
Courage, Queen Katharine. Courage and honor.
CHAPTER SIX
˜
Fletcher found it hard to rouse from the unusually deep, sound sleep. Drifting in and out, it took an anxious few moments to convince himself of where he was. Then relaxing in the intricately carved mahogany four-poster bed, he turned onto his side and languidly pulled the mussed pillow farther under his head, curling his arm beneath it. He lay still, drowsily opening and closing his eyes, unwilling to spoil the luxurious moment with the dreary prospect of rising and having to think.
He had deliberately left the draperies open to provide the sun's light and warmth easy access through the window. His gaze followed the path of the rays to where they made prisms of the crystal figurines on the dressing table. Having spent so many years in that dark, dismal place, he constantly delighted in the morning's brilliant sunlight.
He rolled to his back, locked his fingers behind his neck and studied the pattern of the slate-blue fabric in the canopy that arched above him. Sighing, he drew up his leg and locked his foot into the crook of his other knee. The soft down fluffed around him; the silkiness of the bedclothes felt delicious against his skin.
It wasn't home but this was as close as he could be to home. He had slept in this bed times too numerous to count, just as Caleb had slept at Seabrook. In their wild wanderings, they'd seemed to find their way and collapse into whichever beds were closest.
During their mettlesome years, Rachel Jenkins—Caleb's mother and full fledged fire-breathing dragon that she was at the time—had taken Fletcher's presence in her home as a matter of course and had never registered surprise when he greeted her in the morning. If she viewed Sam Stedman's offspring as an intemperate influence on her son, her opinion remained her own, for she never voiced an objection to their close friendship.
Fletcher spread wide his arms and arched his neck and back, stretching his tight muscles from their long rest. Yawning deeply, he threw his arms over his face and wondered if he might fall back to sleep. He was reluctant to leave his downy cocoon. The only thing missing was a voluptuous, beguiling female to share it with. As he contemplated beguiling females, his mind wandered to Kyndee, and he frowned. He would never be able to drift back now.
With a sigh of resignation, he threw back the covers, swung his legs over the side of the bed and dropped his feet to the floor. A paroxysm of dizziness caused him to grasp the bedpost and rest his tousled head against its wooden sturdiness. Unfortunately, his hastily muttered oath did nothing to stop the room from spinning.
He donned the dressing robe someone had been kind enough to leave on the chaise. Running his hand over his eyes, he decided it had to have been Caleb. Fletcher now vaguely recalled someone having been in his room after he'd gone to bed. The person had whispered something about Fletcher never having a robe when he needed one. He chuckled. While the statement was true, he was touched that Caleb, the consummate host, would have remembered the minor detail. A sudden knock startled him as the door was thrown open.
"Are you decent?" Caleb strode into the room. "Well, it's about time you woke up, you lazy dolt. I waited downstairs to break fast with you but my hunger was past endurance. I see you found the robe. Keep it. The women will think it goes devilishly well with your eyes—had a feeling you didn't have one."
Caleb was already dressed in coat, breeches and boots and looked anxious to be in the saddle. He moved to the window and glanced out and, turning, leaned against the sill. He rubbed his hands together rapidly with an expression of boyish mischief.
"What's your pleasure today?" he asked. "Shall we gallop to Seabrook and challenge Buck to a duel? I'll be certain his second forgets to load his pistol. Or shall we have him slow roasted over an open pit? Come to think of it, I favor the idea of having him hung, drawn and quartered. Have you given it any thought, Rasc? Pray tell, what's the plan for his demise?"
Fletcher shook his head and glinted his friend a one-sided grin. "And to think I was just musing on your excellent manners as a host! But what host barges into his guest's room before that guest has yet to gather his brains from the pillow?"
Caleb shrugged. "I don't consider you a guest."
"Ah yes. Well that accounts for it then." With one hand, Fletcher pushed his hair from his eyes. With the other, he poured a glass of water from the crystal pitcher and downed it in three gulps to relieve the dryness in his throat. He poured himself another glassful.
Swinging the glass by the rim, and leaning against the bedpost, he folded his arms and smiled at his friend. "In answer to your delving questions: one—yes, I'm decent, but I highly doubt you would have cared if I weren't; two—I didn't know it was this late; three—I planned to break fast with you; four—thank you for the robe; I didn't have one; and five—I have no plan whatsoever because I must make inquiries first." Fletcher gasped for air, having shoved out the entire statement on a single breath.
Caleb lifted one eyebrow in an expression of amused incredulity. "Well said, Rasc. I remember any number of mornings when you'd have been hard pressed to put together a coherent thought. Obviously your mind has improved with age." On his way to the door, he jabbed Fletcher's shoulder with his knuckles. "Sorry I can't say the same for your looks. Do try to appear presentable. I believe, due to the hour, Mother will be joining us."
Fletcher immediately sobered. "Caleb, your mother will know me immediately. She has the eyes of a bird of prey—"
Caleb pivoted on the threshold and interrupted him. "No need to be all in a nettle, Rasc. I'll seat you at the far end of the table. Mother's mellowed a bit, and her hawk eyes aren't what they used to be. Besides, it's not as if she's expecting you. I'll tell her you're a friend I met on my last trip. She's grown accustomed to me bringing home all manner of stray animals—" He grinned. "—and with that scraggly hair on your face, that's exactly what you appear to be. Don't take overly long to dress, old boy; Mother hates to be kept waiting."
Fletcher dipped his fingers in the glass and flicked a spray of water across the room. "As I said," he chimed, chortling. "The consummate host!"
Caleb dodged the spray with a dignified wave of his hand and remained in the doorway. His jaw was tight as if he had something important on his mind. Then his face crinkled into that wide boyish smile, and he shook his head. "Bantering with you like this, Rasc; it's as if you were never gone."
"I trust you mean my showing up here is a pleasant reoccurrence?" he asked with a whimsical lift to his brows.
"You're incorrigible, Stedman," Caleb replied as he turned to leave. "I'll wait for you downstairs."
* * *
After the sumptuous meal, the table was cleared and Fletcher and Caleb lingered over their coffee. Fletcher noted that Rachel Jenkins, dignified in dark silk, had indeed mellowed since he'd last seen her. To his immense relief, she had not given him more than slight scrutiny, and she'd kept the conversation within the confines of the weather and the upcoming ball.
"As