Matilda did not move. Her eyes narrowed scornfully. “You resort so easily to violence. You are like an animal, my lord. What you cannot take by force you wish to destroy.” She saw his hand tighten on the leather thong and she felt a quick pang of fear, but she did not move. “I have often wondered why you have never beaten me,” she said half thoughtfully. “You have often wanted to.” She smiled at him. “Perhaps you have never dared.”
He stared down into the mocking amber eyes. The sorceress. The witch. Did she know then that he was afraid of her? He clenched his fist tighter on the belt, resisting the urge to cross himself with his free hand. He must take her now, while his desire was hot, while his anger sustained him. Whip her and mount her and by God’s bones he was not too old to get her with child again. A trueborn child to replace the bastard girl he had given to the Welsh.
He stepped forward, his arm raised, and brought down the leather thong across her shoulders with every inch of strength he possessed.
He heard the air whistle out of her lungs as the blow fell, but apart from that she did not make a sound. For an instant he saw fear in her eyes, then hatred-then, as he raised his arm for the second blow, she threw back her head and laughed. The sound rang out, wild and mocking, and he felt his desire shrivel and die as he heard it. Goose pimples raised on the flesh across his shoulders. With an oath he dropped the belt and groped at his feet for his tunic.
“So be it,” he breathed. “You may laugh now, my lady. You may call up whatever demons protect you and scorn me now, but mine shall be the last laugh. Stay here! Stay in your castle, my lady! Stay in the past and lick your wounds.
He swung his mantle over his shoulder and walked out of the chamber.
Dry-eyed, Matilda climbed to her feet. She picked up her cloak and wrapped it around her tightly, trying to stem the sudden, agonized shuddering that racked her body, then wearily she climbed onto the bed and pulled the covers over her.
Only then did she realize the music was still playing softly in a dark corner near the window.
29
There was a persistent knocking somewhere in the distance. Judy dragged herself up out of the fog of sleep and groped for her bedside clock. It was three-fifteen.
With a groan she sat up and reached for her bathrobe. Staggering slightly, she switched on the bedside lamp and pushed open the door into the studio. It was quite dark in there, the smell of turpentine and oil paint pleasingly overlaid with beeswax. She sniffed appreciatively; smells were always so much stronger and better defined in the darkness.
After snapping on a single spotlight in the corner, she made her way to the door. Behind her the new canvas, nearly finished, stood alone in the center of the floor, and she glanced at it possessively as she passed. Totally absorbed, she had been working on it, in spite of the lack of light, until nearly two.
“Who is it?” she called. She slipped the chain into place. “Stop making such a noise and tell me what you want.”
“It’s me, Sam Franklyn.” The knocking stopped abruptly.
“Do you know what time it is?” Cautiously she opened the door and peered through the crack.
Sam was leaning against the wall. His shirt was unbuttoned and he carried his jacket over his shoulder, his finger hooked through the loop. Slightly bleary-eyed, obviously tired, he was, she realized for the first time with a sudden sense of shock, as handsome in his own way as his brother. With an obvious effort he stepped forward and pushed at the door, swearing violently as the chain caught it and held it fast, bruising his knuckles. “Open up, Judy, for God’s sake. I need to talk to someone.”
“Someone? Anyone?” She stared at him indignantly. “Are you drunk, Sam?” She reached for the light switch by the door and flooded the studio behind her with light as the fluorescent strips clicked on. After pushing the door almost shut, she slipped off the chain.
“No, I’m not drunk.” Sam walked in past her. “But I would like to be. Do you have anything here to create the desired effect?”
Judy raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “If it were up to the Franklyns I wouldn’t have much left for anyone to get drunk on! Anyway, I thought you were a coffee addict.”
He grinned at her, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Coffee up till two perhaps, but then Scotch.”
She shrugged. “One. Then you can go home. I’m sick of you and Nick using this place as a railway station bar! What’s the matter anyway?”
“The matter? Why should anything be the matter?”
Judy found the bottle of Scotch in the kitchen cabinet and brought it back into the studio. “People don’t usually arrive here at three in the morning wanting a drink without something being the matter,” she said curtly. “Is Nick still in Wales?”
Sam shook his head. “They came back at the weekend. Nick is flying to the States tomorrow.” He emptied the glass and put it on the table. “I lie. This morning. He is going this morning.”
“And does he still think he’s King John?” Judy poured herself a small measure and sipped it without enjoyment. She had begun to shiver.
Sam smiled. He sat down and put his elbows on the table. “He
“Crap. You’ve been feeding him that stuff deliberately. What I want to know is why? You don’t like your brother, do you, Sam?”
“How perspicacious of you to see it.” Sam picked up his empty glass and thoughtfully held it level with his face, squinting through it sideways.
“And you are setting him up?”
“Possibly. Give me another wee dram and I shall reveal all.”
Judy hesitated. He was not obviously drunk, but he was making her feel uncomfortable. There was something strange-even frightening-about him as he sat motionless at the table, a sense of latent power that could be unleashed at any moment. Still shivering, she reached for an old sweater that was hanging over the back of a wooden chair near the table and knotted it around her neck like a scarf. “Okay. It’s a deal. One drink and you reveal all,” she said.
She watched while he drank, then she sat down, arms folded, and waited.
He put down the glass. “I am a puppeteer, Judith. A Punch and Judy man. A kingmaker. Nicholas is dancing on the end of my string.” He held out his hand, angled above the floor as though he held a puppet there before him, dancing at his feet.
“Even in the States?” she asked dryly.
“In the States, sweet girl, the king who lives in his head will sleep. He will wait until he returns to his native land and then he will strike.”
“Strike?” Judy echoed. She looked at him apprehensively. “What do you mean, strike?”
“Who can tell?” Sam said. “He is a king.” He laughed suddenly, then abruptly he looked back at her. “He seduced my wife, you know.”
“Your wife?” Judy echoed in amazement. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t know you were married.”
“Oh, yes.” He balanced the chair on its two back legs, lolling in it comfortably, his fingertips resting on the edge of the table. “Because he is king he thinks he can do what he likes with other people’s lives. He thinks he can take with impunity. He doesn’t know how wrong he is.”
Judy was watching him nervously. He was like Nick; he could be blind drunk and not show it at all. She eyed the bottle, which she had left on the table less than two feet from his hand. It was still half full.
Standing up, she edged away from him. “I don’t know about you, but I need some coffee, however late it is.”
“Not for me.” He moved slightly in his chair to watch her. “I have just come from Joanna’s apartment,” he went on after a moment. “I walked around for a long time before coming down here.”
“Oh?” She hid her surprise as she went back into the kitchen and switched on the light.
