Abigail stood outside her mistress’s chamber, stalling and trying desperately to think of a way out of the situation that had been chasing her thoughts all day. Panic clawed at her throat. There had to be an escape. The answer had to be there, just beyond her sight, just past her reach. All she had to do was stretch her fingers out a bit farther and there it would be.
But habit was a strong force, and even as her mind ricocheted about the possibilities, her feet carried her out into the hall, around the corner, and did not stop until they had put her in front of the closed door behind which lay her imminent destruction.
She could not go in. That was a simple answer. She could ask Andrew to see to Jason’s needs from now on–but claiming what? That she could not handle it? He would know it was untrue, that she was hiding something, and she could not admit to him what. He would wonder if she had invited the attention, had done or said something to Jason to make him think her the sort to agree to such a tryst.
She could ignore it altogether, mention nothing. She could go to her room, to bed, and hope fervently that the young master would have forgotten his desires by morning.
Only he would not. She knew that. If she did not go into his chamber now, he would seek her out in her own. The look in his eyes that morning, the things he had done to her, had spoken strongly of his determination. He would come, and Andrew and Dinah and Simon would all hear him knock, would hear the angry voice he would undoubtedly raise at her audacity, would hear any protest she might make. And if one of them decided to intervene–something she could well imagine Andrew doing if it became clear that a man was forcing himself upon her–it would not be good.
A slave did not raise a hand against his master. If he did, he seldom lived long enough to see the results of his bravery. And though Cleopas would surely not want to punish him, he would have no choice when it came to his son or his servant.
No, if there would be shame, she would bear it alone. If there would be dishonor, better that it be on one than the whole house. And with luck, the young master would take her tonight and then be satisfied. She could work to forget the incident, salvage her innocence, and think up a way to explain to Ester why she could not be given in marriage. A man would not want a soiled woman as his wife. But the thought of confiding to her mistress what was about to take place–
She had to stop thinking about it. She raised her fist, her knuckles rapped against the wood, and her body was as rigid as granite as she waited with dreadful expectancy.
“Enter.”
She opened the door enough to slip in, then closed it behind her. It was her usual way, always returning things to the way they had been before her arrival, but this time it carried significance. It was she who stepped into this, she who closed the portal on escape. Her nostrils flared as emotion surged through her again. She struggled against the tears and dug her fingernails into her palms to keep the shaking under control.
Jason lounged on the couch, a manuscript in his lap, and looked up only briefly at her entrance. “‘Crito,’” he said in introduction to the papers in his hands. “The story of Socrates’ last hours before his execution. Are you familiar with it?”
Her “Yes” was barely more than a movement of lips.
“I always liked this dialogue. It is one of the few times we see what Socrates actually believes, when he is not just repeating someone else’s theories in his own rhetoric.” He paused, crooked his head a bit, and glanced at her again. “Did you know that Cato read this through three times on the night he committed suicide? When Caesar’s armies were approaching?”
She could only open her mouth this time without any sound coming forth. No, she did not know, and she did not care. She tried to swallow but found her throat suddenly parched and swollen.
Jason put the dialogue down carefully and sat up, his focus fully on her now. His gaze was surprisingly soft, as was his voice when next he spoke. “I am trying to help you relax, Abigail. To draw you out with conversation of things we share a common interest in.” He smiled, his brows arching companionably. “I have never been able to discuss Plato with a woman before. I find myself intrigued by what it could result in.”
Abigail focused upon not looking as terrified as she felt, but suspected she failed miserably.
Jason fought a grin. “Come here, Abigail.”
Disobedience would have required thought. Her feet acted on their own yet again and took her to stand directly in front of him. He stood, closing the distance between them even more. Then he reached out and brushed a few stray hairs off her cheek. She did not flinch at the touch, though she would have liked to.
“Kiss me,” he demanded in a whisper, his hand at the back of her head.
Her eyes flew to his in surprise, her hands flying up protectively at the suggestion and landing on his chest when he drew her against him rather suddenly. “Master,” she breathed in a voice near a squeak, “I cannot. Please, I do not know how–”
“Did I not teach you this morning?” Humor deepened both his tone and his eyes.