“You s-shouldn’t speak like that,” she stammered. Thrown off guard by his unusually playful demeanor she crossed the small kitchen and gazed out the window. The glass was dingy and in desperate need of a good cleaning, but she could still see the sky was bright blue with nary a cloud in sight. Fields filled with wild flowers tumbled off in every direction, making the view pretty as a picture. She had forgotten how beautiful it was here, so far secluded from the hustle and bustle of London. Absently toying with a stray lock of hair that had come loose from the silk ribbon, she wondered what her three best friends were doing without her. She bit her lip to contain a smile. Sinful things, no doubt.
It was a running joke amongst the four of them that Catherine, despite her promiscuous reputation, was the most saintly of them all. Only Margaret, Grace, and Josephine knew she had always been faithful to Marcus. It made it easier to bear knowing her friends understood the depths of her faithfulness, even if her husband did not. They had all urged her on more than one occasion to tell him the truth, but her stubbornness was too great a burden to overcome. If Marcus ever asked her if she was guilty of adultery she would reply honestly, but he never had. Instead he continued to believe rumor and speculation over his own wife and for that – even more than his abandonment of her – Catherine could never forgive him.
“I like your hair like that,” Marcus whispered suddenly in her ear and she jerked, not having heard him get up from the table. His wide hands encircled her slim waist and pulled her back until her bottom bumped softly against his groin. Through her skirt she felt the hardness of his arousal and she steeled herself against him with all of her strength even as her traitorous heart beat faster.
“With your hair loose and flowing, like you used to wear it,” he continued, his lips brushing the curve of her ear before sliding lower to nuzzle at her jaw.
She closed her eyes and braced her fingers against the windowsill. “Marcus, please do not do this.”
“Do what?” His clever hands slowly made their way up from her waist to cup her breasts, rubbing small circles against the yellow fabric until her nipples hardened and ached. “You smell like violets and sunshine,” he whispered.
She bit her lip to keep from gasping in helpless surrender and held herself stiff, so stiff she feared she might break, but it would be better to break into a thousand pieces than have him see the unrequited love shining in her eyes.
“If you wish to amuse yourself go find a whore, Marcus,” she snapped. “One who will enjoy your touch, for I cannot stand it! I have agreed to share your bed, but I do not have to put up with being… being groped in the kitchen!”
He spun her around so fast her teeth clicked painfully together. His eyes flashed and for the first time she felt a true quivering of fear lick low in her belly. “Marcus, I –”
“Why would I need to find a whore when there is one right in front of me?” he asked silkily, shifting his weight forward until she was trapped between his hard body and the window. His hands were the opposite of passionate now as they swept up her slender ribcage and she cried out when they closed painfully around her breasts.
“Stop it! Marcus, what has gotten into you? Let me go this instant!”
“Why? You let other men touch you. Isn’t this what you like, being treated like the whore you are?” he growled before he lowered his head and ravished her mouth in a kiss intended to plunder and punish. Keeping her pinned against the window with his body, he dropped one hand to cup her sex through her gown and grinded his palm against her in a grotesque exaggeration of how he had pleasured her last night. Now his fingers brought only pain, not pleasure, and when she tried to twist free he tangled one hand in her long hair, tearing it free from the silk ribbon.
Tears born of pain and panic stung her eyes. A mewling whimper forced its way past her lips. With no other way to defend herself, she bit down on Marcus’ invading tongue as hard as she could.
On a savage oath Marcus abruptly released her and staggered back, his eyes so dark in his pale face they looked black. His adams apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Catherine… Cat…. I never… I am so sorry… I don’t know what came over me… Please, I…” He reached for her but she darted around him and stumbled to the front door, her breath coming out in wheezing gasps and stutters.
“You’re a monster. A monster! And I h-hate you!” she cried in anguish. Flinging the front door open so hard it slammed into the opposing wall, she fled the cottage as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels.
Marcus drew in a deep, trembling breath as the front door slammed shut. He wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve, dully noting the spots of blood that stained the white cotton. Blindly he stumbled into the living room and slammed his hands down on the bar, making the bottles and tumblers jump. He stared down at his hands, regarding them as if they belonged to another, for surely it had not been his hands that had touched his wife in cruelness and anger. Not his hands that had pinched and groped and bruised her delicate skin. Not his hands that had filled her sapphire eyes with fear and loathing.