Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
In the dim light of a dying lantern, Kenna could see the devil’s white teeth. A more gleeful groom there never was.
“I cannot wait to see MacPherson’s face when I introduce him to my new bride.” He sang. “I wonder how he and his new wife are faring. I suspect you will not care much for her. And I know MacPherson will not.” He laughed and he removed his dark gloves.
Kenna backed against the door, but she had no intention of running into the waiting arms of the crew or their captain.
“I am not your bride.”
“Oh, but you are. Completely legal, I assure you. And from the documents I have from Carlisle Folly, I can prove that the signature is yours. And if you decide to protest, I just may have to cut your tongue out. It’s the most interesting sensation, slicing off a man’s tongue.”
Kenna visibly convulsed, much to Balloch’s delight.
“Die.”
His eyes batted. “What was that?”
“Die…please.” she said with a smile.
“You first, Lady Balloch. With the license and witnesses, I have all I really need. And since you are no longer innocent, we needn’t consummate our union...”
Kenna took heart.
He noticed. “But we will.”
That heart landed in her stomach with a splash. She started for the windows, looking for a place to empty her belly.
“Remember your vow, dear,” he said, making no move to try to intercept her. When she was violently ill out the window, he was satisfied that she would not jump, and relaxed. “Surely you would agree that a life as Lady Balloch is preferable to a messy swim with the sharks.”
Kenna’s eyes widened and she looked back out into the water.
In the darkness, she could see only the chaos of the waves, but her imagination told her the deadly beasts were out there, waiting, watching.
When she straightened, she felt him close behind her.
When he put a hand on her shoulder and tried to turn her, she resisted.
He ripped away her cloak, and a snarl sounded in her ear just before he bit into the flesh between her neck and shoulder.
Kenna screamed and spun away from him, but his teeth were sharp, his jaw strong, and she felt the flesh rip just before he released her.
Hoots of laughter resounded through the boards over their heads, but she was more concerned with the sensation of warm blood spreading down her breast and back. As horrified as she was, she would not swoon. She would wake up in the cold water, with all those teeth and tails!
She retrieved her cloak and pressed the thick cloth to her neck to stanch the bleeding and backed away from the madman, wary of what he might do next.
“Ye’re mad,” she said, watching him lick her blood from his teeth and lips.
He ignored her comment. “Let me tell you about sharks. They come from a great distance when there is as much blood in the water as is on your gown. And they stay until every scrap of you is devoured. So…” He gestured to the narrow bed.
“You can submit to me or jump if you prefer.” He turned his back on her and strode to the desk, where he poured himself a drink.
“Distilled wine, wife? It will help with the pain.”
And she was in pain. She had no idea this spot near her neck was so sensitive, or maybe any spot on her body would feel the same if it were ripped apart.
“Yes,” but she stayed where she was. She knew its capabilities, and she could not allow herself to be distracted by pain while she dealt with this monster. She also needed the man to lower his guard, for she had a plan already in mind.
“Here you are, my dear.” Balloch handed her a cup brimming with the rich dark fluid.
He moved behind her, ignoring her wariness, and removed her cloak once more.
After throwing it aside, he pulled back the edge of her gown to inspect the damage.
The skin seemed to be back in the right place, but when he wiped the wound with a clean kerchief from his sleeve, blood quickly refilled the marks from his teeth.
Kenna tried not to wince during his half-hearted ministrations, then remembered to drink.
“I’ve never had distilled wine. Aunt Agatha said it was the blood of the devil and if I ever drank any, she would have to beat it out of me.”
As he came back to stand in front of her, Kenna could tell he was intrigued by her little story. He seemed to relax a bit.
“Take heart, Kenna. This may be easier than you expect. Drink up and you may not remember any of it come morning.”
So she pretended to sip, and sip, and sip.
“It feels overwarm,” she mumbled into the cup. She tipped the liquid against her lips yet again, but swallowed nothing.
“I will open another window.”
And while he did so, she poured her drink into the ewer on a chest near her elbow. Before he turned back, she tipped the cup to her lips as if draining it.
He seemed very pleased indeed, but the fact that he could act as if he had not nearly ripped out her throat chilled what was left of her blood.
He acted as if conversing with a woman whose clothes were wet with the stuff was not new to him.
Then it occurred to her that it probably wasn’t.
She remembered the marks on the woman’s arms when they were gathered in the dungeon.
Small half moon shaped sores had been obvious, but she had assumed it was from some tool of torture or bites from some animal skulking through their cells.
When she looked up at Balloch and saw the flash of teeth, she recognized both.
He brought the brandy forward and filled her cup until it spilled over her fingers.
“Apologies. Drink it down so its not wasted.”
Kenna took another mouthful. She watched him nervously. If she were too calm now, after just being attacked by him, he would be suspicious. “I would rather be able to see you better. Would you light another candle?”
Balloch was happy to comply while he waited for the drink to take effect.
He watched her walk steadily to the window and look down again, then back at him to make sure he was not planning another attack. He chuckled and turned his back to light another candle.
As soon as his back was turned, she poured her drink into the sea.
She lifted the cup slowly and tipped it slower yet as she felt his eyes on her.
She let the remaining drops trickle down the side of her mouth, then wiped them off with the back of her hand.
She smiled faintly, narrowed her eyes at him, then acted like she’d remembered something that made her frown.
“Come. Take off that gown and I will find you some nightclothes.”
“Nay,” she said, then shook her head like a child. “You will bite me again.”
“Does your shoulder still pain you? Come, hand me your cup. A little more wine will wash it all away.”
“Nay. I will be sick again.”
“Nonsense, this is medicine.” Balloch took her cup from her and returned it half full. “There, now. Just a little more.” He moved away to the trunk and lifted off the ewer and bowl.
Kenna watched nervously, hoping he would not hear or smell her little secret in the container in his hands.
She exhaled when he placed it on the table and went back to rifle through the chest. While his head was down, she sidled closer to the window and threw the brandy out.
Luckily it flew silently and cleanly through the opening, but she dropped the cup.
Balloch turned with a man’s leine in his hands. He looked at the cup on the floor and then back at Kenna and grinned. “And you spilled not a drop.”
She shook her head, pretended to stumble, then put her hand to her mouth.
“Distract yourself. Here, let us take that gown off.”
He tossed the leine over his elbow and reached out to lift her gown.
“Nay,” she cried as she took a wobbly step backward. “Ye’ll have to turn yer back.” She pointed to the window.
He walked toward the dark line of glazed windows and turned his back to her but kept his eyes on her reflection. Again, she wobbled as she tugged the skirt up and over her head. She cried out when she pealed the sticky cloth away from her wound, then dropped the gown to the floor.
She crept up behind Balloch to snatch the leine from his arm, fully expecting him to turn and grab her, but he didn’t. She slipped the garment over her head and pushed the ends as far down her legs as they would go. It easily passed her knees, as it was meant for a man.
Kenna knew he watched every move she made, but did not dare to act lucid enough to know.
She’d forced herself to strip off her bloody clothes to begin her drunken act, knowing no sober woman in her position would do such a thing.
The wobble, however, was genuine as she began to feel the effects of the two mouthfuls she had had no choice but to swallow.
When he turned to face her, she panicked. Her hand flew to her mouth again. “Look away. I am sick again!”
“Fight it. I shall distract you.” He grabbed her left arm and pushed it up behind her, then pulled her against his chest. When he kissed her, she wished she could retch then and there. But alas, nothing came up.
When he pulled away, she half-closed her eyes to seem more drunk than aroused, so he kissed her again. His mouth bruised hers and his tongue dove between her teeth and was neither soft nor enticing. She smiled, then, at the idea that this man was not talented at what he was trying to accomplish.
He mistook her smile for encouragement and started to guide her toward the bed.
“Oh, my dear, we may get along yet.”
Kenna stumbled over her bloody gown, breaking his hold. He reached down and caught up the nuisance, then moved to the window and tossed it out.
Kenna laughed and hiccoughed. When he reached for her again, she cried, “Nay,” a little too soberly. When she noticed his suspicion, she added with a slur, “We must see if the sharks come to eat my gown!” She giggled while she hurried to open yet another window and lean out.
Balloch watched her for a moment. He was no doubt appreciating her backside and weighing the advantages of tossing her out. A half-naked woman was apparently enough to tempt him, for he made no move to push her.
“Here they are!” Kenna squealed.
For a heartbeat or two, he stayed put.
She clarified. “The sharks! So many of them!”
Balloch finally moved to the window next to hers and looked out. Obviously, there was nothing to see, but she insisted. “You have to look down. I will blow out the candles so we can see better.” She did as she said and hurried back to lean and point.
Balloch was slow to realize that one of his legs was being lifted off the floor.
He looked to the side to find that Kenna was no longer at her window, and just as he was trying to straighten, she lifted his leg high, pushing him forward.
His head went down and his lower half flipped out the window.
His fingers were curled tightly around the ledge until his own momentum ripped them away.
His scream was swallowed up by the sea. There was no sound to follow.
If there were sharks out there, invited by the smell of her bloody gown, they went about their business in a watery silence.
But Kenna was not there to watch. She stood with her back to the chamber door, shaking uncontrollably, afraid if she strayed too near the windows, Balloch would find a way to push her out.
It was irrational, she admitted. After all, she was alone in the room. The only guilty, murderous hands were her own.
She relived it again in her mind. Surely, she’d had no choice. Hearing him rush up behind her, she had been sure he would try to toss her out. And just as she braced herself, he appeared in the adjoining window and leaned out as she’d suggested.
When he leaned out even further, pure self-preserving instinct took over. She could tell which leg was bearing his weight and lifted the other. There was surprisingly little resistance, and by the time he caught on, it only took a quick lift of his knee to finish the job.
She had watched his fingers lose their grip and when she closed her eyes, she could again see his slow descent and the horror in his eyes. She heard again his scream of denial that was much too brief for anyone on the ship to have taken much notice.
There were no shouts above deck, no shuffling of feet, no hue or cry for the man overboard.
A man had died and she was the only witness.
One moment he was there, his heart beating, his body breathing, and the next, there was no trace of him ever having been there, “until every scrap of you is devoured.”
Not true, she reminded herself, as she reached up to touch her wound. There was proof he had been here…
Murderer, she heard in her mind. If she had any conscience at all, she would throw herself out the window as well. Perhaps that was why she feared to go near the opening, because the god that allowed Sander to sicken and die might cause her to trip and fall to serve His justice.
What did it matter now? The crew or God?
One way or another she would soon be suffering.
The thoughts of being at the mercy of the crew made her sick again and she had no choice but to rush back to the cursed windows where she retched until her stomach would turn no more.
A heartless god didn’t push her. Not even a nudge.
“You had your chance.” She stretched out, grabbed the panes and pulled them shut.
Hurriedly, she opened the trunk, donned a long tunic, and put her cloak around her throbbing shoulders. She returned to the door and slid to the floor with her back against it. She hoped against hope that dawn would find her in one piece.