Mary Jo Putney Read Online Free

with shock just how strange her face was. The girl wasn't normal; there was a slackness in her expression, and something indefinably wrong about the eyes.
    The child he had raped was simple, too crippled in mind to understand what her father had arranged for her.
    Releasing her chin as if it were a hot coal, he stood up, lifting down nausea as he grasped the extent of the crime he had committed. To force a scheming young virgin was despicable, even though she was legally his wife. To rape a creature too afflicted to know why she had been abused was a sin as unforgivable as the one he had committed when he was thirteen.
    With cold, shaking hands he dragged his clothes on, wanting only to escape this hellish place. The girl had curled into a tight little ball on the bed, the only sign of life her strange, unfocused eyes.
    Since an incompetent was hardly likely to remember his words, Gervase reached for the ink and pen that had been used for the marriage lines. On the back of one of his cards he printed his lawyer's name and address, then wrote, Hamilton: Don't ever bring her near me again. She may not use my name. After a moment's pause he added, Take care of her well. When she is dead, you will receive nothing more from me.
    That should ensure the girl decent treatment from her father, since it would be in the man's best interest to keep her safe and healthy. She had smelled clean; perhaps her father already had some kind of keeper for her. A full-time nursemaid must cost almost nothing in this godforsaken part of the world.
    Gervase stood, placing the card on the table. The girl was shivering, so he took a moment to rummage in the wardrobe for a blanket. She cowered fearfully away as he spread the blanket over her. His mouth tightened at the sight; it was no more than he deserved.
    Her dark unfocused gaze followed him to the doorway, where he paused. His legal wife was like a frightened woodland creature frozen in panic as a predator waited. His throat tight with guilt, he whispered, "I'm sorry."
    The words were more for his benefit than hers, since she seemed to have no idea what was happening. Though he had never had grounds to believe in a benevolent Deity, Gervase prayed she would soon forget what had happened. He knew better than to hope that he would do the same.
    * * *
    Five hours later Gervase and his servant Bonner were in a fishing boat carrying them toward the mainland. Bonner was a tight-lipped former military batman who nodded without comment when ordered to discuss the events of the night with no one, ever, and he had efficiently taken charge of packing his master's gear. Gervase had waited outside, unwilling to be in the same room with his bride a moment longer than necessary.
    As the boat threaded its way between the islands, Gervase's face was set in granite lines, his attention focused on rebuilding the mental walls that prevented his self-hatred from overwhelming him. Logically he knew that the events of the previous night were of no real importance. The thousand pounds a year he would settle on the girl would keep her and her appalling father in luxury without making a significant dent in his own fortune. Though most men would curse the loss of their freedom to marry whom they chose, it made no difference to him. He had known for the last ten years that he could never marry.
    But no logic could dispel his implacable guilt when he thought of the hapless child he had abused. No amount of legitimate anger or whiskey was great enough to justify those moments of violence.
    The incident was one more cross he must learn to bear. His remorse taunted him, mocking the resolution he had made to become his own man in India, to free himself from the past by building a new life. Perhaps Hamilton was right, and men were damned before they were even born.
    Gervase had always distrusted intuition, but as he watched the dark shore of Mull fall away behind him in the misty dawn, he could not escape a heavy sense of doom.