Cassie turned away and began to walk briskly toward the vineyards. She drew up short at the sound of Joseph’s deep breathing behind her. Her lips tightened in quick anger, and she whirled about to face him. “Damn you, Joseph, leave me alone.”
Joseph, startled by her outburst, stopped some paces from her to catch his breath.
“Now, madonna,” he said gently, “you must not excite yourself. You would not wish any harm to yourself or to the babe you carry.”
His soothing words had just the opposite effect upon her, and she yelled at him, brokenly, feverishly. “Has the earl not done enough? Must he still set you upon me, to report to him my every action? Is he not yet satisfied with his victory? Do I not carry his accursed child? Damn you and damn him.”
She picked up her skirts, turned on her heel, and made for the lake. Joseph stared after her, aghast at the near-hysterical pitch in her voice. He came to a quick decision and quickly retraced his steps to the villa.
Cassie heard his retreating footsteps and drew to a trembling halt. She wished she could wipe her mind clean of its terrible, jumbled thoughts, but she could not. The earl’s victory had been complete, she could not deny it. She had succumbed to him in less than three months, she who had sworn over and over that she would never wed him, no matter what he did. It was an accursed child that she carried, a child conceived of passion and hatred. And she had been so weak that within days of learning of it, she had bowed to his wishes, given herself and her future over to him. She dashed her hand over her forehead, in a futile effort to control the vicious bitterness, to stem her burgeoning despair.
“Cassandra.”
She whipped about to see the earl striding quickly toward her.
Something broke within her at the sight of him, and she lunged forward, away from him, toward the lake, her own high-pitched laughter sounding in her ears.
The earl heard that laugh and felt a cold knot of fear. For an agonizing moment, she was lost to his sight in the thick oleander trees. He tore through the trees, scarce aware that a low-lying branch rent the full sleeve of his shirt, gashing his arm. He saw her running full tilt toward the lake, her hair streaming loose down her back. Dear God, what could have happened?
“Cassandra!” he yelled at her again. For an instant, she froze, poised like a startled animal, before continuing her headlong flight.
She was but yards away from the water’s edge when he grabbed her about the waist and hauled her back. Her arms were flailing wildly and she kicked at him, in a terror-stricken rage he did not understand. He quickly pinioned her arms to her side and jerked her tightly against him.
“Stop it, Cassandra. Leave go.” He shook her. She stared up at him, mutely, her pupils black in her eyes.
She lashed out at him, beyond reason. “Damn you, let me go. I will not belong to you, do you hear? You will not bend me to your will, you and your accursed child. Don’t you understand? There are no palm trees, no vineyards, no olive groves in England . . . there are no prison guards.”
He grit his teeth, drew back his hand, and slapped her. Her head snapped back with the force of his blow, and he slapped her again. She staggered against his arm and would have sprawled to the ground had he not held her.
“There are no olive groves in England,” she whispered, her voice broken.
For a moment he could feel the starkness of her fear like a living creature within her. She seemed as a child, violently torn from all that she knew, and she was carrying a child herself, his child. She was leaning against him, her forehead pressed against his chest, her arms hanging limply at her sides.
“No, Cassie,” he said, stroking her hair, “there are no olive groves in England.” He held her close, his cheek resting lightly against her hair, and softly rubbed her shoulders.