The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

Her mind seemed to snap with the knowledge, and she was sent reeling to the edge of a yawning gulf of blackness. All she knew was lost to her as the blackness engulfed her, sucking her down farther and farther into its depths. She knew the blackness. At last it had come to her fully. She saw herself, small and cowering, then struggling frantically, trapped by she knew not what. Intense, rending pain tore through her, and above the pain she heard cruel, deep voices, and panting, raw and ugly. Then there were screaming, furious voices that somehow intensified the pain— no, just one screaming voice, and it was a man’s voice and she could see spittle flying out of his mouth, but she didn’t know who he was. But the screaming and cursing her didn’t stop.

She couldn’t bring her hands to cover her ears, to blot out the horror of the pain and the voices. She screamed and the images and the voices faded, drawing away from her, becoming as fragments of whispers, strewn as distant echoes to the farthest reaches of another place.

She became aware of the anguished sound of her cries and felt beads of sweat sting her eyes. She thought at that moment that perhaps she was mad, for she couldn’t understand what had happened to her. The present righted itself and she saw that nothing had changed. She was still tied down to a bed, wearing only her shift. She tried to regain her calm, forcing herself to gaze about the unfamiliar room, and found the presence of the solid pieces of furniture somehow reassuring.

The sound of a key turning in the lock brought her eyes, fearful, yet hopeful, to the door. The man, her captor, slowly entered the room, his long cloak swirling about his ankles as he turned and grated the key in the lock. He was still enveloped in hat and mask, even wearing gloves on his hands. Kate stared at him, her eyes a darkening green, now wide with fear and the starkness of her knowledge. He stopped beside her, and before Kate could understand what he was about, he leaned over her and in a swift motion drew a length of black cloth from his pocket and folded it over her eyes. She was plunged into darkness. Like a trapped, frenzied animal, she thrashed her head from side to side as the man jerked her forward and tied the cloth in a secure knot behind her head.

In that moment she wondered if she’d been brought to this place to die. Unbidden, Julien’s calm, handsome face rose in her mind’s eye. She saw him turn from her, felt his withdrawal from her, saw his eyes become colder than a winter dawn.

She began to tremble violently, and the sickening, jeering voices pounded again in her head, then receded as if they had never existed. Sudden anger kindled within her and burned away her trembling with its intensity. How dare this man bind and blindfold her! She jerked up her head and screamed at him, “You filthy pig, how dare you! My husband, the earl of March, will kill you if you do not instantly release me. Do you understand me?” There was only a deadening silence, save for the harsh ugliness of her own breathing.

She hated the silence, hated him, this unknown man, and she yelled through the darkness, through the silence, “Damn you to hell, you coward, are you afraid that I’ll see your ugliness? Damn you, let me see you!”

Still the man said nothing, not in English, not in German, but she heard him move away from her. She fell back against the pillow, drained, so afraid she was numb with it. As the precious minutes passed, she thought that he had understood and was going to leave her alone. Then, to her horror, she felt him sit on the side of the bed beside her. She felt his breath hot on her face. His lips came down upon hers, gentle yet demanding. He’d blindfolded her so he could take off his mask. He didn’t want her to see him. Why? She clamped her mouth firmly shut and felt his lips move to her throat, and his hands lightly caress her shoulders.