“Or what?” His hand swept wide, the gesture taking in the pile of cases which the maids had left. “Going somewhere? What exactly have you been up to today?”
“How I spend my time is none of your business. Now go, before I ring for a maid.”
Roberto took another step towards her. “Don’t worry, Louise, I won’t say anything to my mother. I don’t rat on my friends. And we are going to be friends, aren’t we? Real good friends.”
She took a pace back, glancing around. The bell cord to summon a maid was on the other side of the bed, near him. She’d never make it. “Get away from me.”
“I don’t think so.” He started to undo the buttons on his shirt. “See, if I have to leave now I might just tell the police about that so-called farmhand friend of yours.”
“What?” she barked in shock.
“Yeah. Thought that might adjust your attitude. They make me do history at school, see. I don’t like it, but I do know who Fletcher Christian was. Your friend is using a false name. Now why would he do that, Louise? In a bit of trouble back on Kesteven, was he? Bit of a rebel is he?”
“Fletcher is not in any trouble.”
“Really? Then why don’t I just go make that call?”
“No.”
Roberto licked his lips. “Now that’s a whole lot nicer, Louise. We’re cooperating with each other. Aren’t we?”
She just clutched the blouse closer to her, mind feverish.
“Aren’t we?” he demanded.
Louise nodded jerkily.
“Okay, that’s better.” He peeled off his shirt.
Louise couldn’t help the tears stinging her eyes. No matter what, she told herself, I won’t let him. I’d sooner die; it would be cleaner.
Roberto unbuckled his belt, and started to take down his trousers. Louise waited until they were around his knees, then bolted for the bed.
“Shit!” Roberto yelled. He made a grab for her. Missed. Nearly toppled over as the trouser fabric tangled around his shins.
Louise flung herself on top of the bed and started to scurry over the blankets. She’d left it on the other side. Roberto was cursing behind her, grappling with his trousers. She reached the end of the bed and flopped down, hands reaching underneath.
“No you don’t.” Roberto grasped an ankle and started dragging her back.
Louise squealed, kicking backwards with her free foot.
“Bitch.”
He landed on top of her, making her cry out at the pain of such a weight. She clawed desperately at the mattress, pulling both of them to the edge of the bed. Her hands could just reach the carpet. Roberto laughed victoriously at her ineffectual struggling, and shifted around until he was straddling her buttocks. “Going somewhere?” he taunted. Her head and shoulders hung over the edge of the bed, vast waves of hair flooding the sheets. He sat up, panting slightly, and brushed the hair off her back, enjoying the flawless skin which was exposed. Louise strained below him, as if she was still trying to wriggle free. “Stop fighting it,” he told her. His cock was hugely erect. “It’s going to happen, Louise. Come on, you’ll love it when we get started. I’m going to last all night long with you.” His hands pushed below her, reaching for her breasts.
Louise’s desperate fingers finally found the cool, smooth shape of carved wood she was searching for under the bed. She grabbed at it, groaning in revulsion as Roberto’s hands squeezed. But the feel of Carmitha’s shotgun sent resolution surging through her veins, inflaming and chilling at the same time.
“Let me up,” she begged. “Please, Roberto.”
The obscene prowling hands were stilled. “Why?”
“I don’t want it like this. Turn me over. Please, it’ll make it easier for you. This hurts.”
There was a moment’s silence. “You won’t struggle?” He sounded uncertain.
“I won’t. I promise. Just not like this.”
“I do like you, Louise. Really.”
“I know.”
The weight against the small of her back lifted. Louise tensed, gathering every ounce of strength. She pulled the shotgun clear from under the bed and twisted around, swinging it in a wide arc, trying to predict where his head would be.
Roberto saw it coming. He managed to bring his arms up in an attempt to ward off the blow, ducking to one side—
The shotgun barrel caught him a glancing blow above his left ear, the end of the pump mechanism thumping his guarding hand. Nothing like as devastating as Louise wanted it. But he cried out in pain and shock, clamping his hands over the side of his head. He started to keel over.
Louise tugged her legs out from under him and tumbled off the bed, almost losing hold of the shotgun. She could hear Roberto sob behind her. It was a sound which sent a frightening burst of glee into her head. It freed her from all that genteel refinement which Norfolk had instilled, put civilization aside.
She climbed to her feet, got a better grip on the shotgun, and brought it crashing down on the top of Roberto’s skull.
The anxious knocking on the door was the next thing Louise was conscious of. For some inexplicable reason she’d sunk down onto the floor and started to weep. Her whole body was cold and trembling, yet her skin was prickled with perspiration.
The knock came again, more urgent this time. “Lady Louise?”
“Fletcher?” she gasped. Her voice was so weak.
“Yes, my lady. Are you all right?”
“I . . .” A giggle became choked in her throat. “One minute, Fletcher.” She looked around, and gagged. Roberto was sprawled over the bed. Blood from his head wound had produced a huge stain over the sheet.
Dear Jesus, I’ve killed him. They’ll hang me.
She stared at the body for a long, quiet moment, then got up and wrapped a towel around her nakedness.
“Is anyone with you?” she asked Fletcher.
“No, my lady. I am alone.”
Louise opened the door, and he slipped inside. For some reason the sight of the corpse didn’t seem to shake him.
“My lady.” The voice was so soft with sympathy and concern. He opened his arms, and she pressed against him, trying not to cry again.
“I had to,” she blurted. “He was going to . . .”
Fletcher’s hand stroked her wild hair, smoothing and combing it with every stroke. Within a minute it was a dry, shiny cloak again. And somehow the pain inside was lessened.