Fate's Intervention Page 16

Mark’s hand slid under her skirt and grasped her calves, twisting them until her body followed and she flipped over on her back. He slithered up the length of her until his face was mere inches from her own.

  “Bedding you is going to take a bit of effort,” he breathed heavily into her face. Marcelle started to reply, but a chill seized her thighs through her thin stockings, and it was only then that she realized that his hands hadn’t moved from beneath her skirts when he slid up her body, rather they’d stayed beneath the material, drawing it scandalously high upon her legs. Those same hands were now caressing her thighs, moving higher with each stroke. She bucked, and he laughed.

  “Wait until I get inside before you start bucking,” he laughed, reigning kisses along her neck and upper chest.

  Marcelle pushed against his shoulders, but he wouldn’t budge, “If you are so interested in bedding someone,” she huffed, pushing at his shoulders again, “Elizabeth Stanharbor is more than willing.”

  “Jealous? Don’t fret, pet, I’ll pay a visit to Miss Stanharbor on the morrow,” he grinned. His tongue flicked out and stroked her exposed neck. “It’s you, however, that makes my blood boil. I’ve been waiting for this moment since I met you.”

  Marcelle opened her mouth to scream, but it was cut off as his mouth came crashing down on hers again. This time, she tasted blood as his tongue dove in, flicking around hers. She felt her stomach roil, and her nausea rose.

  He raised his head as quickly as he’d lowered it and glared angrily at her, “I like kissing you, so be warned that if you try to scream, I will gladly silence each and every attempt.” His tongue flicked along her split lip and she jerked her head aside. He laughed at her puny efforts and she wanted to scream, her anger hot, but the thought of him putting his tongue inside her mouth again made her ill, so she held her anger in check.

  “You beast! I am not a dog in heat that you can rut with just because you take a notion. Now get off me!” She hissed, pushing fruitlessly against his shoulders again. He may be smaller in size than Matthew, she thought, but his wiry strength is definitely going to be more than I can handle. She needed a miracle.

  “You heard the lady, Mark,” a soft voice whipped the air in the study, “get up, and move away.”

  Marcelle craned her neck and sighed in relief, “Matthew. Thank God!” The miracle had arrived.

  “Go away, Matthew,” Mark snarled, remaining where he was, “The lady and I were having a little tryst.”

  “Marcelle, would you like me to go away?” Matthew asked so calmly that Marcelle wondered whether he was as angry as his posture portrayed.

  “Please, don’t leave me.” She whimpered, and gasped when Mark’s hand slid between her legs, cupping her womanhood in a vicious grip.

  “See, Matthew,” he grinned at her reaction, “she’s enjoying herself, so go away.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if she’s a voluntary participant, now get up.” The tone in Matthew’s voice confirmed that his anger was barely controlled and a shiver ran down her spine. It may have been spoken in a mere whisper, but the threatening manner in which it was delivered had her wondering why Mark didn’t jump up in all haste and run for the hills. She would have.

  Matthew’s nerves stretched taut. It was taking a considerable effort on his part to remain motionless and calm. When he entered the room and saw Mark atop Marcelle, his first instinct was to barge in and murder his younger brother. He still felt that urge, but for his mother’s sake – and Marcelle’s – he was trying to maintain a civilized control. However, if his brother persisted in ignoring his warnings, he would be paying for a funeral and begging for forgiveness from his mother, and what would Marcelle think of him then? Would she perceive him as a murdering scum, or would she understand? All it would take to end this was for Mark to heed his warning and move.

  He didn’t. In fact, he remained there, snickering, and Matthew’s calm slipped another notch.

  “If you could feel the tremors rolling through her body, Brother, you’d know how much she wants me. More than she could ever want an old codger like you.”

  He must be drunk, Matthew thought, otherwise he’d heed the warning and quit his persistent taunting.

  “If I have to move you, Mark, I will, and you won’t find it pleasant.”

  “Why don’t you just leave us be. I’ll be done in a minute, then you can have her back.”

  “Son-of-a-. . . .” Matthew growled. That did it! He was finished trying to be reasonable.

  He moved so quickly, that Marcelle didn’t fully realize that Mark was gone from atop her until she saw him flying across the room. He landed with a thud, his head banging against her father’s mahogany desk.

  He rose unsteadily to his feet, but before he could move a step, Matthew gripped the collar of his shirt with one fist and slammed the other into his jaw, sending him sprawling again. After two more punches, Mark wisely stayed down. He wiped at the blood seeping from the cuts on his lips and glared angrily at his older brother.

  “I want you out of here on the next train,” Matthew said, his breathing heavy, his fist clenching and unclenching by his side.

  “I’m not leaving,” Mark yelled defiantly, “unless you agree to come back to New York and sign over control of the company to me.”

  Matthew started at that. He had not thought of Daragh Steel since he was eighteen, had completely forgotten that control of the company passed to him upon his father’s death. Well, whatever Mark’s reason for being in this house, it didn’t justify his behavior, and if he expected Matthew to be reasonable after his drunken display . . . .

  “Go to hell, Mark,” Matthew said quietly, “or back to New York and poverty for all I care.”

  “You bastard,” Mark growled and leapt to his feet, surprising Matthew with a body ram that knocked both men to the ground a few inches from where Marcelle had pulled herself to a sitting position and now huddled, her knees drawn protectively to her chest.

  The men grappled on the floor, Mark yelling obscenities and threats while Matthew warded off his ineffective blows, “You are not going to leave Mother and me to rot in the gutter simply because you don’t like me!”

  Matthew tired of blocking punches, and finally seized Mark’s wrists in an iron grip, “I come home to find you attempting to rape my woman,” he hissed angrily, “and you expect me to do you a favor? You can rot in hell!”

  “What about Mother, Matthew?” Mark yelled in a whiny tone, “is she supposed to rot in hell too?”

  “Shut up, Mark, and get out of here.” Matthew breathed in deeply through his nose, then shoved his brother away from him and pushed himself off the floor. “I can’t think when I’m this angry, especially when all I want to do is beat your face to a pulp, after ripping your arms out of your sockets and shoving them down your throat.”

  “All this over a woman?” Mark squealed and found himself a half-inch off the ground, his silk collar again crushed in Matthew’s large fists.

  “My woman, and you are on my very last nerve, Mark, so either heed my advice and go, or leave the room minus your teeth and other vital parts, and if you step even one foot near Marcelle’s person again . . .”

  Matthew dropped Mark as quickly as he’d picked him up and wiped his hands along the front of his pants, his face twisted in disgust. “Just get out.”

  Mark stumbled to the study door, wiping his sleeve across his bloodied nose. “I’m not leaving Wisconsin without you, Matthew, so keep that in mind. Daragh Steel belongs to me!”

  “Get out!” Matthew roared.

  The study door slammed with a loud bang and Marcelle winced. She looked up as Matthew approached, his blue eyes still blazing with barely controlled rage. She smiled hesitantly when he stopped in front of her and lowered a hand to help her rise. When she placed her hand into his proffered one, she found herself yanked off the floor and straight into his embrace.

  “Are you okay?” He asked, his words escaping on a shaky whisper. When she didn’t answer, he hugged
her closer still, fearful that he might not have been able to save her from defilement. “Answer me, Marcelle. Are you hurt?”

  Matthew felt a barely perceptible shake of her head against his chest and sighed, tears of relief welling in his eyes. She was unharmed. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of his brother on top of her, only moments away from claiming what he had no right to claim.

  Marcelle could barely draw breath, but she didn’t protest. She felt safe. When she thought of what might have happened if not for Matthew’s timely arrival – the shivers started and then the tears. She clung to Matthew like a shipwreck victim to a life preserver.

  “Ah, honey, don’t cry,” Matthew whispered into her hair. “You’re safe now.”

  When her tears only intensified, Matthew scooped her up into his arms and walked over to the desk. He sat down in the large, overstuffed leather chair and rocked her gently back and forth like a father an overly distraught child. The breasts pressing into his chest, however, were anything but childlike and he had to focus on the top of her head to prevent his body reacting in a way that would most likely upset her further.

  After a short while, he heard her breathing even out and realized that she’d fallen asleep.

  “Get some rest, darling,” he murmured. “I’ll be here. Nothing is going to hurt you again. I promise.” He laid his head back on the top of the chair and within minutes, slumber claimed his enervated mind as well.

  That was how Marcelle’s father found them the following morning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “What in blue blazes is going on in here?” Peter asked, trying to keep his voice level and his temper under control.

  Matthew jerked awake and leapt to his feet, forgetting about Marcelle until she landed with a thud on the wooden floor. He winced as her head smacked the side of the desk and she let out a yelp.

  He reached down and offered her a hand up, a sheepish grin on his face, “Sorry about that, but your father gave me a fright.”

  Marcelle rubbed her temple, turned, and faced her dad, a blush on her cheeks at his having caught her in what appeared to be a compromising position. Her swollen lips and disheveled clothing helped matters not at all.

  “I do believe an explanation is in order, Matthew,” he said, eyeing the young man angrily.

  “And you would be right,” he said and then turned to address Marcelle. “Go clean up and I’ll explain things to your dad.”

  Marcelle lowered her gaze in embarrassment at the reminder of the previous evening, and merely nodded her head. When she moved near her father’s side, his hand reached out to delay her departure.

  “Just tell me you’re okay and I’ll forgo killing him.”

  Marcelle smiled slightly at her father’s misplaced chivalry and kissed his cheek lightly, “Just hear him out, Father, or you’ll be killing the wrong man.” She glanced over her shoulder and smiled softly at Matthew. He returned the smile and then waved her out of the room.

  “When you’ve changed, come down. I want to talk with you, okay?” Matthew said. Marcelle nodded and left, closing the door softly behind her.

  Matthew rubbed a tired hand over his face and lowered himself back down into the chair. It had been a very trying night. His heartbeat increased when he remembered how close his brother had come to defiling Marcelle and how close he’d come to disregarding their telegram and not returning to the house immediately. A shudder ran down his spine at that. If he’d followed his initial instinct and stayed away . . . he shuddered again.

  “Why don’t you share whatever it is that’s got you trembling over there,” Peter said, lowering himself into the chair on the opposite side of his desk.

  Matthew ran a hand wearily through his hair and sighed heavily. “When I was just shy of my eighteenth birthday,” he began softly, “I caught my younger brother raping a servant girl. She was just twelve and he was fourteen. My father’s influence, money, and power swept the entire incident under a rug. Nine months later, she gave birth to a stillborn boy and committed suicide shortly thereafter. I left home a month later. I didn’t want to be a part of that kind of perversion. From conversations with my mother over the years, my father used his money and influence to take care of quite a few more incidents that are similar.

  Anyway, it would appear that my brother is still a randy rooster. Still attempting to force what women are more than willing to give him freely simply because of who he is. I’ll never understand it. It’s as if controlling one of the most profitable steel enterprises isn’t enough for him. He needs to feel more power over people, the son-of-a . . . so, anyway, when I got your telegram advising me that he’d shown up here, I was tempted to stay away. I didn’t even think of why he was here, just that I didn’t want to see him; and then I remembered that young girl and the rest of them, thought of Marcelle, and something inside me went cold.”

  “Your brother did that to my baby girl?”

  Matthew nodded, rubbing his hand across the beard he’d allowed to grow while he was gone. I’ll have to shave this, he thought distractedly.

  “Did he . . . ?” Peter started, unable to voice his fears.

  Matthew shook his head and Peter sighed.

  “If he had, I’d have killed him myself,” Matthew assured him.

  Peter nodded, “What do you propose we do about him?”

  Marcelle’s shouts from the top of the landing cut Matthew’s response short. He looked at Peter and then bounded out of his chair and ran to the door.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” He asked, taking the stairs two at a time.

  “If you’d care to follow me,” she said, a haughty tone in her voice. She turned and headed toward her room just as Matthew’s feet hit the upper landing. A moment later, she pushed into her room, Matthew right on her heels.

  “What in hell?” Matthew said, looking at Mark who was sprawled face down on Marcelle’s bed, snoring fitfully. “I don’t believe this,” he muttered, his anger from the night before returning full force. First, he has the nerve to attempt to rape his woman while in a drunken stupor, and then he has the audacity to bed down in her room after he’d warned him to stay as far away from her as space allowed. With a string of curses, he moved across the room, yanked his brother up by the back of his shirt, and pulled him from the bed.

  “Tell Nancy to pack his belongings and then you meet me outside by the water barrel,” he ordered as he passed Marcelle, dragging a half-awake-hung-over younger brother out the bedroom door.

  He didn’t pause to answer Peter’s questions en route to the outside, merely told him to follow along at his leisure. When Mark’s body started bouncing painfully along the stairwell, he came fully awake and began struggling to free himself, shouting obscenities as Matthew dragged him across the foyer, and scraped him along the gravel path towards the back of the house.

  “When you think you can speak only when given permission, I’ll stop,” Matthew said and without pause, he lifted his brother and shoved his head into the water barrel. He wanted to hold his head under until the idiot drowned, but he wouldn’t be able to extract an apology from him if he died, so he controlled his impulses.

  After half a minute, he raised his brother’s head, “Ready to listen?”

  “You sorry, son-of-a- . . . ,” Mark sputtered. It was as far as he got before Matthew shoved his head back into the barrel.

  “What do you propose to do with him?” Marcelle asked, coming around the corner. “Drown him?”

  “It had crossed my mind, but no, I won’t do it. Mom would never forgive me.” Matthew lifted Mark’s head again and promptly shoved it back down when he started on another string of curses.

  “He always was a slow learner,” Matthew said, feeling the tension slowly leave his body. He may not be able to kill his brother, but he sure as hell could make him pay for his belligerent and demeaning behavior toward Marcelle.

  Peter rounded the corner and spotted Matthew at the water barrel. He grinned when h
e realized that Mark was hanging from the side of the barrel, his head shoved beneath the freezing cold water.

  “He’s not going to get over this humiliation anytime soon,” he said, pleased.

  “Will you get over your humiliation easily?” Matthew asked Marcelle, concern written all over his features.

  “I’m pretty resilient when I need to be – and I think now is one of those times that I need to be,” she said, lifting her chin a notch higher. “Besides, it makes me feel better just knowing that he’s getting a taste of his own medicine.”

  Matthew nodded, then turned his attention back to his brother, “Ready to listen?” He asked again, lifting his brother’s head again. His brother wisely kept his mouth shut, merely lay across the mouth of the barrel sucking air deep into his lungs.

  “First, you are going to apologize to Miss Weatherman for your abominable behavior last night, and for invading her private quarters. Then you are going to pack your bags and return to New York. I will follow you at my leisure, at which time we will sit down and discuss the future of Daragh Steel.

  Now, if you happen to have any difficulty with what I’ve just said, then we’ll stay here all day dunking those misunderstandings away. Understood?”

  Mark glared at his brother, but wisely nodded his assent. Matthew released his hold, allowing him to stand erect.

  Mark turned toward Marcelle, his skin pasty and bloated. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter an apology, he emptied the contents of his stomach all over her chest and the front of her turquoise gown.

  “I don’t believe this!” She grimaced, jumping back. She pulled a scented kerchief from her sleeve and placed it over her nose, but the smell only slightly diminished.

  “I never could hold my liquor,” Mark said, a snicker escaping. Marcelle’s gaze shot back to his. He was laughing at her. He wiped his sleeve across his face, his grin increasing. His smile vanished when he caught sight of his brother’s outraged visage from the corner of his eye, “You can’t really expect to blame me for something I had no control over,” he snapped, rolling his eyes when his brother merely crossed his arms over his chest.