Revenge in a Cold River by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online Page B

“I think they are very nearly finished.”
    “Then you have done all you need to,” he reassured. “I’ll take you as far as your carriage. Come.” He put his other hand over hers and she had little courteous choice but to go with him. She was actually pleased to be looked after, and she realized just how cold she had grown standing still.
    “Are you all right alone?” he asked with some concern. “Is there someone who can be with you for a while? A relative, or a friend?”
    “Thank you, but I will be quite happy alone. The hardest thing was listening to all those tributes, and wondering what they would have said if they were honest,” she admitted. She avoided meeting his eyes.
    “They’re mostly lawyers, my dear,” he replied, turning the corner on the path. “They are used to putting up a convincing argument for whoever they represent.”
    She wanted to laugh, but if she did someone might see her, and no decent woman laughed at her husband’s funeral, no matter what she felt. And it would be too easy to end up sounding a trifle hysterical.
    They passed Aaron and Miriam Clive, walking along a path almost parallel to theirs. They were close together; he was leaning toward her, listening to what she was saying. Again, for a moment Beata envied her. She had not really known Miriam’s first husband, and Miriam had spent almost all her adult life with Aaron. He was clearly still as much in love with her as he had been in the beginning. What was it like to be so loved, so admired? So—so safe!
    She wanted to be safe with Oliver Rathbone. But did he see her as a calmer woman than Margaret had been, gentler with him, even loyal? Had he even the faintest idea of the turbulence inside her, the woman she was, and the woman she wanted to be? Would he despise her, if he knew what she had permitted Ingram York to do to her, without fighting tooth and nail to stop him? Was she wise, obedient, loyal…or just a coward? Perhaps Oliver would understand and sympathize, but still be revolted by the picture the words would paint in his imagination. The thought that it would stain her forever in his mind—even in reality—was unbearable.
    Rathbone had both prosecuted and defended some vile cases. He must be familiar with the dregs of life, the ugliest and the most brutal. But words about cases, professional matters, were nothing like the actuality, and letting it into your own home.
    Many men were outraged that a woman should be raped. They had fury for the perpetrator and pity for the victim. Yet when their own women were assaulted, they felt them to be soiled, even ruined. It was a strange, complex, and yet bone-deep passion.
    Of course, as Ingram had reminded her many times, you could not rape your wife. She was yours to do with as you pleased. You could kill her spirit, as long as you left her body breathing. The injuries he had left her with had no visible marks.
    But Oliver never needed to know. She was being foolish even to remember it now. Ingram was dead. He was lying in a nailed-up coffin under the earth, a couple of hundred yards away, beyond the yew trees.
    “Thank you,” she said gently to Rathbone. “But it would not be taken kindly by everyone, even if those we care about know that you are merely being courteous. I am quite able to ride home, and my maid will look after me. The fires will be burning and all will be warm. I think no one will disturb me with any more condolences for several days.” She smiled at him, and meant it. She was in control of herself again, at least for now.
    “Are you certain?” They were standing at the roadside by her carriage. The footman held the door for her.
    “Yes, thank you. I hope you will feel free to call at a later date, when there will be no shadow on your reputation.”
    “Of course,” he agreed. “I mean to do this well.” He looked at her for a moment longer, and she saw the warmth in his eyes, and knew exactly what he meant.
    She swallowed hard. “Thank