Dragonwyck by Anya Seton

Author:Anya Seton [Seton, Anya]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Romance
ISBN: 9780671781934
Google: i1n8mgEACAAJ
Amazon: 0671781936
Publisher: Pocket
Published: 1945-03-14T16:00:00+00:00

At five o'clock the bells of Saint Mark's, half a block away, rang the hour through a cold and misty dawn. A faint light stole between the blue draperies at the window. She had been waiting for this, her aching, tearless eyes fixed on the windows, as they had been for hours.

She moved her body cautiously an inch at a time away from that other who slept beside her. With infinite care she raised her head, straining through the gloom to discover the things which she must put on. If she could assemble them, there must be some place that she could dress, some way to slip out. Though she had no money, her desperation would persuade someone, a teamster, or peddler, to take her along the road.

The light strengthened and she moved again nearer the edge. She raised herself on one elbow, and on the white skin of her arms and breasts were livid marks. She moved her head farther, calculating how she might slide from the bed in one silent motion; but her long flowing hair impeded her. She reached in back of her head and tried to loosen her hair, but she could not. She heard the difference in the quality of the breathing behind her, and she held her own breath.

Saint Mark's bell clanged once for the half-hour, and a chorus of chitterings arose from starlings who nested in the pear tree outside the window. She heard a distant cry on the street in front of the house. 'Milk, ho! Come buy my nice fresh milk!' The town was awakening. She must hurry, hurry, hurry—

She dug her fingernails into her palms. Stealthily as if it moved without her knowledge, her head turned and she looked down at the figure beside her.

Her terror ebbed in diminishing waves, leaving amazement. This was not the same man who had inflicted on her the lurid-streaked blackness of those hours just past, who had violated without pity her soul as well as her body. This was not the aristocratic lord of Dragonwyck, nor even the charming and responsive companion she had known once or twice. This was the sleeping face of a young and defenseless man; almost a boy he looked with his black hair rumpled as she had never seen it and the cruel lines about his mouth smoothed away.

He sighed a little as she stared down at him, and moved his hand. She saw then that his cheek and his right hand lay on her hair, and her throat tightened, for his unconscious position and movement were unmistakable. It was as though he turned in appeal, blindly seeking comfort in the soft masses of gold that lay outspread on the pillow.

His eyes opened and he looked up at her. She braced herself for the change to the expression she knew so well, the cold intensity that held no kindness. But he gazed at her quietly seeing the sharp inrush of fear in her face.

'Miranda—' he whispered, with pleading.

Still she hesitated, her body curved and poised for flight.

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