Lady of Hay by Barbara Erskine (reading an ebook TXT) 📕

heard him knock into something in the studio and flinched. "Please, God, not the painting. " Throwing herself on the bed, she grabbed the phone on the table on the far side of it, punched in 999, then she waited, holding her breath as the handle of her door rattled.

The police were there in four minutes.

When the doorbell rang she unlocked the door cautiously and came out, pulling the belt of her robe more tightly around her as she peered out into the studio. Two uniformed constables were already standing there, staring around, their caps held beneath their arms. Sam had opened the door to them.

"Are you the lady who phoned for assistance?" one of them asked as Judy appeared.

She nodded. "You bet I did. This bastard is as drunk as a lord and I want him out of here. " She pushed her sleeves up to the elbows, unconsciously businesslike. "He tried to force his attentions on me. "

"Right, sir. " One of the policemen turned to Sam. "It sounds as if you'd outstayed your welcome. What about going home and sleeping it off, eh?"

Sam glared at him. "If you think I'm drunk, officer, you are a poor judge of men. "

"I'm not saying you're drunk, sir, " the constable said evenly. "Just that this lady would like you to go. "

Sam swayed gently.

Judy caught her breath.

"She is a painter of pornographic filth, " he went on thoughtfully. "She should be locked up for producing suggestive muck like this. " He gestured at the broad canvas with its impasto of pale colors.

"Doesn't look pornographic to me, sir, " the other police officer said slowly. "In fact it looks very pretty. "

"Pretty!" Sam's scorn distracted them from Judy's indignation. "It is ugly! Ugly and twisted and tortured, like a woman's mind. " Before anyone could stop him, he grabbed the canvas and wrenched it from the easel. Judy's scream of anguish did not stop him from bringing it down with a violent crack across his knee. He hurled it into the corner of the studio and laughed, then he moved toward the wall. "More pictures. It hurts, doesn't it, Judith! It hurts when I destroy them. Are they a part of you, then? Children? Bastard children? Like Matilda gave me?"

The two officers closed on him before he got near the wall.

"That's enough, sir. "

For a moment Sam hesitated and something that might have been regret showed in his eyes as he stared down at the ruined painting. Then it was gone. "Enough?" he yelled. "Enough! The day I hear my daughter is another man's bastard! Christ Almighty!" He tore his arm out of the policeman's grasp and took a furious swing at the man's face, splitting his lip so the blood spattered across his chin. "Don't you tell me that's enough!" he shouted again as they dived on him. "I haven't even begun!"

Pete typed the last line of his story, ripped the paper out of the machine, switched it off, and sat back with a contented sigh. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly four a. m.

He picked up his glass and sipped contentedly at a brandy and soda as he read through the piece. It was neat, snappy; not dream-factory stuff like the last one, but still very, very romantic. He grinned maliciously. This would show Bet Gunning what he thought of her claim to exclusive rights! And if it had the side effect of pushing Nick and Jo together once and for all, well and good. That would leave the sexy and informative Miss Curzon for him.

He leaned forward and switched off the desk lamp, then, stretching, he stood up and walked across to the open window. Staring out at the silent street, he took a deep breath of the warm fragrant air. At this time of night when the accursed traffic slept at last you could smell the flowers from Regent's Park.

The room was very cold. Jo shivered violently, curling up for a moment as tightly as she could to try to find some warmth, and she felt around, her eyes still shut, trying to pull the bedclothes over her again. There were none there. Puzzled, she opened her eyes and stared around.

She was lying on the carpet in her bedroom. For a moment she lay still, her mind a blank, then slowly she sat up. Outside the closed curtains she could hear the clatter of dustbins in the mews and the roar of traffic in the distance from the Cromwell Road. Overhead a broad-bellied jumbo jet was flying low across London, heading for Heathrow. Stiff and aching, she stood up slowly, and, still disoriented, she stood still for a moment. Then, suddenly realizing that she was cold because she had no clothes on, she moved awkwardly to the door and unhooked her bathrobe, wrapping it around her. Her shoulders ached and there was a raw streak of pain across her back.

Wearily she drew back the heavy curtains, letting the day- light flood into the room. Her bed was still made, the covers unrumpled. Her clothes were on the floor and she picked them up. Her dress was torn down the front, ripped almost in half. She stared at it, feeling the first stirrings of panic. She had been in the castle—which castle? She could not remember now, and William had been there—a furiously angry William who had forced her to undress and had struck her with his belt.

Her mouth went dry. She turned and fled into the bathroom, tugging on the light cord and throwing off the bathrobe as she turned to look at her back in the huge mirror. There was an angry bloody welt across it, reaching from her left shoulder blade across and around to her ribs on the other side. She swallowed hard, trying to control the urge to retch, her hands shaking so much she could barely turn on the tap and splash cold water over her face.