Taboo

Keywords: 06, Ch., Abducted,

Her hair would do if she didn't keep touching it. Charlotte had brushed it back from her forehead, disturbing the normally severe side parting. Victoria was not sure if she liked it. Her slight widow's peak was emphasized, causing her face to appear heart-shaped, which she thought was unattractive. In reality, she was beautiful, but she did not know it. Her eyes were large and widely spaced, her cheekbones high, her lips full and chiseled.

Charlotte was seated at the table in the kitchen when Victoria entered. She did not look up. "I'm sorry," Victoria told her.

For a moment, Charlotte did not reply. Then she said, in a strange, flat-sounding voice, "Don't speak to me. You aren't sorry, you're never sorry, so don't say that you are. Why don't you go and wait in the front room, away from me."

"Charlotte-"

Charlotte bit away the sentence that had started upon Victoria's lips. "I said, 'Don't speak to me', Victoria. Go and wait in the front room." She could not trust herself to say anything more, for fear she would say something she would later regret. Victoria had never had that quality. She always spoke exactly what was in her mind. Charlotte was in no doubt that Victoria meant exactly what she had intoned.

"Please-"

"Go to the front room, Victoria," Charlotte snapped.

"Very well," Victoria replied. She stormed out of the kitchen and slammed the door behind her. Her stoutly heeled boots could be heard clattering along the naked floorboards in the short steps associated with the fuse of her anger.

Charlotte continued to sit at the table, her eyes shut in pain. She would dearly love to flay Victoria with her tongue, strip her bare of her conceited morals and bring her back down to earth. Only the knowledge that this was her sister kept her tongue jailed behind her teeth. The wounds caused by Victoria's tongue on so many occasions were still bleeding. Next time, Charlotte might be forced to strike back to save herself.

Victoria seated herself haughtily in the 'front room'. It was a poor attempt at a parlor, with three shabby easy-chairs, a low table and a paned window with a view of the street. The fireplace was scrubbed clean of soot and never lit; the heat supplied by the kitchen below was usually sufficient to heat this room by night. When it wasn't, the family wore extra clothing or sat in their own kitchen. There was a photograph identical to that in Victoria's own belongings on the mantelpiece, depicting Charlotte, Sam Morpeth and their infant son. Hanging above this was a small painted portrait of their father, salvaged from the estate that they had been forced to sell. His hair was white and receding, with the same classical nose, arched eyebrows and cleft chin characteristic of his daughters.

Victoria stared at the portrait, imagining the proud man who had seemed to put his family first in every action he had made. He had lavished his daughters with everything that they could possibly want. His life had been about spectacle and pomp, a social climber trying to wheeze his way in amongst men far superior in wealth and standing to himself. Everything had been about show, from the ostentatious decoration of his home and daughters to his exuberant spending on his so-called friends. He had over-reached himself completely. Just as his life had been about exhibition, so had his death manifested show. He had gone out with a bang, literally. His life had ended, not hidden away in some back room of his house, but in the foyer of a grand hotel. What he had been trying to achieve was anybody's guess.

A northern man, a businessman, trying to intrude on the lives of the rich and influential. Trying to be something that he was not. He had failed miserably. His friends had taken his money and left. His business ventures had failed. His creditors had been breathing down his neck. He had nothing left, except the gun in his hand. He had taken two other people with him, wherever he had gone from there.

Victoria closed her eyes. Everything would be all right if Father were still alive. Charlotte would not be married to that terrible man and they would not be living in this horrid place. Victoria would not be forced to work. She had had a taste of the good life and would do almost anything to get the rest of the pie. She wasn't sure about Ned Hawke, though. What did he want from her?

Victoria sank into one of the chairs. Her hands were slumped across the fabric-enclosed arms. She ran her hand over the dark burgundy damask. It was finely woven, if a little faded and threadbare. There was one thing that could be said for Charlotte's taste. Although her furniture was old, it was always clean and as good a quality as she could afford.

It was another twenty minutes before Ned Hawke arrived. Charlotte opened the front door. She was not smiling this time, her eyes were downcast and her lips slack. Even her formerly glowing skin appeared grey. "Good evening," she said. Her voice was as drab as her manner. "I'll just fetch Victoria."

She turned away from him to knock upon a door less than three yards inside the front door. She did not even call out her sister's name. When Victoria exited a few seconds later, Charlotte did not look at her, instead averted her eyes to those of Ned Hawke. The glance was strange. He could not fathom what it meant, but it made him feel unnaturally cold and sweaty. Victoria looked about as happy as her sister did, her eyes shooting darts at his. She gathered up her cape and hat and did not even say goodbye to her sister.

"What happened to your sister?" Hawke asked as they descended the stairs.

"Nothing," Victoria snapped in reply.

*

Ned Hawke seated himself as closely as he could to the woman beside him. He knew that it made her feel uncomfortable. It was probably the only time that night when she could not possibly move away from him without endangering her life. They were bumping down the street at a fine speed now. He should have told the cabby to aim for all the cracks in the road; he seemed to be doing a damn good job as it was. Not that Ned had a clue what the state of the roads were in the East End, he was a West End man himself, only by night of course; he wouldn't be seen dead at any of the places he frequented, during the daytime.

He and Ron Selby had had some good times there over the years. Some women in those gay-houses would do anything for a few pounds... Of course, he preferred his nurses; he knew that he alone owned them, and he alone touched them. Ron occasionally shared, but he really could not be bothered with virgins. Ron liked nurses that knew what was expected of them, in every sense of the word.

This reminded Ned of the charming creature sitting beside him, stiff and as unyielding as one of those terrible corsets women chose to wear. He sidled closer, hoping at least for the warm curve of a thigh or buttock to be pressed against his leg. He felt the muscle contract under the touch of his leg, not soft and compliant, but as tight as the morals of a cloistered puritan. He wondered whether a caressing hand would be an improved assault on this jailed woman. He was met with fierce resistance and reluctantly withdrew his hand. A challenge was what you wanted, he reminded himself.

Every now and then, the glow of the gas-lamps that lit the streets highlighted Victoria's face. If lips were pursed tightly. Her eyebrows were only prevented from knitting by the fold of pale flesh mercilessly pinioned between them. When he touched her, she did not relax, instead the tension underlying each muscle group increased tenfold. There was hope yet; at least she did not openly knock his hand away.

Leave it for later, he told himself. He did not want her strung out with the nerves of a racked man now. So he shifted his body back from hers, allowing the nurse to squeeze her body from the corner she had sandwiched herself into.

"You look beautiful," he told her. She did not even bat an eyelid as far as he could see. They drove on in silence for a few minutes, before he attempted conversation again.

"Your sister," Ned began. "She seemed unhappy."

"She wasn't," Victoria snapped in reply.

Ned began to wonder whether he would have more fun extracting his own teeth without anesthetic. What a fool he was to think that he could pursue this woman outside of the hospital environment. He didn't have a clue how to win her over. He couldn't rely on 'accidental' gropes or collisions to break down her resistance. What could he do? Well, he certainly was not going to give up. He had never lost a woman yet.

Victoria leant back into her corner. She wondered where he was taking her. She did not feel so very uncomfortable now. She suspected that she could almost bear to be in the same room as him, as long as he did not try to touch her again. Uneasily, she recalled the feeling of his leg against hers, the blood boiling through her veins like the steam from a dry kettle. It had been a strange experience. Vulgar and disgusting, she told herself. To think that any man could think that he could take such liberties with an unmarried woman. She berated herself for not requesting a chaperone.

"You look very beautiful." She did too, he thought. If she would only stop frowning, she would be exquisite. He would hate to tell her, but if she carried on like that, she would be marked for life.

"Don't." Those beautiful full lips were pursed in displeasure. He ached to press them against his and remove that tension, to unwind her in his arms until she was nothing but soft, silky and pliant. He pictured her sister's lips superimposed on her face, smiling and warm. The likeness in the family was strong; Victoria could be just as beautiful, if only she relaxed.

"You are," he said.

"Don't." He could run his knuckles down that smooth, milky cheekbone and brush away the tension constricting her face. The muscles would relax under his expert touch. He could manipulate her with his lips until she gasped for air like a drowning swimmer.

Keywords: 06, Ch., Abducted,