by Gina Conkle
Their suffering . . .
Never forget.
Will had borne his share of suffering too. A wee bit of compassion would not be out of order. A bucket of what looked to be barely touched water sat near his hip. She filled the ladle and set a peace offering to his lips.
“I will have to burn these skirts, you know.”
Will guzzled water, his vivid eyes singeing her. He finished and shook his head at having more. “Too much, too fast and I’ll retch.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
“The night I was arrested. Though I recall more ale than food goin’ down my gullet.” His brogue was heartwarming and his half grin cocky.
“That would be three nights past. And now, though it pains me, I am asking for your help. In return, I can help you.”
“No.” He shook his chains. “I’m otherwise detained.”
His jaw was mulish behind a mud-flecked beard. The truth was he’d rather not be indebted to her. The jaunty angle of his head told her as much. Though sorely tempted, now was not the time to respond in kind. She set the ladle in the bucket and chose her words with care.
“You understand, if you stay here, you will be dragged before the magistrate, and you will be given six months imprisonment. Wear the kilt again, and you will be transported to the colonies—to serve seven years on one of the king’s plantations.”
“No’ a bad idea,” he said, studying the ceiling. “Been thinking about going to the colonies. My father’s there.” Will met her gaze with a taunting glint. “It’ll be my pleasure to sail on King George’s coin.”
“We shall make it worth your while.”
“We is it?” His brows shot high. “Go’ another Englishmon waitin’? Husband number three?”
She massaged her forehead. “No.”
Lavender oil smeared under her nose was losing its effectiveness. Whiffs of Marshalsea and Will’s unwashed body assaulted her. Not half an hour in the shed and she was in danger of casting up her accounts. How did he survive three days? He’d not stay, not if she had any say in the matter. The Dress Act was too bitter an edict to swallow.
“Be as stubborn as you like,” she muttered. “But I will set you free.”
She rammed the key in the manacle, and their bodies brushed.
Fine hairs on her arms lifted, a rush, delicate and soft. Very out of place for the man she was nose to nose with. She did her best to quash the flutter.
“You truly want to go to the colonies?”
Will’s lashes dropped half over his eyes. “It’s time I leave, lass.”
His graveled voice sent cracks across her heart. He was leaving her. It made no sense. They’d not seen each other in years, yet she knew it in her bones.
Pinching the key’s bowhead, she tried to force it. The lock’s internal mechanism wouldn’t budge. Like her, it was a little rusty about opening up.
“You’re still freein’ me?” Will’s head was at her shoulder.
Molars gritting, she cranked the key. “I cannot turn my back on you.”
“You did once.”
She froze. That hurt. Deeply.
There was no reason to explain her choice. Will wouldn’t believe her; he was too busy clinging to his version of the past, and she was too busy fighting for her future. So many people depended on her. Pushing up on her knees, she steeled herself and twisted the key again. Iron grated iron until the metal bracelet opened. Will hissed at his sudden release, his gaze digging into hers, bright with pain.
Three days in chains would leave a man stiff and sore. She cleared her throat and reached for his meaty shoulder. Under the circumstances, rubbing it wasn’t out of the question.
“This will help,” she murmured. “Warm you, ease the hurt.”
Will absorbed her profile. She flushed the more he watched, rather demoralizing for a woman who lived a shade outside the law. By the slash of his brows, the monster of Marshalsea’s shed was unpleasantly baffled too.
“I canna believe you’re here.”
The highlander was wistful, his voice set to the shush of leather rubbing skin. Will’s body was a familiar map of ridges and furrows. Bigger than most, he was brute force in the flesh. His livelihood required brawny arms to careen ships and powerful legs to turn a quayside treadwheel. A creature of that world. Skin darkened at his elbow, a laborer’s stripe. She traced that suntanned line, careful not to look him in the eyes.
“You roll your sleeves here. When you work the docks.”
Will’s breath stirred hair by her ear. “Of all the women to walk through that door . . .”
His voice was achy and soulful, the timbre striking tender notes.
“You know, it’s not just me who needs you. There are others, Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora.”
“Those two are in London?”
“They live in my house,” she said, bundling her skirts.
She straddled Will’s leg and reached for the other iron clamp. Her inner thigh glanced his. Masculine leg hairs tickled her. She aimed the key at the lock and missed.
“Careful, lass. Don’t fall on my account.” Even in chains, he hinted at humor and seduction.
Embers sparked on tender skin above her garter. Sinister little hairs. Will’s leg skimmed hidden places, featherlight under her petticoats.
She took a bracing breath, fit the key into its hole, and nudged her thigh away from his.
He nudged his closer. “I’m no’ complainin’. You’re warmin’ me nicely.”
Will. He’d flirt with the devil if the devil was a pretty woman.
Years ago, she’d loved the highlander passionately. Young and foolish, both had believed they could be together. But ardent, youthful promises didn’t stand a chance against the tide of war and family obligation. Worst of all, Will had been for the rebellion. She and her family had not.
When she gripped the key harder, a big dirt-smeared hand covered hers.
“Let me.”
Will’s hand. Long fingered, scarred, the knuckles scratched and bruised. His hands were good at wielding clubs and pistols, yet gentle enough to woo a headstrong virgin into giving heart, body, and soul to him.
Nodding mutely, she pushed off the ground and swallowed an angry cry when he got up on one knee. His ripped shirt split wide, revealing a back full of cuts and purple welts, likely from cudgel strikes.
The beating he took . . . all in the name of donning his kilt.
She was in a daze when the second chain clinked against the bricks. Will stood to full height, his brooding eyes watching her while he nursed his newly released arm.
“I cannot believe you won’t help us,” she said.
“You’ll no’ guilt me to your biddin’ because of Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora.” Will stretched his neck, the bones cracking. “Find another mon.”
“I need you.”
His eyes dulled. “Never thought I’d hear you say that again.”
Chin high, she was done asking. He’d never forgiven her for what happened in the ruins of Castle Tioram years ago. Truth be told, she’d never forgiven herself. It made Will’s sudden touch on her jaw all the more poignant.
“Who did this to you?”
The pads of his fingertips were warm and rough grained. With murderous fury in his eyes, it took her a moment to understand. The bruise on her temple. She’d forgotten about it. When they were on the ground, Will couldn’t have seen it for the shadows.
“It happened a few nights ago when I was alone in my warehouse.”
“I didna ask when it happened. I asked who did it.”
She jerked her chin free. “I don’t know.”
Torchlight guttered beside her. Life stopped—no past, no future. No right or wrong. She was a woman with a man. Will had to feel it. He searched her bruised hairline, her eyes, her mouth until a subtle veil dropped. She lost Will again—if she ever truly had him in the first place. One summer of sex and endearments wasn’t love. It was . . .
A formative experience?
Carnal escape?
Freedom for a young woman expected to put family first?
Within her cloak, papers crinkled. Will’s arrest record. She pulled it from her pocket and fed the document to the fire. Ashes floated bit by bit like fall leaves until it was gone. Will ground those gray scraps under his heel.
“You’re a riddle, madame. What kind of trouble follows you that your head is bruised and you wear a knife up your sleeve?”
Dignity squared her shoulders. “The less you know, the better.”
Will was proud. Forlorn. Mighty as ever, filling the room with his torn shirt and shredded kilt over naked thighs. A quick stride would flash his male parts. The tartan’s untouched back hung long and properly pleated, but if he gave it to a laundress, she’d heave it into a fire. There was no saving it. Could be there was no saving Will.
She grabbed her petticoats and headed up a short stack of stairs. Will wasn’t far behind, his shoulders brushing the door frame. He watched her scrape muck off her shoe, stark hunger lighting his eyes, but he’d made it clear she was not the woman to feed him.
“Shaking off the dust of your feet?” he asked, a touch belligerent.
“What I do is the least of your concern.” She raised her hood with an eye to the moon-drenched road beyond the open gate. “The better question is, what are you going to do now that you are free?”
Chapter Two
Tattered wool slapped Will’s legs, and cold glommed on his skin. Slouching timbered buildings loomed, old plaster smeared on their creviced faces. Southwark was a coarse bawd, and time had not been kind to her. When the Stuarts reigned, crowds teemed her narrow streets to gorge on violent sports, brimming brothels, and colorful theaters. Not anymore. Her soggy lanes were empty. Her reputation in tatters.
Prisons, breweries, and warehouses crammed close quarters now. A place easily forgotten. A place Anne called home?
He kept a respectful dozen paces back to make sure she arrived safe . . . wherever she was going. The lass was taking a long stretch of her legs on this midnight walk, cutting through low-hanging fog better than a river barge. Swan Alley to Long Lane, a quick turn onto Tanner Street, this last thoroughfare blessedly peaceful save a dog barking at a trio of drunks staggering out of a seedy chophouse.
Two whores idling outside a tavern snickered as he strode past.
“Never mind them, luv,” a henna-haired doxy cooed. “It’s me ye want.” She flashed a winsome smile and scarlet stays.
He grinned and plodded on. “No’ tonight. I’m otherwise engaged.”
“Yer loss.” She snapped her cloak shut and gave Anne’s back the gimlet eye. “I’ll be right ’ere if Miss Stiff Skirts turns ye down.”
Miss Stiff Skirts. A fair description. Done with hanging back, he jogged to Anne’s side, the smell of fresh-cut wood growing stronger. They had to be close to the wharfs. Much of England’s timber and stone trade passed through this part of Southwark.
“You should have taken Red Bess’s offer. She is generous with the occasional man. Allows him to stay all night in her bed.” Two more steps and Anne’s gaze slid to his legs. “She might even have a pair of breeches for you.”
Whistling low, he matched her stride. “Stickin’ a knife at a mon’s baubles, and, if I’m hearin’ right, you’re familiar with the habits of local harlots. Times have changed, Mrs. Neville.”
“Indeed, they have, Mr. MacDonald.”
His midnight rescuer was frosty, her gray hood slipping low when she turned onto Mill Lane where the Iron Bell Tavern lived. Anne was long of leg but more than a head shorter than him. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she wanted to shake him off.
“You know you’ve still no’ answered my questions,” he said, trying to be congenial. A congenial man got answers.
“I recall answering a fair number of them.”
“No’ the ones that counted.”
Candle lamps outside the odd door lit Anne’s profile. The other side of the river was well lit, the Southwark side not so much.
Her footsteps quick, she was nose forward. “I won’t tell you more because the two of us working together is a bad idea.”
“So just like that—” he snapped his fingers “—you unlock me from Marshalsea and leave.”
“Yes—” she eyed him and snapped her fingers “—just like that.”
Irritation coiled. She was blood-pumping sauciness and tight lips, a bayonet’s jab and feint in her conversation. Growling at her in the shed hadn’t worked, but he’d keep their skirmish going . . . for Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora’s sake.
Anne turned onto Bermondsey Wall, the slender road tracing the river’s embankment. An orange tabby cat slinked across the low wall, a mouse wriggling between its teeth. Aside from the cat, its prey, and a veil of fog, not another soul inhabited the road, save him and one headstrong woman. When she stopped at an iron gate askew on its hinges, he nearly tripped over his own feet.
Rusty reflexes. Three days in chains did that. Left his bones cold too.
“This is my home.” Anne’s honeyed smile came with a bite. “If you happen upon a highlander willing to help a woman in need, send him here.”
He chuckled low. Woman in need. Anne never needed anyone. He pushed the squeaky gate wide open and ambled forward, hands on hips into the yard. Weeds grew in the flagstone path. A lonely lamp glowed beside the black-lacquered door of a brick and flint stone house facing the river. An empty lot sat on one side of the house, a burned-out building on the other.
Looking up, he spied a bricked-over window frame on the second floor. “This is no’ the home of a wealthy woman.”
“When did I say I was wealthy?” Her silken voice sent a quiver over choice places.
The moon painted Anne a fey temptress. Cheeks sharper than he remembered, her flesh-pink mouth was the same, a mouth that did shameless things to a man—like convince him to walk midnight streets just to hear her secrets. The bruise. The knife. This run-down house and her bulging bag of gold. Nothing added up to the Edinburgh lass he once knew.
Well, not everything had changed. She was mouthy as ever.
This version of Anne could be otherworldly. Fascinating, beautiful, yet worthy of caution. She’d deceived him years ago. He had no doubt she’d do it again.
Fool that he was, he wanted inside.
“You saw me safely home,” she said. “Your gentleman’s duty is done.”
Her wry tone insulted him as if she found his protective nature amusing.
“I followed you because I wanted to, no’ because I had to.”
Anne jingled a key ring out of her petticoat pocket. “Then I thank you for your kindness.”
“I’m no’ bein’ kind.”
Pale green eyes flashed with irritation. She was older and wiser than the maid who’d kissed him senseless from one side of Scotland to the other. Their kisses had been hot, their tangle of limbs hotter. He couldn’t recall who had seduced whom back then. Young Anne had sported a ramrod spine and give-no-quarter spirit.
Fierce, mouthy lasses . . . his weakness.
While on the prison hulk, he’d come to believe she’d marked him, a young woman quenching her sexual curiosity before entering a loveless marriage. A nasty chill climbed down his back. Could be she’d marked him again. A woman who wanted something else from him.
Calm as a summer breeze, Anne nodded at London Bridge rising in the distance. “If you cross the bridge, the Night Watch will haul you back to prison.” Brows arching, she eyed his nearly naked thighs. “Or to St. Luke’s.”
“The Night Watch can bugger off.”
Her mouth quirked. “Then it’s a ferryman for you. Go to Marigold Alley and tell Henry Baines I sent you. He’ll oblige you a midnight run to Black Friars. From there, you should be able to dodge your way through dark alleys to your lodgings.”
Staring down at her, he smiled, could feel it growing, wicked and unpleasant. My, my, Mrs. Neville, you’re tryin’ verra hard to get rid of
me after such a pretty plea in the shed.
“I’m no’ crossing the river, nor do I care if anyone sees me in my kilt.”
“Have you lost your mind, Will MacDonald? If it is a matter of paying the ferryman, I will give you the coin.”
His impatient huff was worthy of a dragon. “I’m no’ taking your money. It’s time you explain yourself. I’ve waited long enough.”
Her laugh was sharp. “Have you now?”
She marched on, her heels decisive clicks on stone.
Catching Anne at her doorstep was easy. Getting the slippery woman to spill her secrets was the greater task. He was glad the hour was late and the lane vacant. A passerby would think a madman was accosting the widow of Bermondsey Wall. With his shirt in tatters and hair unkempt, he was a fright. He was haranguing a woman who’d made it clear she didn’t want his services after all. That about-face was puzzling enough. Life held little value for him these days, but this was different. Anne’s appearance at Marshalsea shook him. Badly.
Her key poised to unlock the door, he stretched out an arm and blocked her.
“Eight years I don’t see you. Eight. You’ll no’ dismiss me like some errand boy.”
Her hot regard speared him. “Don’t you mean you dismissed me?”
A sane man might tuck tail and run. He considered it, until he caught a telltale sign: Anne’s thumb rubbing circles on her forefinger. She followed his sight line and jammed her hand into her cloak.
“My refusal,” he said. “I hurt you.”
“Not at all.”
Liar. She was nose-in-the-air proud, but truth be told, he was in no rush to let down his guard either. The river’s tranquil hush and laughter from a distant tavern cooled their collective ire. This should be a simple, honest conversation despite the fact good deeds rarely happened at this hour. Harlots and housebreakers roamed late-night streets. What did that mean for him and Anne?
A patient man, he waited, his father’s voice in his head. No good decision was ever made after midnight.
“When I heard you were in Marshalsea . . .” Her speech broke and she averted her eyes. “I—I couldn’t bear the thought of you imprisoned again.”