The silence that followed his outrage was stifling, brewing, ominous. Granger knew that Charles was too drunk to know the harm he had done himself.
“Oi’ll have another ale,” he growled at the innkeeper.
“There’ll be no further service for ye here, Sir Scarblade,” the innkeeper said jeeringly, removing the tankard that Charles had been drinking from and throwing it into the garbage that was stacked at one end of the bar.
Charles lunged across the bar, grabbing for the innkeeper’s neck. The keeper, a heavy, robust man, moved adroitly and avoided contact. “Throw him out!” he boomed at three men who had seated themselves near the door.
Kicking and struggling, Charles was lifted off his feet and removed from the taproom. Sounds of a scuffle came through the open door, and Granger pressed through the throng of people in time to see Charles beaten and thrown into the road beneath the hooves of a horse tethered at the rail.
The startled, nervous animal reared up on its hind legs, bringing down its sharp hooves on Charles. Again and again the horse tried frantically to escape the body which lay beneath him. Charles, uttering a last bloodchilling scream, took the full force of the blows about his head and shoulders. Someone unleashed the terrified animal, and it raced headlong down the street.
* * *
Tori sat inside the open trap, the only means of conveyance she had been able to hire on this mid-December day, the day they would hang Scarblade on Tyburn Hill. It had been three days since she had seen Granger or Josh and indeed she hadn’t sought them out. Tori had removed herself from their company and retired to the boardinghouse, in fact the very room that had been Marcus’s. Seeking to find some small measure of comfort from being in the same room that she and Marcus had shared on that one night of love, a night she would remember always, she had been overjoyed to find it had not been let to anyone else.
The trap made its way over the rutted, muddy roads to Tyburn Hill. Disinterestedly, Tori brushed at the muddy spots which had splashed up onto her green woolsey skirt. Again she found herself grateful to Dolly, who had thought to send on to her the trunks of clothing and personal belongings that her parents had conveyed to the Fowler-Greene house before their departure for America. Tori received them gladly, not being able to bear wearing the green silk gown she had worn to the opera with Marcus to witness his final debasement on the gallows.
The driver did not think it at all strange that this lovely, well-dressed young lady should direct him to Tyburn Hill. He laughed to himself: If taproom gossip was correct, most of society’s matrons would be there to shed a tear for the passing of a most gallant and attractive highwayman.
Tori arrived late, and because the rows of carriages flanking the gallows themselves were already full, the driver of her hack grudgingly contented himself with a place well to the rear of the field.
A young boy selling hot-cross buns ran up to the trap in hopes of a sale. The driver bought one and jerked his thumb toward Tori. “Get away from me customer,” he scolded the boy; “can’t yer see this mus’ be her first ’anging? She’s as white and pinched lookin’ as me auld mum’s apron.”
Disgust and nausea surged in Tori as she gaped at the spectacle before her. Children hawked leaflets purporting to contain the last words of the condemned man. Hags sold “relics”—cloth and locks of hair—from past hangings.
Peasant and gentry alike thronged about. Bawds vied for marks and pickpockets had a field day. Youths pitched pennies, old men sold potions and remedies, housewives enticed people to buy their wares of ribbons, laces, smoked meats, fish, and hot breads. Justice, if Scarblade’s hanging could be called just, would be meted out in the tawdry, tinselly surroundings of a circus.
Lifting her eyes to the far-off gallows, Tori stared hypnotized by the swaying length of knotted rope which the slightest wind tossed to and fro.
As she watched, several men came from beneath the wooden structure and mounted the stairs. Vainly, her eyes strained across the distance in an effort to see Marcus. One of the men was dressed in black, and he, she supposed, was the executioner. She could not see Marcus, and suddenly she realized she did not want to see him! It was better to remember him the way he was, not this way: stripped of all dignity; denied human compassion, to die without solemnity, the sacrifice at a pagan orgy!
In a voice that quivered with emotion, she ordered the hackney to take her back to the boardinghouse.
“Aaow, miss, it jest be gettin’ good! Oi wouldn’t want ta miss the ’angin! Hang on fer a minute, it wouldn’t be long.”
“Now, I tell you!” she screamed in panic, “take me out of here now!” Noting the hackney’s continued insolence, Tori commanded him more firmly, her voice holding the practiced note of nobility instructing a servant. The driver’s ears perked up, but still he hesitated.
Hysteria mounted within her, choking off all reason. Fiercely, Tori pounded him with clenched fists, pummeling his head and shoulders, forcing him from his seat. With a mighty shove she sent the man flying from his perch to the trodden mud below. Grasping up the reins which were looped over the seat and taking up the whip, she forced the startled horse to veer to the left, taking her out and away from the ghoulish scene at the gallows. Tori had the trap turned about and the whip was held in suspension above the animal’s flanks when she heard it!
The crowd had become hushed with anticipation and it came to her ears as plainly as though she were within three feet of it. The clank, the clap, the split, the gasp of the crowd, the sudden thudding yawn of the gallow’s trap door, penetrated her being like a shot from a pistol. Her spine stiffened, her head snapped back, and she thought she should be dead. She wished she were dead! But she wasn’t. Frantically, mercilessly, she lashed out at the poor beast’s flanks, compelling him to make swift her escape from Tyburn Hill!
* * *
The pounding became louder, someone was calling her name. “Tori, Tori, open the door! I know you’re in there. Tori, open the door!”
Slowly, painfully, she pulled herself away from the webs of a tearful, exhausted sleep. “Go away, I don’t want to see anyone,” she called back in a toneless voice she did not recognize as her own.
“Tori, I must see you; let me in, it’s Granger,” he insisted, still pounding.
Reluctantly, woodenly, she climbed from the bed and unlocked the door. Granger burst in, deep concern for her in his eyes. “He’s free! Your Marcus is free!”
At first she couldn’t comprehend the meaning of his words. Then their significance dawned upon her. Relief engulfed her, making her dizzy and light-headed. Clarity of thought returning, Tori pounced on her cousin with disbelief. “But I was there, on Tyburn Hill! I saw the executioner. Granger, I heard the gallows’ trap door! What are you saying?”
“No, no, Tori, Marcus is alive. They hung someone else today, a man who murdered his mistress or something like that. The courts hastened the man’s hanging by a week; they couldn’t take a chance on disappointing the mob! Marcus is alive and free, I tell you!”
Realizing the shock she suffered, Granger gently led Tori back to the bed and sat down beside her, slowly telling her the sequence of events which led to Marcus’s release.
When Granger reported to Lord Fowler-Greene the circumstances surrounding Charles Smythe’s death, the lord pounced on this information and put it to his use.
Convincing Captain Elias to go against Marcus’s orders and part with the tax money, Lord Fowler-Greene brought the gold directly to the King, boldly declaring that Marcus himself was instrumental in securing the pilfered taxes. Scarblade was dead, having met his destiny beneath the hooves of a crazed horse, and Marcus Chancelor, the man from America who came to plead with the Crown to lift the embargoes and blockades on his colony, had himself, before his unjust apprehension, located the stolen tax monies and delivered them into Lord Fowler-Greene’s hands.
The lord explained that he had not gone directly to the authorities with this information because he wanted to bear out the
truth of Marcus Chancelor’s innocence.
So it was true, remarkable but true. Tori’s mind struggled to comprehend Granger’s statements. “Where is he?” she asked her cousin.
“He’s at Captain Elias’s ship! I almost forgot to tell you the best part. The King lifted the embargoes and blockades and bestowed on Marcus a hefty reward which he says will get his colony through the next harvest quite nicely.”
Tori’s eyes widened. “You saw him, you spoke to him?”
“Yes, of course.” The portent of his words as he watched her face stopped him in midsentence. It was all there for him to see, the pained, wounded expression in her eyes, the slight trembling of her lips.
Granger knew his cousin well, and could read her thoughts like a taproom sign. They said, If he’s alive and free why didn’t he come to me? It’s true then, he’s done with me. . . .
Trying to ease her, Granger said gently. “He had arrangements to make, Tori, the reward, the legal documents lifting the embargo and blockade. He hasn’t had an opportunity.”
Before his eyes Tori’s expression changed to one of hard, cold uncaring; her yellow-green eyes became icy and glittering.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Granger. I’m afraid your little tale has tired me. If you would please leave now—” She gave a little yawn to communicate polite boredom.
Bewildered by her attitude, Granger allowed himself to be ushered out the door. He heard the snick of the lock and knew that any and all explanations he could make for Marcus would be useless. He had often said Tori had a mind like an iron trap, and she was giving evidence of this once again.
Once more alone in the room, Tori flung herself on the high poster bed and buried her face in the pillow. A myriad of emotions filled her mind. Putting aside her joy at Marcus’s release, only one thought rose to the surface, and she choked on the inescapable truth: he did not want her! He had quit himself of her and was glad of it. His rejection of her had been real and she was the fool for trying to read some considerate motive into it. She had offered herself to him and he had tried her and found her lacking.
Shame burned her face as she pushed it deeper into the soft pillow, imagining it still carried the scent of him.
* * *
Early the next morning, Tori was dressed in her brightest, gayest traveling suit; her baggage was packed and waiting for the footman to bring it down to the coach she ordered.
Her intentions were to throw herself upon Lord Fowler-Greene’s mercies, to entreat him to advance her enough money to book passage on a ship to her parents’ new home in America.
There was nothing left for her here in England, and truth to be told, she was glad to leave.
Making the last of her things ready, she heard a light tapping sounding at the door. Supposing it was the footman, she bid him enter.
“Tori.” The sound of her name dissipated the stillness of the room, seeping into her consciousness and carrying with it the betrayal of longing and want.
Tori spun around to face him, her eyes bright and luminous with unshed tears. He looked dashing, slightly pale from his stay in Newgate, but, nevertheless, the most handsome man she had ever seen. The cut of his coat accentuated the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips. His snowy-white cravat set off the darkness of his skin and the ebony of his eyes.
“You!” she hissed. “What do you want here? How did you know where to find me? Go away, Marcus, there’s nothing for you here.”
“Granger told me—” he began before she cut in on him.
“So, Granger, was it? And what did he tell you? That I was dying for the sight of you? That you had slighted his dear cousin and he begged you for amends? Get out, Marcus. . .”
In two long strides he was upon her, grasping her firmly by the arms and shaking her soundly. “Your cousin Granger warned me about you. He said you had a mouth that didn’t stop! Not that I didn’t know that myself, you little vixen! Now shut up, and for once in your life listen to me. I didn’t come to you immediately after my release yesterday because. . . because . . . Tori,” he asked, “do you know how long it takes to shed oneself of the vermin that’s picked up in a hell-hole like Newgate? And then Lord Fowler-Greene had to fill me in on the story behind my release, Then, finally, came the King. Not even you, my hotheaded little darling, outranks the King!”
His grip on her arms became painful as he shook her again and growled at her through clenched teeth. “When the King commands an audience poor commoners like me obey! Then I had to see to the loading of the stores which are a gift to Chancelor’s Valley from the Crown. We sail today in an hour’s time, so it had to be seen to immediately.”
He released her with a backward thrust, sending her reeling across the room, stumbling against and falling upon the bed. “All the while we were loading, Granger told me of the scheme you and Josh and he cooked up to spring me out of Newgate! I thought that filthy ape was raping you, Tori. I had no idea it was all part of some crazy scheme to free me.”
His face darkened as he thought of that day of doom that had cost Josh his life. She read the pain on his features, and the pain became hers. She, too, missed Josh and would grieve for him. But the sad memory must not stop her; this time he had gone too far. Who did he think he was, what did he think of her? Some child who must be rewarded for her good intentions?
“So!” she shrieked; “Granger has told you of our combined efforts to help you, and now you feel you must be properly grateful! Oh, I knew it, I knew it!”
“Grateful? For what? For almost being a helpless witness to that filthy dog of a jailor raping you? My God! I wanted to kill that pig for touching you! If I could have gotten my hands on him I would be swinging from the gallows.” He approached her, stalking her, and she shrank from him.
“God, Tori, they told me if I didn’t stop raving they were going to confine me to Bedlam! And you think I’m grateful? For your driving me near out of my mind?”
That disastrous day in the dungeons of Newgate flooded back to her. The stench of the dungeons—Josh’s death—the roar . . . that blood-chilling, wounded animal roar. That had been Marcus yelling his helplessness to defend her.
“You’re my woman, Tori,” he said, his voice husky. “I should have known it long ago. Your beauty and courage intrigued me from the first time we met. And now, I realize you have the spirit and compassion that I’ve been searching for. Tori, my bewitching vixen, I’ll love you always with every fiber of my body and soul.”
Cautiously, Tori lifted her eyes to meet his. Stunned by the impact of his words and the meaning in his eyes, she remained still.
Silently, Marcus swooped down upon her and lifted her into his arms. His face was close to hers, his breath caressed her cheek, and when he spoke his tone was soft: “I need you. I want you.” Kissing her, he lay Tori back on the bed and with a devilish grin whispered, “We still have an hour till the ship sails.”
Whitefire
Chapter 1
Katerina Vaschenko led the last of the horses from the underground paddock and secured them for the night in their roomy stalls. She walked among the animals, counting silently as she patted and stroked the horses’ flanks. “Mikhailo!” she shouted. “Where is Wildflower?”
Mikhailo Kornilo lumbered into the stable and eyed the young Cossack girl with fear in his eyes. “I thought she was with the other mares.”
“Wildflower has been skittish these past days, so I allowed Stepan to work with her alone. He wouldn’t be foolish enough to take her outside for air, would he?” she asked the wizened old man anxiously.
Mikhailo ran gnarled old hands through his sparse white hair and made his own quick count of the noble animals. “Stepan may be foolish, but not that foolish. He knows the mares are not to be taken outdoors until the last of the snows are gone and the temperature rises. No doubt he’s walking her around the arena for exercise. The Kat will be happy with the price this particular foal will bring,” he said confidently.
“Mikhailo, I checked the arena on my way here and it was empty. Fetch my father and have the others make a search. The mare has to be found.”
Her face a mask of concern, Katerina drew the sable cape closer about her slim shoulders and fastened the hood over her coppery hair. Stroking the muzzle of the closest mare, she crooned soft words to the quiet animal.
The sweet, pungent smell of the horses stayed with her as she made her way down the damp corridor to the stone stairway.
Quickly, before she could change her mind, she thrust open the heavy pine doors and ran outside. Biting snow lashed against her as she fought her way to the outdoor stables, instinctively skirting a deformed clump of brush.
The wind drove the breath from her body as Katerina flung herself against the stable doors. “Stepan, are you in there?” she shouted breathlessly. “Is Wildflower with you? Stepan, answer me!” she screamed as she shut the weighty panels behind her. Her only reply was a skittering noise to the left of her foot. One of the cats. In her heart she had known Wildflower and Stepan were not there even before she had come inside. God, what had the boy done with the horse?
Shivering, not with cold, but with a fear so deep her blood seemed to freeze in her veins, Katerina whimpered silently as she pushed open the door and trudged back to the House of the Kat. Of all the horses to be gone, why did it have to be Wildflower?
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