Reaching out a hand to touch the guinea gold tresses, he found it silky soft and wondered why on earth he couldn't remember who she was or more to the point - where he was? Roscoff! The information burned his mind and his head ached fiercely but the more he tried to remember the details, the further the information seemed to slip from him. Laudanum, he remembered that. The girl had drugged him, so that explained the fog in his memory and ... oh God, Bessie, the ship had gone down ... but the girl ...? Perhaps if he could see her face ... Shifting slightly, he tilted his head so that he could look at her. For a moment he was simply in awe of the beauty of the girl, and then it filtered through his brain that she was extremely young. Good Lord, she wasn't much more than a child he realised with a rush of guilt. Seventeen at most, she was probably half his age. He felt at once very old and very wicked. My God, what had he done?
He moved away from her, as far as was possible on the small mattress with a wall on one side and the girl on the other. But the movement disturbed her and she sighed, stretched and yawned. Despite himself he watched her, smiling at the luxurious nature of the movement, like a contented cat. She blinked, blue eyes still full of dreams as a slow smile curved over that perfect mouth.
"Good morning," he said, for the first time in his life feeling at a disadvantage on awaking with a stranger.
"Mmmm, oui," she said, on a sigh, as she moved closer to him. "It is a good morning, I like waking up with you 'ere. You are so warm. It is so long since I have been warm." She snuggled back against him and he moved in alarm, trying to sit up to get away from her, but his head began to swim and he groaned. "What are you doing?" she scolded him. "You must not move, you are too weak, silly man." She tutted and cursed a little more in French, words that a young lady should never have heard let alone dared utter. But she was sweet nonetheless as she fussed about him, smoothing his head with her cool hand.
Alex closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as she pressed her warm body against him. My God, he'd been saved by a mythical creature, half angel, half ... foul-mouthed temptress - and he was going to hell for sure.
He jolted as the cool hand left his head and smoothed over him, trailing her fingers through the hair on his chest. "You are very ... big," she said sounding thoughtful, and his eyes snapped open in alarm, though there seemed only curiosity in her expression. "I have never seen a man as big as you." He blinked, wondering if she was for real or deliberately stroking his ego, whichever, it was working. He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable as his body began to wake and make demands that he couldn't possibly act on. His eyes drifted down to the small hand resting over his heart and she frowned up at him. "I thought for a moment you seemed a little better, but ... suddenly you are looking very hot again," she said, her voice full of concern.
Oh God.
"Could I have some water please?" he asked, with just a touch of desperation.
"Of course."
She got up from the bed and crossed the room to pour him some water from the jug. To his chagrin he looked up to find she was only dressed in a thin shift that barely covered her behind, and then she leaned forward ... He closed his eyes and prayed - for forgiveness, for help ... for the strength to survive this ... this ordeal, for surely God was testing him to see just how wicked he'd become.
He opened his eyes as the little minx sat down beside him again and held the cup to his lips. With a frown he tried to fix his mind on important matters, and as far away from the warm body curled into his side as he possibly could. He sipped the water with some relief, hoping it would clear his mind.
"My men," he asked, as she took away the cup. Suddenly it all came back to him, the Revenue men, the storm . "What ..." He looked around at her to see her eyes filled with sorrow.
"I am so sorry," she said. "There were trois." She held up three fingers and he closed his eyes with anguish in his heart. Three good men dead. There should have been more of them to crew Bessie, but the men were all on the beach and there was no time ...
"Je suis vraiment désolée."
He looked up to see her eyes shining with pity and she stroked his hair.
"Sleep now, mon brave, sleep."
And suddenly he was too tired to think any more, and her touch was soothing, her nearness a comfort ... And so he slept.
***
When he awoke again it was dark. At first he was disorientated again by the strangeness of his surroundings, but gradually his memories resolved themselves into some kind of order. Bessie was sunk, three of his men dead, and he was washed ashore at Roscoff. He had no money nor proof of his identity as all was carefully left at home in case the Revenue got him. He was also in the care of a woman young enough to be his daughter and beautiful enough to tempt a saint, and he had long since thrown in his lot with a rather darker crowd to claim any kinship with that pure ideal. He smiled as he remembered the scolding she'd given him and then found himself frowning as his attention was taken by sounds of revelry, and once again that familiar scent on the air. Opium, he realised, now his wits were his own, and the sounds were most certainly familiar too. Damn it all. He was in a brothel.
His heart sank to his boots as he recalled the girl's words to him. Mimi worked here, as did she. He felt suddenly sick. That a beautiful child with such vibrancy and spirit should be condemned to a life like this. Though it certainly explained the familiar way she curled up in bed with him.
Alex felt an ache over his heart at the idea of her prospects. Disease and despair, unless she got very lucky and snared a rich man's interest, which seemed unlikely going on the seedy nature of his surroundings. Although he'd never had any illusions about his own character, he tended to be selfish in his own affairs, his own pleasures being his foremost concern, he was a compassionate man. He knew he had been blessed in many ways, and his wealth and status afforded him a way of life few could aspire too.
Though he worked quietly, so that few knew of his actions, he'd discovered a philanthropic side to his character, rather at odds with the cruel and aloof character he was believed by his contemporaries who he had little patience for. The thought of leaving the girl to her fate was something he could not countenance, especially after she'd saved him from his own fate. He couldn't let that happen to her. He would save her, he decided, refusing to consider the difficulties involved in this particular scheme. It would be a salve for his conscience, though he had at least absolved himself of having taken advantage of her. He may have every man's ego about the force of his own stamina and prowess, but it was clear he'd been unconscious and off his head with fever until this last morning.
But at least if he got her away from here he could repay her for saving his life, and the trouble she must have had to hide him here. For he realised he must be hidden. It was unlikely any Madame would allow one of her girls to keep a strange man in her rooms. Though now he came to think on it, he came to wonder what the damn woman was about. A beauty like Céleste came along once in a blue moon, any Madame worth her salt would make the most of her, keeping her in the best rooms and dressing her in the finest possible attire to appeal to the wealthiest clients she could attract. But here the child was, dressed in rags and sleeping with rats.
The growing urge to throttle the woman and to give any man who had taken his pleasure with Céleste a slow and painful death kept his mind fully occupied until finally the door to the attic creaked open.
A female figure was just visible in the candle light she carried and he watched as Céleste took off her boots at the door. He heard her heavy sigh of relief before she set the boots down and padded silently over to him.
"Alors, you are awake, mon chou."
He winced a little at the familiar way she spoke to him, like a lover, but was more concerned by the obvious exhaustion in her voice and her eyes. But she smiled at him and bade him sit up and accept a plate bearing bread and cheese, and it was only at that moment he realised how dreadfully hungry he was. His stomach gave a loud growl of protest and she laughed, the sound soft against the
raucous noises from downstairs. She gestured for him to eat and finding he wanted to please her apart from anything, he did as he was told. She took the plate from him once he was finished and set it aside.
"You're tired," he said, watching her and finding himself anxious about the dark circles beneath those incredible eyes.
She gave a slight huff of laughter before she began to undress. "Oui, I am tired. I am always tired. I dream about soft feather beds that I can lie in for days on end and simply ... sleep." She sighed again and once more he felt an uncomfortable ache in his chest. He was curious to know more about her but unwilling to tax her with questions when she was so exhausted. Yet she was obviously well-educated, her grasp of English said that much, and she didn't speak like a peasant. In fact she put him very much in mind of an older lady he knew in England. A French Marquise, she had fled during le terroir when the nobility were losing their heads daily to Madame la Guillotine and had a haughty turn of phrase and a manner of speaking that was not unlike Céleste; if you ignored the cursing and swearing that was. He turned to look at her, to ask where she was born and found she was once more wearing nothing but the shift, and he averted his eyes.
"Mon Dieu, the old crow has had me at work since dawn," she said, stretching and laying down beside him with a groan. "My back is killing me."
"You ... have been working since dawn?" he asked in horror, trying hard not to stare at the mouth-watering figure, only too visible beneath the threadbare chemise.
"Oui," she mumbled, smothering a yawn. "With barely ten minutes to eat my lunch before she was shouting at me to get back at it." She pressed her body closer to him, shivering. Alex swallowed and shifted as far away as he could manage, only to find she moved closer, curling into him.
He gritted his teeth. "Oh did she?" he growled. Damn the evil bitch. That was it! He would have to get them clear of this hell hole first thing in the morning. The fact that he was barely strong enough to sit upright, let alone find a way for them to leave with no money, was something he ignored as immaterial. By the morning he would be fit enough. He'd have to be.
Despite telling himself he would be better off not knowing, he found himself asking about her work.
"The ... people here. Do they treat you well?"
She snorted in amusement and inveigled herself under his arm like a cat seeking a caress, resting her head on his shoulder. He found himself unable to refuse and tried to keep his response entirely fatherly by letting his hand rest on her shoulder, rather than the inviting curve of her waist.
"Madame Maxime is une ivrogne," she cursed. "Though at least if she is drunk she's less of a bitch. Some of the other girls are OK, but Belle is spiteful, especially if Le Baron de Merde is visiting.
"The Baron of ...?"
She giggled and shook her head, the soft tresses tickling his chest in a disturbing manner.
"Really 'e is the Baron de Merdorph, but I call him the shit Baron," she said and he could sense that she was smiling.
He cleared his throat. "Yes, I understood that much. May I enquire what this man has done to you to deserve such a name?" He found his fists were clenched and tried hard to make himself relax but he had the desperate need to strike someone.
"To me?" she asked in surprise. "Oh, nothing to me. I am not worth his attention, but he treat all the girls like dirt. But nobles they are always like this." She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "They believe they are above the rest of us scrabbling in the dirt but in the end ... we are all the same." She gave a heavy sigh and he heard a plaintive note in it which made the ache in his chest worsen. He couldn't understand what kind of fool this man could be to not notice Céleste, and what kind of Madame wouldn't be throwing the girl in his face. But he decided that he would keep his own title to himself until he had got the girl to a safe place, in case she came to believe he had nefarious motives. He found himself quite surprised by the fact that he didn't, but there it was. He would do the right thing by this girl. He would find her a good home, somewhere she could be safe and happy and have a future.
He listened as her breathing deepened and, content that she was asleep, he moved her over to the side of the mattress, before turning his back on her and doing the same.
Chapter 4
"Wherein evil stalks our heroine and events come to a head."
To his chagrin Alex found the girl had gone when he woke, though she had left him a plate of food and a chamber pot. He grimaced, both at the thought he had been sleeping while the girl was earning her keep and likely giving much of it to keep him fed, and by the idea that she was skivvying for him. He ate everything she had left, aware that he needed to regain his strength as soon as he was able, and then made an attempt at getting to his feet.
At first the room span and he was obliged to cling to the rafters to keep his feet, but little by little he steadied, though he felt weak as a kitten. Nevertheless, they had to get out of here. He looked around the cramped space and came upon his first problem. He was naked as the day he was born and the little wretch had taken his clothes. That problem, however, seemed less insurmountable than the idea of standing for a moment longer, and so it was with self disgust, frustration and a sigh of relief that he laid back down on the thin palliasse.
He slept the rest of the morning until he was awoken with a start by heavy footsteps. A large and disreputable figure ducked under the lintel and strode into the room, and Alex reached for a pistol that wasn't there. With alarm he looked the man over and gauged his chances. Alex was likely taller, though this fellow was massive across the chest and shoulders, with hands like mallets. In normal circumstances Alex would have given himself at least even odds but as he could hardly stand ...
The danger of the situation dissipated as Alex noticed the man carried a bowl of food, some kind of stew from the delicious scent, and it made his stomach growl. The big man grunted at him, thrust the bowl in his face - though from his expression he looked as though he'd rather shove it down his throat, bowl and all - and then ducked to pick up the chamber pot.
"Vous êtes, Mimi?" Alex asked, assuming this was the man Céleste had spoken of and received a nod of agreement and another grunt. He found he was relieved that the man was both older than he, ugly as sin and apparently none too bright, and decided not to dwell on his reasons for that. "Merci d'avoir aidé Céleste à me cacher ici," he added, figuring he should thank the man for his help in case it was needed again. Once more he was answered with a grunt as Mimi headed back to the door. With a touch of anxiety he asked where Céleste was. Usually she tried to come and see him at lunchtime. Mimi just shrugged his massive shoulders and muttered something that sounded a little like travail as he shut the door and the heavy footsteps descended the stairs.
So Céleste was working. Cursing, Alex forced himself to his feet and made himself walk back and forth across the room. He had to get his strength back. They had to get out of here. Right now that poor girl ... Nausea swirled in his stomach as he considered just what she was doing and he allowed his shaking legs to carry him back to the bed. With his head in his hands he glanced at the bowl of stew and knew it would choke him, as the manner in which it had been paid for made his heart ache and his temper rage. But if he wanted to get them out of here he needed to eat and so he forced it down instead of flinging it across the room in a fury as he was more than tempted to do.
***
Céleste slammed the heavy pot of stew down on the kitchen table, ignoring the raised eyebrows from the girls. Madame Maxime had been redoubling her effort to make Céleste see sense. Didn't she understand how much easier her life would be if she earned her money like the other girls, Maxime had said, her voice all soft and wheedling. She had slung an arm over Céleste's shoulder and hugged her, in a parody of motherly affection that had sorely tempted Céleste to scratch the bitch's eyes out. If Céleste would just do as Madame wanted she would receive only the wealthiest clients, she would have a room of her own with a soft feather bed, fine clothes, wine and plenty to ea
t, and for all that she'd only have to work for a few hours a night; unless the clients paid enough to engage her for longer, in which case Céleste would earn a pretty penny too.
Madame described her possible life with colour and excitement, as though she was offering the girl a chance at something wonderful, if she would only stop being so stubborn about a silly thing like her honour. After all, what good was that likely to do a girl like her, it's not like anyone would marry her! Maxime had laughed as she'd said it and Céleste had imagined her contrebandier and a life where they were married, with a little cottage by the sea ... Her heart clenched as she realised Maxime was likely right. No matter what the papers Marie had given her said, as far as the world was concerned Céleste was nobody, and no one wanted her for anything other than her pretty face and ... well she knew damn well what they wanted her for. It had taken everything she had not to spit in the vile woman's face, but she had politely declined Madame Maxime's kind offer, and ever since the bitch had gone out of her way to show her just how hard life could be.
Her work load had almost doubled and Maxime had even refused to give her lunch in punishment for dropping a pitcher of milk while she was clearing up the breakfast things. The pitcher had been less than half full and Céleste was dead on her feet and famished but that was exactly what Maxime wanted. Well, Céleste thought, she wouldn't let the old crow break her. She kept in mind the end of the day when she would finally be able to see her smuggler. She liked to talk to him. His deep English voice was soothing, his large presence beside her comforting and the fact she had missed visiting him at lunchtime only made her hate Maxime all the more. She'd stolen a large bowl of stew for him and persuaded Mimi to take it up. She knew it was a risk but a man like that couldn't regain his strength on bread and cheese. Though she knew too, once he was strong enough, he would leave, and she would be left here, alone.
The Earl's Temptation Page 3