The Dangers of Doing Good (Arrangements, Book 4)

by Rebecca Connolly

  Still, staring out into a winter evening when he was warm and comfortable was something he always appreciated. There was something so peaceful about a clear night sky above with a blanket of snow beneath and he was half tempted to go walk in it. He could let his thoughts wander freely and gaze at the stars in wonder and awe.

  He knew very well where his thoughts would go. They had remained on the same subject the night before and throughout the day.

  A pair of emerald green eyes, haunted by the cruelty of her life, filled with tears…

  Annie.

  If that was even her name.

  He sighed as he looked out of the window. He ought to have gone after her. He should have sought her out, done more to help. What exactly he could have done for her he couldn’t have said, but doing nothing made him feel lower than the dust. He was not a man accustomed to inactivity. He could not stand idly by.

  Yet he had. He’d stood there like a fool and let her run back to the man who was hurting her. He hoped she was safe. He hoped she had someone to look out for her. He hoped she was not alone or afraid. He hoped she was well.

  He should have gone after her.

  He thumped his fist against the wall in irritation.

  “Mr. Bray, are you quite all right?”

  He turned to the concerned woman standing near him. Her cap was perched on her head a bit askew, and her corkscrew silver curls stuck out at odd angles beneath it. She had a voice like a warbling bird and her clothing was just a bit too snug in places, but she had a kind smile and a good heart. She really had taken quite good care of him during his visit, and though he had not wanted to stay and had made no secret of that fact, she had remained cheerful and accommodating.

  “Yes, Mrs. Burton,” he said with a smile. “I am well. Thank you for your concern.”

  She beamed and the corners of her eyes twinkled. “Can I get you anything, sir? A bit more dinner, perhaps?”

  As if awaiting that exact suggestion, his stomach roared its approval. He smiled in embarrassment and Mrs. Burton chuckled.

  “I take that as a compliment, Mr. Bray,” she told him as she moved back towards the kitchen.

  “As you should, Mrs. Burton, as you should,” he replied. He turned away from the window and situated himself by the fire and looked around the room. There were only a few other patrons at this inn with him, though it was along a busy street. He suspected that the storm the night before had kept others from their journey, same as he.

  The village nightlife trickled in a few at a time, all bundled up against the bitter cold and snowflakes. From what he had seen the night before, these were a higher class of people than one might expect to come to an inn at night purely for the drinking. These were hard workers and good people, and they were the sort of people he would enjoy knowing.

  The sound of the room rose to a dull roar and all were pleasant and cheerful. Even the fire seemed to glow a little brighter, burn a little hotter, and his worries melted away with the cold.

  Impossibly, over the tumult, he heard a faint knocking. He glanced towards the front door, but no one moved towards it. No one else seemed to hear it. He frowned and looked towards the kitchens. Mrs. Burton bustled around, fetching drinks and handing out bowls of her cook’s excellent stew.

  Then the knock came again, and this time, Mrs. Burton heard it as well. But she didn’t look towards the front door. She glanced off to her left and a crease appeared in her high brow. She nodded towards her maid, and the young girl rushed to a side door that Duncan had not noticed before.

  He quickly glanced around the room to see if anyone else was paying attention, but everyone in the now almost full room was otherwise occupied.

  He looked back just in time to see the door open and felt the sudden blast of cold air. Mrs. Burton looked at the door, paled, and then pressed her lips together in a thin line. She nodded once, then tilted her head towards the kitchen door behind her.

  The maid reached through the door and pulled in a small woman, wrapped in a shawl that covered her head and kept her face obscured from the view of the room. The woman moved haltingly, her movements stiff, and favoring one side. Mrs. Burton continued stirring whatever she had on the counter, her motions now agitated and brisk. The woman went to her side and said something, to which Mrs. Burton only nodded again, not even looking at her.

  Then Duncan saw Mrs. Burton’s jaw tighten. And he did not imagine the glisten of a tear that appeared in one of her eyes.

  The woman tightened her hold on the shawl and turned slightly to glance around the room, her face still mostly hidden.

  But Duncan could see enough.

  Emerald eyes clashed with his and she stilled, frozen, and at the same moment all time ceased to exist.

  Annie.

  What he could see of her face bore fresh marks and bruises, and one of her eyes was beginning to swell.

  She gasped… how could he have heard her over the entire room?… and whirled for the kitchen before he could do more than drop his foot from his knee to the floor. The kitchen door swung shut behind her, with only the faintest glimpse of swirling skirts to catch his eye.

  What was she doing here? What had happened to her that rendered her so completely injured?

  Why did she seem to fear him?

  He stared at the closed door, feeling rather thunderstruck. He had thought of her all night and all day, worried for her and about her, and now she was here.

  The world could have rolled into the sun and he would not have been more shocked.

  Somehow, the rest of the room had not noticed anything out of the ordinary. Nothing to make anyone even slightly curious about the goings on in this place. All had been as it was before.

  Except for him.

  He saw Mrs. Burton hand the bowl to the maid, who continued to mix whatever had been so viciously stirred, and then she herself went back into the kitchen. Duncan craned his neck to see as far as he could into the room, but he could see nothing. He nearly growled in his frustration.

  The maid suddenly was before him, handing him a fresh bowl of stew. He looked at her in a sort of bewildered confusion, but she had already moved on to another guest. He could not remember asking for food nor was he even remotely hungry. Still, he could not very well sit here and do nothing. So he began to take absent spoonfuls, and it really was very good, as it had been before.

  He looked at his pocket watch, and watched it tick, waiting to hear something, anything.

  Only after he lost count of the ticks did he realize that no one would tell him anything. And why should they? Who was he to know anything about her?

  He would never know.

  Just then, Mrs. Burton came back into the taproom, her expression maddeningly unreadable. She smiled for all present, but it did not reach her eyes. She moved around the patrons until she reached a middle-aged local who appeared as though he had imbibed the least out of all present. She leaned down and murmured something to the man, whose smile faded into a hard line. He nodded, then rose and followed her back to the kitchen without a word.

  Duncan would go mad.

  He looked around, desperate for someone to tell him something. His eyes fell on the nearest local, a rotund man with a wide smile and who was not so far gone as to be insensible. Duncan leaned over the table and tapped the man on his arm.

  “D’you know what’s going on?” he asked, again mimicking a Scottish accent and lifting a cup of water to his mouth. “What’s that man to do with Mrs. Burton?”

  The man turned his great beefy self to look where Duncan had indicated and sighed so heavily the bench beneath him creaked audibly. “Oh… Annie Ramsey must have got beaten again.”

  He choked on the water and sputtered. “I beg your pardon?” he finally managed.

  His companion’s eyes turned surprisingly soft and sad, nodding sympathetically. “Local girl. Her brother is a mean drunk with an awful temper and he takes it out on her. She comes in every now and then to get help and Mrs. Burton does what s
he can. But if she pulled George Lyman back there, it must be a pretty good one. He’s the closest thing to a doctor we have.”

  “And he is?” Duncan all but growled.

  “Animal doctor. Horses, mostly.”

  Duncan had heard quite enough. He pushed off of his table and marched in the direction of the kitchen.

  “But he’s really very good!” the man called after him, as if that fixed everything.

  He snorted. Animal doctor. It might have been better than nothing, but it was certainly not good. And apparently everybody knew about Annie’s situation, yet nobody had done anything about it. How common was this? Weekly? Monthly? Or was it random and sporadic?

  He needed answers and he needed them now.

  He shoved the kitchen door open and entered the warm room with a bit more gusto than he had intended, but nobody paid him any attention. The cook and her two helpers were busy, but looked over at the trio by the fire frequently.

  Mrs. Burton and Mr. Lyman were crowded around Annie, whose shawl now lay draped around her tiny frame, and they actually appeared to be attempting to restrain her.

  “No, no,” Annie was saying, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t have come, I need to leave.”

  “Annie,” Mr. Lyman said, keeping a firm, but not tight, hold on her arm, “you need to let us see to your wounds. I will keep it quick, I promise you, but…”

  She shook her head frantically. “I need to go. I can’t…” She tried to rise, but Mrs. Burton would not let her.

  “Please,” Annie said, her voice turning pleading. “Please let me go.”

  Duncan had heard quite enough. He started towards them, and such was the force of his footfalls that all present turned to face him. Annie made a noise of distress and turned her entire frame towards the fire.

  Instantly, Mrs. Burton was on her feet coming towards him. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Bray? What do you need? Was dinner to your liking?” Her words came fast and with a distracted, false optimism.

  He found it irritating.

  “What is going on?” he asked, ignoring her questions.

  “Nothing, not a thing,” she replied with a fluttery laugh that did not suit.

  He gave her a pointed look and gestured with his head. “That does not look like nothing.”

  Mrs. Burton’s eyes turned a shade cooler, but still her smile was bright. “It is nothing, Mr. Bray. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

  Ah, now that was what he had expected. He forced his ire to calm and smoothed out his features. “I merely wanted to see that the girl was all right. I saw her come in, and I was concerned. Might I be of some assistance?”

  Mrs. Burton clucked with her tongue and put a hand on his arm. “Kind, my dear, but no. I am so sorry she disturbed your evening. But have no fear, she is just a poor local girl who has had an accident. She will soon be gone and then we will all return to the taproom for far more pleasant things. Forget you saw anything, Mr. Bray.”

  There was no staying calm after that.

  “An accident,” he repeated coolly.

  She nodded quickly. “Yes, she’s quite the clumsy little thing, and…”

  “Excuse me,” he interrupted firmly, pushing past her and walking towards the others. Annie had stopped trying to leave, and might as well have been frozen but for the slight tremor that ran through her. Mr. Lyman looked helpless as he crouched before her, trying to tend her wounds while she was turned away.

  Annie tensed further when Duncan approached, but he turned his attention to the man before her.

  “Mr. Lyman, is it?” he asked, his voice still rough.

  Mr. Lyman looked up at him and nodded. “Yes, sir. George Lyman, at your service, Mr. Bray.”

  He nodded. “Pleasure. Would you give us a moment, please?”

  “Certainly, sir.” He rose and moved to go past him, but paused at his shoulder. “I think she may have a broken rib or two on her left side,” he murmured very low, “but I cannot say for certain. She really must get something on those cuts and bruises. I can ride home for some salve, if you don’t mind.”

  Duncan felt the knot in his stomach loosen slightly. Here, at least, was a creature of sense. “Thank you, Mr. Lyman. That would be much appreciated, I am sure.”

  Mr. Lyman nodded, then moved out of the way and exited the kitchen. Mrs. Burton still stood where Duncan had left her, her expression hooded and wary. But when Duncan looked at her and gave her a simple nod, she sighed in resignation and she, too, left.

  Duncan moved in front of Annie, who still remained turned towards the fire and kept her eyes shut, her expression hidden.

  “Annie,” he said softly.

  A sharp tremor ran through her and he heard the faintest whimper escape.

  He released a sigh and crouched down before her. “Annie,” he said again, his voice gentle.

  She sniffled and a short sob seemed torn from her throat. He’d never heard a sadder sound in his entire life. He reached out and took one of her small, frozen hands in his.

  He swallowed an unexpected lump. “Annie, please look at me.”

  She shook her head, her free hand covering her mouth as more cries broke free.

  “Why not?” he asked. “You remember me, don’t you?”

  She nodded and hiccupped.

  He felt an unexpected burst of pleasure, but he quickly tamped that down. “Then we aren’t strangers, and you know that I want to help. Please look at me.”

  She shivered and he saw her lips move, but heard no words.

  “What was that, Annie?” he asked, leaning a touch closer. “I couldn’t hear you.”

  “I can’t,” she gasped, her words hitching.

  “Why not?”

  Sobs fairly exploded out of her, each jarring her injured ribs, and she grabbed her side instinctively. He rose slightly and moved to rub her back, trying to soothe her as best as he could.

  “It’s all right,” he murmured, feeling utterly useless. “It’s all right, you’re safe here.” He wanted to take her into his arms, as he had so many times when Marianne had cried, but that was too forward, too much, and he couldn’t.

  Slowly, Annie’s cries faded and her tears, though still flowing, were mostly silent. “I’m so ashamed,” she whispered at last.

  Duncan closed his eyes and restrained a groan of his own pain. He shook his head and moved back to crouch in front of her, still clutching her hand.

  “Annie, look at me,” he ordered, keeping his voice gentle, but firm.

  She inhaled shakily, then turned and looked at him. Her left eye was more swollen than he’d thought previously, and there were angry scratches along her cheeks and jaw. Each had been bleeding at one point, but now all seemed dried. Fresh bruises surrounded them, and her mouth bore an angry cut that puffed her lip. She looked as though she had been through hell, and as he looked at her, he saw more blood in her hair. Still, through it all, her eyes were just as vibrant as he remembered, their color just as bold.

  He smiled softly at her and squeezed her hand. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, sweetheart. Nothing. Do you understand me?”

  Her swollen lip quivered and a few stray tears fell.

  Without thinking, he reached up, holding her fast as she jerked in surprise and fear, and gently wiped the tears away. Her eyes widened as he touched her skin, and she winced, ever so slightly.

  “Does that hurt?” he asked.

  She nodded, another tear leaking free.

  He quickly swiped that away, then dropped his hand back to her lap. “Annie, did your brother do this to you?”

  She looked away, back to the fire, and she swallowed several times.

  Duncan watched her for a long moment. So she wouldn’t tell him either. It didn’t matter, not really. He knew the answer. Or at the very least, he knew enough.

  He released a slow breath, then squeezed her hand once more. “Annie, look at me. Please.”

  Almost hesitantly, she looked back at him.

 
He smiled and rubbed her hand between his. “You do not have to tell me what is going on in your life. You do not have to tell me what he does to you. But I have eyes, Annie. I can see what you are going through, or its effects, at any rate. And it makes me sick.”

  She closed her eyes and looked away.

  He swallowed and shook his head. “No, look back at me. Come on, stay on me.”

  Those emerald eyes, filled with tears, met his once more.

  “I have a sister,” he began, “who is probably fairly close to your age. And she means everything to me. I practically raised her, poor thing, and I am far too overprotective for my own good or for her taste. The thought of ever raising my hand to her turns my blood to ice, and the idea that any brother would feel differently…” He shook his head again, then squeezed her hand tightly. “No one deserves this, Annie. You should not have to live like this.”

  In a small, very shaky voice, Annie replied, “It’s all I know.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” he said with a renewed energy. An idea struck him with such force he felt dazed, but his mouth apparently didn’t notice, for it continued on. “I also have an aunt who lives near me in London, and she has no one but my sister and I. She does not say it very much, but she gets lonely. She needs a companion.”

  What was he doing? Was he insane?

  Annie apparently thought so, for her expression turned bewildered.

  “Annie, you could come back with me.”

  Saints above, he was mad.

  “What?” she gasped, her eyes searching his frantically.

  He was nodding before he knew what he was doing. “Come to London with me. You can stay with Tibby. That’s my aunt, Lady Raeburn. She would take excellent care of you, and you would be safe and warm and comfortable, but also providing her with the company she craves.”

  “You’re mad,” she whispered sadly.

  It was true, he was. And yet…

  He shrugged. “Probably. But you deserve better than this, Annie. I want to help you. I need to help you. And I can, if you let me. Come with me to London. You will be safe. You will be protected. You will never have to be afraid. Leave all of this and come with me.”