The Gallows Bride

by Rebecca King

  In the quiet of the early morning, she slowly became aware of the soft rumble of a snore not far away. A frown crossed her brow as she lay perfectly still and listened. She was alone in the bed, of that she was fairly certain, so where was he?

  A cursory glance of one side of the room revealed it to be completely empty. Carefully she rolled over until she was facing the fireplace.

  There, lying on the floor, fast asleep, was Peter. His hair was tousled and his chest bare to the waist as he lay on his back before the hearth, covered in nothing but a single sheet that did little to preserve his modesty.

  She knew she should wake him up and usher him to his own room, but couldn’t find the heart to wake him.

  Once again the memory of their last moments in Mr Simpson’s office returned with startling brutality. The raw emotion, the pain, the heartbreak, the helplessness all came flooding back. He had been absolutely devastated by what he had considered his failure to help her. She was surprised he had found her at all, much less put everything that was his at risk of social censure in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to keep her alive.

  Although she hadn’t been raised in the higher echelons of society, she was fully aware that, for someone of Peter’s breeding, being connected to any condemned person, especially a woman, would bring about immediate social disgrace. Despite the risk to his title, estates and family name, he had tried to claim her as his bride anyway.

  But where did that leave them?

  Her thoughts turned to the first time she had seen him.

  She had loved him from the first time she had seen him sitting around the dining table in Devon. She had been working as a servant and had stood at the side of the room beside the footmen, helping serve a meal. The deep rumble of his cultured voice had held her captive. She had served him soup and had been startled as his gorgeous eyes had met and held hers briefly as he murmured his thanks. A thrill of anticipation had settled low in her belly, and she had been aware of him watching her as she resumed her position beside the serving table. As a servant she was supposed to be invisible and forbidden from conversing with the guests unless they approached her. But that was fine with Jemima, as long as she could stand in the dining room and listen to him talk. The silken warmth of his voice shivered over her, holding her captive to his every word.

  She knew he was simply staring because of her outlandish behaviour at the table. She shouldn’t have looked at him so directly, but didn’t regret any anger he may have felt toward her. The moment was hers, and nobody could take it away from her.

  The following morning she had been sent to light the fires in the bedrooms before people started to rise. She had entered the room without realising it was his. Most of the guests slept with their bed curtains closed, and didn’t know she had even been in the room. Except Peter, who had left the bed curtains open and himself in plain view. She had stared openly at the broad expanse of chest clearly outlined against the stark white sheets. A tiny thrill of feminine attraction unfurled in her belly until she began to grow uncomfortable with the warmth stealing through her.

  “Thank you, Jemima,” his soft rumble had made her freeze with her hand on the doorknob and she had reluctantly turned back to him, her heart hammering furiously beneath her breast.

  “Y-you’re welcome,” she had replied, rushing out of the room. She had been halfway down the corridor before she realised he had used her name.

  Over the following days their paths had crossed on more than one occasion. She had tried to be like every other servant and had stood to one side, her eyes lowered respectfully while he passed, only for him to actively seek to converse with her.

  He had been kindness itself, generously overlooking her lowly status as he had questioned her age, background and shared funny titbits about his day. He had such an air of calm reassurance about him that was so intrinsically reassuring that Jemima quickly grew to love the few brief snatches of time she had with him and looked forward to the next time he spoke to her with girlish joy she held secretively to her heart.

  It all went horribly wrong the day she saw Scraggan’s son Rogan in the village. She had been sent to collect some items for Cook, when she had caught sight of him walking toward her. Instinctively she had ducked into a shop to wait for him to pass, and had still been there when Peter had trotted past with his friends. He looked so arrogantly debonair, and at ease with his place in life, in such stark contrast to the grubby unkempt Scraggan who visited her own world, that she realised just how unfair she was being even talking to the man.

  Rogan Scraggan Senior, was a loathsome creature, with a son who was just as mean. Together they ran several ruthless smuggling gangs along the Cornish coastline. As Magistrate for Padstow, Jemima and Eliza’s father had taken papers detailing Scraggan’s illegal activities to the War Office, only to be brutally murdered on his way home. Suddenly finding themselves alone, and without a guardian or protector, had forced Jemima and Eliza to run for their lives. To see Scraggan so close to someone as handsome, and – well, civil – as Peter Davenport, was enough of a warning to Jemima not to involve anyone him.

  Peter Davenport was just being nice, that was all, whereas she was halfway in love with him. Although she had decided to keep her distance from him, fate had other ideas and the following morning she was once again sent to light the bedroom fires.

  Images of Rogan and Scraggan had haunted her dreams, and she was tired and frightened when she entered his room. She was just about to leave when she heard his voice. She couldn’t be rude and ignore him, but it hurt to remain. He had immediately picked up on her distress and left the bed, pressuring her into telling him everything. Like a fool Jemima had poured her heart out to him, burying her head in his solid shoulder and sobbing as though her heart had broken. In reality, it had. She knew there and then that she loved him. He was everything she ever wanted for a husband, and it hurt to know he could never be hers.

  He had offered to help her, pressing her for more and more information until she had told him everything. She hadn’t thought to question his request for time to digest the facts, but had agreed to meet him somewhere where they wouldn’t be disturbed.

  Their meeting later that night was the first of many over the following few weeks, as Peter teased as much information from her as he could. Jemima was not only glad to have someone to turn to, to confide in, but she was also grateful for the precious moments alone with him. He seemed confident that he could help her, assuring her that he had contacts who would help. His calm reassurances went a long way to soothing her fears. Each time they met, she fell in love with him just a little bit more until he became as essential to her as the very air she breathed.

  She hadn’t protested when he had first kissed her, simply revelling in his tender warmth. It had been inevitable that their attraction would grow until neither was able to deny the passion that burned. Their lovemaking was tender, generous and oh so very sweet in a world of turmoil and confusion. It was the oasis in a desert of desperation and fear. She hadn’t the strength, or heart, to deny him anything. He had seemed just content to spend time with her.

  Until the day when her rose-tinted glasses had been so cruelly ripped away, leaving her to stare at the horrifying reality of the danger she had put him in. At first she hadn’t believed the servants discussing the strange accident that had befallen one of the guests. It appeared the saddle girth worn by one of the guests’ horses had been severed, although the stable hand had insisted he had checked it when he had saddled the horse. The guest had almost been killed, having been trodden on by his friend’s horse moments after hitting the ground.

  Knowing she risked losing her job, Jemima had quickly crept upstairs to see for herself. Her heart had broken at the sight of him lying, battered and bruised, on the bed. She had cried as she stood beside him, despite his reassurances that he was all right. She hadn’t linked his accident to Scraggan at first, until she returned home later that night to find a knife and a piece of saddle girth on the
footstep of her aunt’s house.

  She had known there and then that in order to keep Peter alive, she had to leave and sever all contact with him.

  Knowing Scraggan was in the area, she had taken a great risk to pay Peter one last visit. At first she had simply wanted to comfort him, and spend a few final moments savouring simply being with him, but he had sensed her disquiet and demanded to know its cause. She hadn’t told him, because she had been determined that he should learn nothing else that would put him at risk. Instead, she spent their final hours together saying her own private goodbye.

  Their loving was turbulent that last night, the passion flaring brighter than ever before. Bathed in the warm glow of carnal sensation, she had tearfully declared her love for him, aware of his searching gaze. He seemed to sense that something had changed and had repeatedly demanded to know what and why. It had taken every ounce of self-control she possessed to deny everything but concern for him after his accident.

  Leaving him before dawn the next morning had been the hardest thing she had ever done. The tears she had shed as they had quickly left town under the cover of darkness had continued ever since.

  Jemima sighed deeply and carefully closed the door on the past. The young women who had left Devon that night had long gone. Her flight across the country with Eliza had taken her further and further away from Peter, breaking her heart just a little bit more with each passing mile.

  At the time she had thought she was leaving him behind. She hadn’t stopped to consider that he would follow her with the same dogged determination as Scraggan.

  The first time she had seen him, she had merely put it down to them both travelling in the same direction. From her position among the crowds of the busy market town, she had watched him trot past, his face stern and forbidding. She had given him enough time to leave before heading in the opposite direction. She had thought that had been the last of it, until she had seen Scraggan’s right-hand man in the same village they passed through. Again they had moved on, desperate to escape the threat that they didn’t seem to be able to leave behind.

  Then, a couple of months later, she had seen him again. She had been working in a coaching inn, collecting pots and washing dishes, when he had sauntered in, looking as debonair and handsome as he had the first time she had seen him. The job had been a wrench to leave, but she had been given little choice. Their exit had been swift, the post chaise they used to get out of town speedy but uncomfortable.

  The months that followed had been a confusing time of new jobs, Scraggan, Peter, moving on at speed until neither she nor Eliza knew where they would be sleeping from one day to the next.

  Until the day they had found themselves in Derby. The bustling market town had been just what they needed. People coming and going, a vast array of shops, taverns and coaching inns provided ample opportunity for both Eliza and Jemima to find work. They had quickly settled, but had stayed too long.

  Scraggan and Peter had both caught up with them with far too much ease.

  The thought made her pause, and she frowned deeply, carefully considering their way of life in Devon. If Scraggan had wanted to kill her and Eliza, why had he not taken one of the many opportunities they had given him? After all, Eliza spent most of her days, and evenings sitting by herself in their aunt’s house. With no protection, and no neighbours to hear her scream, why hadn’t Scraggan or his men taken the opportunity to break in and kill her? More importantly, although she had been carrying a very sharp knife, Jemima herself had walked at night, alone, in the dark through the gardens of the huge estate to the rear of her aunt’s house. She had been alone, in the middle of nowhere. A prime target to have her throat cut.

  So why hadn’t Scraggan taken the opportunity to get rid of both of them when he had a chance? Why chase her halfway across the country, and go to the time and trouble of setting her up?

  She went cold inside, and recalled their journey to Derby, fraught with tension and worry. They had no sooner settled, found jobs and somewhere to live when Scraggan or his men would appear, forcing them to move on. It was almost as if they were being shepherded toward Derby.

  Jemima frowned and shook her head. She was being ridiculous – wasn’t she?

  The more she considered the events of the past several months, the more she felt that something about the entire situation wasn’t right.

  Her stomach rumbled loudly in protest at being deprived, prompting her to see to her more pressing needs. At the moment, they were questions that had to remain unanswered, but she made a mental note to discuss them with Peter later.

  One thing was for certain: the threat of Scraggan was still very real. While he roamed free and was able to run his smuggling gangs, and go where he chose, she was just as much at risk from him as she had been back in Devon, and she couldn’t afford to allow Peter’s presence to lull her into a false sense of security.

  Her own brush with death had been far too close. She still didn’t understand what it had all been about, but knew that if she achieved one thing today, it had to be to find some answers.

  When her stomach grumbled loudly in protest again, Jemima eased out of bed.

  Whatever the reason behind Peter’s stubborn determination to pursue her, Jemima had seen the raw emotion on his face in Mr Simpson’s office. It had been a clear and honest reflection of the depth of his anxiety.

  So where did that leave them now?

  She wasn’t sure, but the insistent rumbling of her stomach would surely wake him if she lay in bed any longer. She quietly eased the covers back and swung her legs over the side of the bed, relieved that she wasn’t assaulted by the dizziness that had plagued her the day before.

  Thankfully, Eliza had left a dress over the back of one of the chairs, along with the necessary accessories. Within moments Jemima, feeling significantly stronger, dressed and tugged her hair up into an untidy knot before donning some exquisite satin slippers.

  She moved to the door and stood with one hand on the latch for a moment. Her gaze turned to Peter still fast asleep on the floor. He looked so relaxed, so at ease with his world. If it weren’t for the dark shadows beneath his eyes and the deep grooves bracketing his mouth, she would have thought he hadn’t a care in the world. Despite his stubbled jaw, there was a vulnerability about him while he slept that reminded her of a little boy.

  She had missed him so much while they had been apart, and had considered him a part of her past she could never recapture. To see him again now, so close, was like manna from heaven. Unable to resist, she slowly tiptoed across the room and carefully knelt on the floor beside him. She winced as her stomach rumbled loudly in the silence of the room and paused, waiting to see if he had heard it too. Relieved when he continued to sleep, Jemima leaned over him and brushed her lips carefully over his in a feather-light kiss. She had no idea if this moment was going to be the last she had with him, and couldn’t resist feeling his lips against hers once more, even if he didn’t know about it.

  When he mumbled under his breath and turned over, she eased back and moved quietly to the door. Taking one last lingering look at Peter, she left the room.

  She had no idea where she was going, but the delicious aroma of food wafting up from somewhere was enough to spur her on. One end of the corridor was brighter than the other, so she followed the sunshine, eventually finding herself on a large landing at the top of a flight of long, sweeping stairs leading down to a cavernous entrance hall.

  “Good morning,” Sebastian chirruped from behind her, still struggling with the shock of seeing her alive, and looking equally as beautiful as her sister. She looked so unlike the unkempt ghost-like creature that had glided out of the storage room that he struggled to believe it was actually the same person. Despite his love for his wife, he could fully understand why Peter was so smitten with her.

  She was gorgeous.

  Jemima jumped, emitting a low squeak as she turned and found herself face to face with a tall, black-haired man who had a calm air of
authority about him.

  “I’m Sebastian, by the way.” He smiled gently, sensing her disquiet and doing his best to put her at ease.

  “I’m sorry,” Jemima replied after several awkward moments of silence.

  “Hello ‘Sorry’,” Sebastian smiled, flashing an even row of white teeth at her. “Well, ‘Sorry’, I am not sure about you, but I am starving and if the smells coming from the breakfast room are any indication, I do believe Cook has excelled herself this morning. Shall we?” With that, he held his elbow out for her in a gentlemanly fashion, clearly waiting to escort her down to eat.

  With a soft smile of thanks, Jemima took his arm and allowed him to gently guide her down the stairs toward the lavishly furnished room that appeared to be the breakfast room.

  As she entered, Edward, Dominic and Sir Dunnicliffe, who were already seated around the table, got to their feet, murmuring greetings as they waited for her to sit.

  Dominic took the opportunity to quickly introduce her to Sir Dunnicliffe, once Sebastian had eased her into a chair.

  Jemima jumped as a slightly dishevelled Peter appeared at her elbow, clearly newly awoken, but apparently determined not to allow her to stray too far from him. Taking a seat beside her, he winked at her and murmured a gentle ‘good morning’, sitting back to watch as the footman swung into action.

  Within moments, Jemima was staring down at a huge, heavily laden plate of the most sumptuous food she had ever seen in her life, with a cup of tea at her elbow, and a rack of toast and pot of strawberry jam before her.

  She looked askance at Dominic, only for him to smile secretively back at her, before returning to his own meal.

  Shaking her head ruefully at the vast array of pie, bacon, eggs, meets and bread before her, Jemima began to eat, well aware that Sir Dunnicliffe was also watching her. Assured that she was at last eating, Peter accepted his own meal and hungrily tucked in, trying not to openly stare at the stunning vision beside him.