Behind the Courtesan

by Bronwyn Stuart

  “You ride with me,” Matthew called.

  “I’ll ride with the boy,” Blake called in return as he gritted his teeth against the pain that would come once he grabbed a hold of the cart.

  A warm, firm hand came down on his shoulder, stopped him from jumping up.

  “You can’t seriously mean to be jostled around on that seat all the way back?”

  Blake turned to Matthew and knew by the look in the other man’s eyes that this was a battle he’d already lost. He didn’t have the energy to protest. All he really wanted to do was lie back down on the ground and sleep for a day or more.

  “I suppose not.” He let Matthew help him into the back of the wagon, where a makeshift bed had been thrown down on the timber boards. He would have put up a fight at being treated like an invalid, but it felt so good to finally relax. How had he thought sitting on a driver’s seat a good idea?

  Matthew chuckled again and climbed up. He took the reins and rolled on slowly as the pair set their own speed.

  “You never answered my question,” Blake reminded him after a few minutes.

  “She’s fine. Blakiston made quite a show of carrying her into the inn, which should set tongues wagging for a while to come. Apart from the dirt and that scrape on her head, she says she’s fine.”

  Blake tensed. He wanted to meet Matthew’s eyes, but couldn’t quite raise himself to his elbow. “Blakiston’s not there with her now, is he?”

  “So what if he is? The two of them obviously know one another.”

  “They do not.”

  “He called her Sophia and she called him Blakiston.”

  “I knew I should have stopped her.”

  “Yes, you should have,” Matthew said as the first hints of anger crept into his voice.

  “And how would you have stopped her?”

  “Any way I could have. Blakiston is a toad—”

  “Worse than a toad,” Blake interrupted.

  “Worse than a toad. He is going to come back to see her.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “He didn’t have to. The look in his eyes as he stared at her, he’ll be back. I’d bet my baby on it.”

  “You don’t have to go that far.” Blake laughed in spite of his anger. Some of the finely wrought tension left his body but the motion stung his side so he had to pause before drawing his next breath to continue. “Sophie can look after herself.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Matthew said, the line of his back sitting up straighter.

  Blake remembered the way her palm had cracked his cheek, the shock wave it had sent through his body. The little minx would be fine even in a fight to the death. “She has slapped me a few times since her arrival.” If she kept it up, he’d have a permanent imprint.

  Matthew laughed loud and long, slapping a hand to his thigh. “Did you deserve it?”

  Blake smiled and closed his eyes, remembering the fury that fired those slaps. “Of course I did.”

  “Sophia isn’t as tough or as strong as she makes out,” Matthew said, sobering in an instant.

  Blake knew that too.

  He just wished she did.

  Chapter Ten

  “I’m coming!” Matthew’s voice yelled from beyond the kitchen.

  The sudden sound made Sophia jump and she only just managed to suppress a shriek as she stood at the bottom of the stairs leading to the tap. When he came into view, Sophia cleared her throat to let him know she was there since he walked with his head down, eyes on the floor.

  “Ah, there you are.”

  “Here I am.” She didn’t know what else to say. Had Blake told his side of the story yet? She knew the longer she hid, the worse the situation would become, but she was a coward and it had taken a nap and a bath before she had the courage to show her face. Seems she needn’t have bothered. There wasn’t a soul around. Where were the patrons? Where was Blake?

  Bang, bang, bang, bang came from the closed door leading into the tavern. She hadn’t heard the thumps when coming down the stairs, but Matthew must have.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Blake is in his office with the doctor. Could you please go and try to talk some sense into him while I tell the village dinner will not be served.”

  “Why?”

  “Blake refuses to see just how injured he is and wants to go about business.”

  Sophia stepped forward. “No, I meant why will dinner not be served?”

  “Sophia, he may have broken ribs and he certainly has a head injury that affects his balance. Blake couldn’t walk a straight line, let alone prepare a meal.”

  “I’ll do it,” she said.

  “What?”

  Bang, bang, followed by, “Open the door!”

  “I will cook the meal.”

  “Don’t be silly, Sophia. You can’t do it.”

  “And why not?” She tried to hold her foot still but her traitorous toes tapped and gave away her frustration.

  “Don’t give me that look. I know what you think you can do, but it was a long night for you too. You need to rest and so does Blake.”

  She touched her fingertips gingerly to her hairline. “You have no idea what happened out there.” If he did, he wouldn’t stand and argue.

  “We can talk about this later. Wait there and I’ll tell these men to go home and eat their wives’ cooking for a change.”

  She didn’t wait to hear what Matthew said next, didn’t wait to hear the villager’s responses, angry or sympathetic, over Blake’s convalescence. This perception they all clutched to so tightly that she was useless grated on her nerves and made her furious in more ways than Blake’s insults alone.

  Bursting into his office, she was about to tell him exactly that but then she stopped dead, the breath stalled in her lungs.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” the doctor assured her in a rough Scottish accent.

  “Don’t tell her that,” Blake said with a frown.

  A multitude of black, blue and purple bruises covered his side, back and shoulders and what Sophia had at first assumed a graze must have been deep enough to be stitched, the thread almost camouflaged by discolored skin on all sides. The fact he sat with only a blanket over his lap, hairy legs swinging from the edge of the desk, barely registered as she took another step into the room. She couldn’t take her eyes off his torso, not because of the injury or his nakedness but because she didn’t want to meet his eyes.

  “See, you’ve scared her.” Blake’s tone teased, but his usual mischief was strangely absent. No. His voice held something like worry. She still couldn’t lift her gaze.

  “I’m so sorry,” Sophia whispered, the hot prick of tears back and threatening.

  “This isn’t your fault,” Blake reminded her.

  The doctor slipped from the room, but still she stared at his chest, at the mess and ruin.

  “Sophie?”

  In that moment she felt more like the frightened and helpless Sophie than she had in all the years she’d spent away as Sophia.

  “Look at me.”

  She shook her head, squeezed her eyes shut.

  “You didn’t do this.”

  “I could have... We should have... Oh God.”

  “We did everything right,” he said with that uncanny ability to guess her thoughts. “You did everything right.”

  A warm hand closed around her elbow and with only the slightest of pressure, Sophia was hugged for the second time that day. Despite how much pain he must have felt, his arms wrapped around her strong and tight, pulled her close until she had no choice but to rest her head against his shoulder. She didn’t dare return the embrace for fear she would hurt him.

  She didn’t want to think about any of it anymore, what she could have done versus what she did. She had to hold those thoughts at bay until she was alone. Sophia concentrated instead on the words as he spoke them.

  “So, the pie is already made, all I have to do is bake the biscuits and something sweet to top it off.” />
  “No,” Sophia said.

  “All right, they don’t need sweets anyway. Pie and biscuits it is.”

  He tried to lighten the mood and distract her but she wouldn’t let him. “No. You will not bake anything.” She stepped out of his embrace and toward the door of the office. “You will not step one foot into that kitchen.”

  “You sound like Matthew,” he huffed. His genial mood disappeared with a whoosh of breath. “The inn has to open. I cannot afford to miss even one meal.”

  “And you won’t. But you can’t make it.”

  Understanding dawned but was quickly followed by a familiar glower. “Whatever idea you have in that head of yours, you can think again. This is my inn and I make the decisions.”

  “It is your inn, but unless the doctor says you can turn cartwheels in the yard outside, you are going to bed to rest.”

  He spluttered. He choked. Then he coughed.

  “No cartwheels then?” Sophia glowered back even though Blake’s eyes were now filled with more pain than anger. “I didn’t think so.”

  The door opened and Matthew entered, followed closely by the doctor. She ignored her brother for the moment and narrowed her eyes at the other man. “How long must Blake stay in bed?”

  The red-headed physician looked from her to Blake and then back to her. “One week.”

  “Be damned!” Blake surged to his feet.

  Sophia stepped back as the blanket fell from his lap and averted her eyes even though he wore smalls. “I’ll get started in the kitchen,” she said and slipped from the room. As hard as she tried, she could not completely ignore the pained cry from Blake, the curses from Matthew or the laughter from the good doctor.

  Her own brief smile fading, Sophia entered the kitchen. Could she really do this? Sure she’d helped a little, so she knew the layout of the kitchen and where everything was, but could she really serve a dinner at an inn? And should she? If word were to get out, her reputation would be... What? It certainly couldn’t hurt her as a courtesan.

  So why didn’t she move? Her legs were heavy as though weighted down by rocks and her fingertips tingled as her breaths became shorter, faster.

  One, two, three.

  Would the townsfolk eat a meal prepared entirely by her own hands?

  She nodded her head, rolled her sleeves to her elbows and stepped toward the stove where the fire had gone cold. She would do it because Blake would become her friend again. She would do it because she was a resourceful, independent woman who needed acceptance from no one. And she would do it to prove to herself that she could. That she had come far from the frightened, battered and scarred fourteen-year-old who’d left this place and not glanced back. If the villagers didn’t like it, they would go hungry or go home.

  Chapter Eleven

  For the moment the rain had stopped and birds sang happily from the bare branches of the trees at the back of the tavern, but Sophia didn’t take any of it in. She stood staring at her hands, her dirty nails and cracked skin, a splinter in the third finger on her left hand. She may have come far from the terrified fourteen-year-old, but in that minute, after putting bread in the oven and before collecting more firewood, she felt much, much further from a courtesan.

  Is this what she missed out on by running? Is this what Blake meant when he’d said she could have had it all? She didn’t have time for deep contemplation but Sophie couldn’t seem to shake her melancholy thoughts. She had a meal to prepare and then she had to get back to the tap to help Matthew and Dominic with serving. She wanted to curl into a little ball and cry, not run a tavern. Emotion overwhelmed her and her fists clenched.

  “’ere now, it can’t all be that bad.” The voice shook her from her daydream and she whirled to find a man watching her. He wasn’t very close, but he wasn’t as far away as she would have liked either.

  “I...I got a splinter. It hurt a little is all.” She longed to curse for good measure.

  “Did you want me to take a look at it fer ya?” He stepped forward, his hand out toward her.

  Sophia shook her head a little harder than she probably needed to and her heart thumped loudly against her ribs. He didn’t look terribly frightening, but it was the quiet ones she had to watch out for. “I will be fine, thank you. It isn’t the first and it won’t be the last.”

  “Yer that Martin girl, aren’t ya?”

  She nodded, her eyes narrowed as she tried to figure out if she had once known this man. He looked vaguely familiar, but then so did most of the men thereabouts who wore farmer’s clothing. “Do I know you?”

  This time it was the stranger who shook his head. “Not yet, lass.”

  When he smiled, Sophia cringed. What was left of the man’s teeth were blackened and his lips were stained yellow.

  “Well, I really must be getting back to the kitchen. If the bread burns, I will be in mighty trouble with Blake.”

  The stranger made a sound of dismissal and shook his head again. He also took another step toward her.

  “Good day, sir.” She couldn’t turn her back and flee, but neither could she return to the kitchen without the timber. Before she had a chance to make a decision, another man rounded the corner of the inn. Her stomach flip flopped. Now she was outnumbered and the new man stood between her and the kitchen door. Between her and safety.

  “Roger,” the new stranger inclined his head slowly, taking stock of the scene they must make.

  Sophia’s clammy hands clenched in her skirts now. If she had to flee, she would lift them high and run as if the devil were after her.

  “McFarlane,” Roger replied but said nothing more.

  McFarlane. She remembered that name. He was holding the dance on Friday night at his home. She wouldn’t go so far as to say she was relieved, but the fact that Blake had mentioned his name more than once told her he was the lesser of the evils before her.

  “Miss Martin, I wonder if you could use some help with that firewood?” Mr. McFarlane asked with an easy smile in her direction.

  She nodded and stepped away from both men. She was moving farther away from the kitchen, but she had to do something. In London, she was virtually untouchable since Daemon was her protector, or had been, but here, here everything was different and she would be foolish indeed to forget that.

  “I was about to offer the lass assistance,” Roger told him defensively.

  “Is that what you were doing?” Mr. McFarlane replied, putting himself between Sophia and Roger. “What about your back?”

  Roger scowled. “That’s none of your damned business.”

  “It is now. I don’t think Blake would take kindly to you being out here with the one woman who has come forward to help him.”

  “I was only going to talk to her.”

  Relief made it hard for Sophie to know what to do. Did she stay and argue? Did she leave and let Mr. McFarlane have it out with Roger?

  “Sophia?” Dominic crashed through the kitchen door but then stopped short.

  Thank God. She didn’t bid the gentlemen a good day. She didn’t thank Mr. McFarlane for coming to her aid or rebuke Roger for his being there to frighten her. She just picked up her skirts and walked as fast as she could without it looking as though she was terrified and running away. Why was it that the story of her life could almost be summed up with those few words? She was terrified, so she ran.

  When she finally made it into the warm, safe confines of the kitchen, she leaned against the bench and took several deep breaths.

  Dominic entered the kitchen with Mr. McFarlane not far behind him. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I am. Thank you.”

  Mr. McFarlane sighed and dropped the load of wood he held. “He didn’t... Well, he didn’t do anything did he?”

  “Roger? No. I really am grateful that you came along. Thank you.”

  “You should not be outside on your own.”

  She smiled at the kind man. “I will remember that.”

  “Sophia?” Dominic wa
s tense as he also dropped firewood into the box by the hearth. “His Grace just arrived. He says he won’t leave until he sees for himself that you are ‘unharmed from your nightmarish ordeal.’ But if you aren’t up to it, I’ll tell him to leave off.”

  Sophia groaned. Dominic laughed.

  Only five hours had passed since she had rolled her sleeves up and dived into flour and herbs, but it felt like ten or even twenty. The hair on the back of her neck was plastered to the skin there and itched abominably. She longed to lay her aching head down on a pillow and sleep.

  What was the Duke of Blakiston doing back again anyway? She needed to rest. At least that’s what she’d told Dominic to tell His Grace if he asked after her, because they both knew he wasn’t there to quench his thirst with bitter ale.

  “I can’t let him see me like this.”

  “Why not,” Dominic asked with a shrug. “Perhaps if he sees you with flour on your face and suds on your dress, he’ll be disgusted and leave you alone.”

  If only it were that easy.

  “He’s in the dining room and has ordered supper and a glass of brandy.” The way he turned his nose up as he said brandy made Sophia chuckle.

  They had reached an easy camaraderie, she and Dominic. He’d warned her when the men heard she was in charge for the night, none had left. In fact more had arrived and she doubted it was her skill with bread that kept them so late. Her first meeting with the men the day of her arrival had gone badly enough for her to not wish to repeat it and the incident just now told her she should probably stay in the tap.

  She almost wished Blake was there now to send the duke away. But then she was being silly. She didn’t want his kind of protection. The kind that would see her stay in her room and never venture out.

  Blakiston was still under the assumption that St. Ives was the one doing the protecting and while he was, she would be relatively safe. Only she had a feeling he was going to ruin her night completely. If she didn’t talk to him, he might deign to come looking for her and if one man did, what would stop any other from the notion? Roger had obviously thought it all right to seek her out.

  Her stomach chose that moment to growl. She did have to eat and she owed the duke her thanks for bringing her home that morning. She went to the bench where her flat bread lay and cut two thick slices from it, making far more mess with the flour than was necessary until the front of her once burgundy gown was almost white.