Emily's Vow

by Betty Bolte

  "Go home, Frank," David said kindly, though keeping the gun steady. "You can find out more tomorrow."

  "You don't understand. Her father's going to kill me." Frank ran a hand through his hair and grimaced at the two guards.

  If only he'd been faster, but he'd been so shocked to see his love dragged down the street by two ogres that his brain refused to function. The shock coupled with the damning letters in his pocket, ones he dared not be caught holding, prevented him from reacting swiftly. His loyalist farce teetered on his next actions. He needed a reason before he entered the devil's lair. Now Emily faced the unspeakable terror a woman would experience in such a dreadful place with the man who would harm her if given the chance. The man who abused Frank's home, his son, and his woman.

  "If you go in there, someone will do worse than that to me," David said.

  "Please, why did they arrest her?" He couldn't fathom what she could be accused of while sitting in her father's store. He'd vowed to keep her safe and failed. His failure fit as comfortably as a horsehair suit.

  "The major did not say, sir," the man said. "I have to ask you to leave now or face the same consequences as your lady."

  Recognizing arguing with the guard or being arrested did not further his cause, Frank reluctantly turned away. He started walking up the street, heading slowly back to the Sullivan house in defeat.

  What in the store had triggered this assault? Had she perchance antagonized Bradley again? Maybe he thought she had something to do with her father's clandestine activities. Apprehension raced down his back at the image of witnessing her hanging for treason.

  Pausing, he scanned the outside of the Old Exchange, an excellent example of harmony and balance typified by the Palladian style of architecture. He'd always been impressed by the arches on the main floor for the open air marketing exchange and soaring windows of the upper floor. Several small windows were spaced around the bottom of the brick structure, allowing in some light, but Emily would hate being trapped inside. His love needed sunshine, birds singing, and flowers to keep her spirit alive and flourishing.

  He needed help, and he knew where to find it. Amy would know who to ask and how to break her out of there without raising suspicion about Frank's involvement. He'd never heard of a woman being held in the Provost as the prisoners tended to be political criminals. Women held no political opinion, so what was Bradley about? He'd lay ten to one odds that the bastard's commanding officer knew naught of what the major had done. Colonel Balfour would release her post-haste but only if made aware of the situation in a way not involving Frank in the process. He needed Amy's story weaving skills to effect his love's escape from that dark place.

  He struck out for the Abernathy home at a run.

  * * *

  Biting her tongue to refrain from speaking her mind, Emily had endured the pushing and pulling down the steps into the Old Exchange. Once used as the Harbor Master's office and for storing the goods being shipped in and out of town, now only pirates and those who defied the king resided within the odoriferous walls. At one time the building had enjoyed the respect of the town. Now it reeked of the pungent odors of urine, spoilage and decay. She gagged at the overpowering smells assailing her senses.

  "Welcome to your home away from home." John paused in the large communal prison.

  Dim light leaked through the small windows situated near the ceiling. Several other prisoners stared at them from where they sat on the cold red brick floor or lay on beds made from piles of straw, but kept their distance. The scrabble of claws in the deeper regions of the space skittered chills down her back. John peered at her for a moment, a slow smile creasing his face. His leer frightened her and she shivered.

  She stumbled when the soldier pushed her forward, the ropes biting deeper. He tugged at the knot and the rope slipped off her wrists. She rubbed the red skin on each wrist to ease the pain.

  "You are dismissed," John said to the soldier, keeping his eyes on Emily. Green eyes cold as a dead fish appraised her while he waited for the other man to heed his order.

  Silently the man left, glancing over his shoulder before walking away.

  Emily swallowed but maintained eye contact with John. He had a heart once, a deep compassion for animals and people. Raised as a gentleman, surely he would not harm a lady. Yes, he had hurt her in the market, but likely that was a lapse caused by the sudden embarrassment when Tommy pulled his wig askew. She hoped. She raised her chin, portraying a confidence she barely felt.

  "First, I must search you for any contraband you might be hiding." His eyes glittered in the dim light. He pushed his sleeves up as he walked toward her. "This won't hurt. You may even enjoy it. Like old times."

  "Contraband?" His hands roaming over her? Searching her. No. She shuddered as loathing wriggled through her veins. This couldn't be happening. He must not touch her. She must stall him, think of a way to escape.

  "Weapons." He took a step toward her, smirking, and she retreated two steps without consciously commanding her body to move.

  "I'm unarmed." Oh God, help me. Her voice shook, and she swallowed. Squelching panic, she met his ogling expression.

  "It's required of all new prisoners." His gaze roamed her body, his measured steps closing the distance between them as inevitably as a rising tide. "Especially the women, with those skirts designed for hiding... secrets. My regrets for inconveniencing you, my sweet, but that is why I sent the other soldier out. Given our intimate past, I thought you'd be more comfortable if I performed the task."

  A shudder chilled her spine. Years ago, yes, she had longed for his kiss. A long time ago. She'd grown older and oh so much wiser. She no longer found him fascinating or mysterious. Instead he'd become mean-spirited and violent. And Frank had entered the picture. This man before her, this loyalist turncoat, was completely changed from the kindhearted boy she once knew. He'd matured into a dangerously devious man. No feeling or compassion dared linger within him.

  "Shall we begin?" He took another step, then another.

  "It's—it's really not necessary, John." She forced herself to use his common name and to remain still though her instincts screamed at her to flee. To where, she did not know. The steps were outside and she'd have to somehow find a way past the guards. She'd never manage to run by them. Right now she needed his trust. Steeling her determination, she swallowed and nodded. "I promise."

  "Is that so?" One hand snared a wrist and tugged her closer. The other hand slid down her arm from shoulder to wrist, patting her sleeve. Her stomach recoiled. He switched hands and repeated the process on the other arm. Bile rose to burn her throat, making it painful to swallow her fear. Turning her around so she faced the wall, he ran both hands down her back. Ten pair of eyes trained on her mortification but nobody made a move to intervene. She tried to remain immobile but couldn't and stepped away. She may actually vomit.

  He grabbed her by the waist with both hands and squashed her against him, knocking her breath from her chest in a rush. Stunned, she gasped for air, aware of the steely grip digging painfully into her sides. Slowly he turned her back around to face his seething anger.

  Gripping her chin painfully, he glared at her. "Do not move away from me again, or you will regret the consequences. Now, hold still."

  Trembling at the venom in his voice coupled with his formidable strength, she forced herself to stand like a sculpture as he slowly relaxed his grip enough to continue plundering her body. Each stroke and pat violated her and left her feeling soiled. Shame washed over her.

  This was a mistake, a horrid mistake. Violent tremors racked her composure. Frank, where are you?

  "It doesn't have to be this way, my dear." John fingered a wayward curl nestled against her neck.

  She recalled the last time he did so and Tommy's tears, which nearly caused her own to start. Did the little boy miss her as much as she missed him? The sudden realization that she may never see him again choked her breath. But her father had not raised her to be a coward.
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  She shook off his hand with a toss of her head. "What do you mean?" Faint hope bloomed in her heart at the promise of an alternative.

  He shrugged. "If you tell me your father's whereabouts, I am sure we can work out a compromise."

  As a boy John had impressed her with his creative solutions to seemingly impossible situations. She once thought he demonstrated a unique level of mental brilliance in many ways, but perhaps his deviousness actually masqueraded as intelligence. Or maybe those attributes went hand in hand.

  "What kind of compromise?"

  "You can be mine again, like before." His breath warmed her cheek as he leaned closer, his lips near her ear, his words barely a whisper. "You can be my wife, and then all of this would stop."

  Never in a thousand years. "I do not think that is possible since you became a loyalist."

  "Of course it is, my dear. Women have no official political opinion but bend to the will of their husband. As you, of course, will." He kissed her cheek, his hands biting into her waist and pulling her against him until her breasts brushed his chest. Panic flared when she felt the hard evidence of his lust against her leg.

  "John..." She kept herself rigid, trying to pull away from him, but he held her tight against his hard frame. His suggestion defied logic. Subjugating herself to the will of any man remained out of the question. Never to him.

  "Yes?"

  "We cannot." No! Death was more appealing.

  His eyes searched her face, widening before narrowing dangerously. "It's him, isn't it? That newsman?"

  She remained silent, unsure which answer would anger him more, knowing she did love someone or that she didn't but still refused to be with him. The desperation mingled with lust in his eyes stirred horror within her.

  His punishing fingers dug into her again. "Be still." He ran his hands down her hips, squeezing and pinching as he probed through the layers of her clothing.

  "Major..." She couldn't say more, didn't know what would help or hurt her situation.

  He removed his hands from her skirts and resumed his full height, smirking as he tugged on the strings of her bonnet, slipping it off in one smooth motion. It floated to the floor. "Forgive me, my dear, but you carry me away with your beauty."

  His hand reached up to search her hair, landing on the hair combs she always wore.

  "What have we here?" He searched her expression. "I thought you said you had no weapons."

  Confused, she shook her head. "I am unarmed. I swear."

  His hand reached to her bun and removed one elegant ivory comb, then another, allowing her hair to cascade around her shoulders. He laid the shafts with their engraved tops on his palm in front of her face. The tapered points gleamed accusingly, mirroring the look on his face. "These could definitely hurt someone."

  "Hair decorations, nothing more."

  The need in his eyes changed to malice as he gazed at the gleaming ivory.

  Emily's father had presented the lovely combs to her for her sixteenth birthday. He had ordered them from a friendly merchant he met while on a hunting trip in Africa. The t-shaped combs were hand carved with the silhouette of elephants walking single file, and the long pin tapered from the elephants' feet down to a narrow point. Her heart sank. They could be lethal if used appropriately. Why hadn't she thought of that?

  "You're a beautiful deceiver, aren't you?"

  "No, I—"

  "You lied to me, but we can still make an agreement, if you're willing to bend that stiff spine of yours." He yanked her to him, kissing her full on the mouth, his tongue sliding into the surprised opening. When she bit down on his tongue, he growled in pain and released her. "You wench! You'll pay for that! I believe you're just as guilty of privateering as your treasonous father."

  "I've done nothing wrong." She stared at him as she realized the severity of the trouble in which she found herself.

  "I don't think the colonel will agree." He snapped the combs in half. "I'll leave you here to contemplate your willingness to assist the crown in stopping your father's treasonous activities."

  "But I'm innocent!" She blinked back tears, fear slicing through her when John strode away. Around her the other prisoners, all men in various stages of undress and reeking of sweat and urine, murmured among themselves without making any effort to intervene. "You can't do this."

  John laughed as he walked to the door and rapped on it twice. "My dear, I already have."

  * * *

  Emily wrapped her arms about her waist to still the tremors racing through her. Whether they started from the dank cold or from the sheer terror of her situation, she couldn't say. But her very bones feared what might happen next. No privy. No chairs or tables. Only cold filthy brick floor and arched walls and ceiling with men she barely recognized as patriot merchants and traders. Still, she remained the only female among the group. After many minutes staring around the dungeon, she found a corner with a mound of musty straw and cautiously poked at it with one show before easing down onto the pile. Dear Lord, what was to become of her?

  Against one wall a man lay with his back to the room, his nut brown coat dirty but of fine weave. A matching hat covered his head so that she couldn't tell anything more about him than that he was male. He didn't move, so still. She studied his back looking for signs he breathed. Nothing. A small gasp escaped before she could contain it. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. Dear Lord. The man lay dead and nobody cared to remove his body? Tears leaked from her unbelieving eyes and flowed hot down her cold cheeks.

  Two hours later, the street door opened and late afternoon sunlight illuminated the motionless form. John Bradley strode back into the room, paused to scan the faces staring at him until he spotted her. He crossed the room to stop in front of her, a grim smile upon his lips.

  "My dear, you will come with me and you will say nothing. Is that clear?"

  "But John, that man..." She looked at the still form on the straw mound and said a silent prayer for his salvation. "He's... not moving."

  John flicked a glance at the body then snared her arm with a punishing hand. He dragged her to her feet with an iron grip. "Not another word."

  Biting back a retort, she hurried to keep up with his long stride. They paused at the top of the steps long enough for John to mention the dead prisoner to the guard, then they were off up the street. They marched up Broad for several long blocks then turned right onto King for several more. His hurried pace tired her quickly but he kept a firm hold of her arm to prevent her from slowing him down. Soon she realized where he was taking her. Frank's imposing brick house greeted them silently. Her heart raced. Was Frank inside, waiting? John dragged her up the steps leading to the large white door and drew a key from his pocket. After he'd locked the door behind them, he grinned at her.

  "Welcome home, my dear."

  They stood in a large foyer with a sweeping staircase curving from the right side of the space up to the second floor balcony. No furnishings at all, as though the occupants had moved out and abandoned the property. No sound met her straining ears. No Frank strolled into view.

  Dare she speak now? "Why did you bring me here? Let me go home."

  "Now, now, don't fret. I've prepared a lovely room for you to stay in. Come let me show you."

  "No, John." She resisted following him when he grabbed her hand. "Take me home."

  He laughed at her demand then sobered. "You're mine, Emily. That lousy printer will not have you. Let's go."

  She cried out as he dragged her up the stairs, steadying her when she tripped on her skirts, and pulled her into a back bedroom. The furniture included a single bed with a small night table holding a lone unlit candle. A chair waited beside a small table holding an urn and basin. Other than those few items, the room was stripped bare. No drapes at the two boarded up windows. He let go of her hand and gazed at her.

  "What is it you want, John?"

  "Your love, my dear." He half bowed then straightened. "We'll be happy together now that you'
re mine. Will you marry me?"

  "You can't be serious."

  "Oh, but I most certainly am. If I can't have you, then no one will." He frowned as his eyes darkened to jade and his lips flattened into a hard line. "I'll ask you again tomorrow, my dear. Think carefully about your answer."

  He spun and slammed the door behind him. Cold terror careened through her when the lock clicked home.

  Chapter 17

  "Major Bradley did what?" Amy's raised voice filled the elegantly decorated parlor. "He put a woman in that hole?"

  "I can't believe it either." Frank paced the ornate carpet in Amy's front parlor an hour after witnessing Emily's arrest. He brushed a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to pull the damn bow from his queue. Although her raised voice revealed the extent of her dismay, Amy received the news better than expected. "Dragged her down the main street and into the Provost like some treasonous criminal."

  "Poor Em. We have to do something." She rose from the wood chair with embroidered cushion and wandered between the upholstered settee and the cherry buffet, her skirts swirling angrily with each turn. "People die in there."

  "That's why I came to you." He tugged off his gloves and slapped them against his hand, the resounding smack loud in the silence following his statement.

  "Excuse me?" Amy paused in her circuit of the parlor and stared at him for a long moment. "How is it you think I can help?"

  "I cannot approach the commandant. But you have connections with Colonel Balfour." He winked at her. "I think he's smitten with you, like the poor soldier at the town's gate."

  "You flatter me." Amy straightened the lacy froth draping from her sleeve and sank back onto the cushioned seat. "I shall think on what you've said. Your news has me rather flustered. Maybe some port to calm ourselves?" She indicated with a graceful hand the decanter of garnet colored wine surrounded by small crystal glasses resting on the low table before her.

  At his nod, she deftly opened the decanter and filled two glasses.