To Wed A Rebel

by Sophie Dash

  Many flowers were familiar – common daisies, wild poppies, blue cornflowers – and yet many defied her knowledge. What wild, ragged flora did they grow off the Cornish coast? What wild, ragged men, for that matter?

  Now you’re free to hate me as you please.

  Did she? Not as much as she wanted to.

  Pins and needles wormed up Ruth’s legs. The sun was hot on her skin and yet this was the first time that she had felt like herself since… Since the ball when Isaac had asked her to dance and given her the choice to say no…

  It was a trick. He was using you. Don’t let him do it again.

  The entire day passed in that fashion, with her mind a spinning top that circled the same turgid doubts and frustrations again and again and again. Dinner came and she ate alone in the kitchen.

  A tense knot formed in Ruth’s stomach as she trod up the stairs and took the bedroom, one she did not share with another. She and Isaac were man and wife now and she assumed their union would be made legal. She knew what the law and the church said about consummation.

  As before, she slept like the dead, and she slept alone.

  He never came.

  ***

  Three days passed by in the same fashion. August was drawing to a close and Ruth waited for Isaac to show himself. He never did. It was unexpected. But she hadn’t known what to expect. Was the man simply drinking, trying to forget her, punishing her – or more likely himself?

  In the garden, she had a small square cleared, though the tea roses were long wilted and showered her with browning, yellow petals whenever she brushed against them. Her arms ached, there were scratches across her cheek and her neck was pink from the sun’s glare. There were a few plants she did not recognise and there were only a few hours of daylight left. With an achy moan that made her sound one hundred years old, she brushed herself off and reminded her legs of their purpose.

  There were books in the study that would be useful. She had seen them in the little exploring she had managed to do. Ruth stepped through the house carefully, with a deer’s caution, as though she expected to see Isaac at every turn. In a way, he was here, in the furniture, the walls, the life he’d left behind.

  Who had he been, back then? Simms had said the village girls had admired him, and Ruth knew of all the women – the ones before her – who had fallen to his charms. Had they been prettier than her, cleverer, wittier? Was that why he had kept himself tucked away at the village inn night after night, because he longed for another body beside his own that was not Ruth’s?

  On dark oak shelves were books on farming, Latin, old poets and there, wedged into one corner, was a squat book on common English flowers. Ruth slid it from its home, its weight comfortable in her hands, like an old friend. It had been well-loved before it had been pushed aside and forgotten. Dust lined up along its edges and Ruth smoothed it away, her fingers running down the green cover.

  There was a name written inside in a neat curling script.

  Isabelle.

  Another soul who’d lost herself to Isaac Roscoe?

  Ruth had an impulse to throw the tome across the room and yet could not stand to let it leave her grasp, as though it would tell her exactly why Isaac had not returned or that it would explain what she’d done wrong. Perhaps, between those pages or hidden in amongst those looping letters, was an explanation as to why Ruth could not stop thinking on him. Thoughts that settled on loathing, delved into lust, twisted into annoyance and then dived straight down into anger. How could one man conjure so many emotions, ones she had never felt so deeply before?

  ***

  Another day passed, another evening came and Ruth spent it by herself. If this was to be life from now on, she could cope. It was not dreadful. It was certainly not what she had expected, but it was not dreadful.

  As the sky changed colour and her bed beckoned, Ruth was interrupted. She had no time to eat the plain, boiled evening meal Nessa had prepared, for the moment she sat down at the table, Simms entered the kitchen and she knew that something was wrong.

  The man’s shuffling gait matched his drawn features, bottom lip worried by his crooked teeth. “You’ll be wanting to go after him, ma’am.”

  A lined creased Ruth’s forehead. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s in o’er his head on this one,” he said, as though she was supposed to know, somehow, what Isaac did when darkness fell. Where he’d been all this time. Why he could not even face her after all he’d done.

  “On this what exactly?”

  Nessa shook her head and snapped at her husband, “Don’t you be telling tales now. Mr Roscoe won’t abide by it. He’ll send us away. We won’t have no place to live.”

  Simms paid the woman no heed, but quietly replied, “We’ll be on the streets anyway if he’s killed.”

  Ruth’s chair scraped along the flagstones as she stood up, eyes wide. “Killed?”

  “There’s a fight, a boxing match on the beach. I heard the talk when I was in town this afternoon. There’s money in it, but Roscoe won’t see none,” said Simms hurriedly. “He can’t win this one.”

  “A fight?” Is that what he did? Is that where he went? Is that why he’d never come home – because he’d rather brawl his life away than face up to his actions, to her? Concern was there. As much as she did not want it, she could not hide it. Ruth put her hands to her mouth and spoke through her fingers. “Then you need to stop him.”

  “He won’t listen to me – never has, never will. He’ll mind your words,” said the groundskeeper, moving back towards the door. “He’ll have to. You’re his wife.”

  Wife.

  Like that meant anything. Not when she’d barely seen him since the ceremony, didn’t know him, and was certain he wanted nothing to do with her.

  “I couldn’t possibly…” She trailed off, palms flat on the worn table.

  The other two were staring at her and she saw their terror and shared their anxiety.

  There was no one else. Only her. As it had been back in her school days, when the younger ones had gotten into trouble and a little sense was needed. Imploring faces, demanding help, seeking guidance, and seeing in her what the others must have seen.

  Chin up. Back straight. There’s work to be done.

  Ruth nodded. She set aside her fear and her indecision, as she grasped her shawl from a vacant chair. “Show me the way.”

  And let’s pray I am not too late.

  Chapter Seven

  Isaac

  Torches marked the shore, casting a red, angry light upon the two men who were set against one another. Moths were drawn to the flames, spinning ethereal figures of eight, wings catching when they got too close. The lines drawn in the sand had been smudged by the spectators who crowded along them, desperate for a good view of the bloodshed. Their glaring faces were blurs to Isaac, for his sole focus was on his opponent.

  Lanterns winked on the beach, swung from meaty fists, as though beckoning ships to wreck. Such false lights were illegal in Cornwall for the danger they posed to vessels looking for a safe harbour, but so was boxing – and that was viewed as a far harsher crime. Judging by the faces Isaac recognised, there were many figures of influence here. Even if Isaac was caught, the punishment would not be severe: the men who lived on this coast were as crooked as they came and money mattered more than rules. They wouldn’t let him rot in gaol, not when there was fighting to be done.

  At least, that’s what Isaac told himself as he jerked back from a thundering blow that would have rendered him unconscious had it made contact. This was not a conventional boxing match. Although fists were generally used, the rules were lax. Many had died in these dirty fights, but tales about the slim few who had made their fortunes drew in hopeful dreamers and greedy sods.

  Both men had stripped down to their breeches. Their bare feet helped them get a better grip on the sand, the rocks, the sea that corroded their makeshift ring. And the limited clothing was an intimidation tactic. The opponent Isaac faced, Brye,
was twice his size, bigger than the Oak, broader, tougher, all muscle. Although Isaac was well built and he could pack a punch, he was outmatched.

  The grinning, pumpkin faces around him – who jeered and swore and cursed his name – knew it too. The money wasn’t on him. He wasn’t a smart bet; only a fool would back Isaac Roscoe.

  And that’s why he had to win.

  A heavy ocean wave heaved itself up the shore to graze his ankles. Its icy chill goose-pimpled his skin and veined the sand with seaweed. Isaac moved slowly, cautiously, around the circle. If ever he got too close to the torches that marked the boundaries, hands, jabs and blows would rain onto his shoulders, forcing him closer to Brye.

  Isaac had one advantage. Whenever Brye, the giant, aimed a punch, he had a tell: he gritted his teeth. It was a second’s warning that gave Isaac a chance to duck his head, skid to the side and save himself. There was a cut on his lip and his nose was streaming. A few moments before, he hadn’t been fast enough; he’d let himself get distracted. Blood trailed freely down his chin, his neck, a red line drawn down his chest.

  Brye was a youngster, barely grown, viewed as simple by most. But he was big and he was tall and he was strong: and he had friends he wanted to please. That made him dangerous, for he fought not for himself, but for others and their approval. The money didn’t matter to him. He wouldn’t know what to spend it on. His friends, Isaac guessed, would.

  Smudges of bright blood ran along his hand when he wiped his face, watching, waiting, a roar in his ears – from the ocean, his own pounding pulse, and those who spectated.

  Isaac darted forwards, aiming for Brye’s stomach and hit it – with a hard punch – that didn’t give. There was nothing but compact muscle to meet his fist. Dread knotted in Isaac’s gut as he glanced up at that young, grinning face. Brye had him, grabbed him, thick fingers around his neck.

  There were no boundaries, no rules, no one to say what was fair.

  The cheers around him grew louder, the crowd eager to see a gruesome end.

  Isaac lashed out, feet dangling, aiming a kick that only grazed his opponent’s knees. Lights danced before his eyes, new ones, that joined the torches and the lanterns, swaying and bobbing. Panic left and there were only those lights as his struggles ceased, and then—

  “STOP.”

  The pressure went. A jarring fall. The sand came up to meet him, sticking to the blood from his wounds, the cracks in his teeth, the sweat on his skin. He knew that voice. He’d been avoiding it. Head heavy, he lifted his eyes.

  “Ruth?”

  The woman shoved her way into the ring, ignoring the piggish, brash comments sent her way. When Isaac got to his feet they stopped. No one would get on Roscoe’s bad side, even when he was beaten to a pulp, and rumour had spread fast enough to clue them all in as to the strange girl’s identity. Her fingers fell upon him, his chest, probing his injuries like a mithering mother hen.

  Isaac’s hand clamped around Ruth’s wrist, heavy and unforgiving. “What are you doing here?”

  It was dangerous. She could get hurt – or worse. He didn’t trust these men, not with her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to pull away and finding his grip was too strong. “Where have you been?”

  “Go back. Go home.”

  “No,” she replied, as though he’d lost his mind, as though she could see something he couldn’t. “Look at you.”

  “Do as I say.”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  When her words took root, Isaac instantly released her, stepping back, mouth slack.

  “It’s not safe,” he said, more softly, but he could see she did not understand the peril and would not obey him, even for her own good.

  Why should she trust me after all I’ve done?

  He aimed a stern look over her shoulder to a few men he knew from the next village over.

  “Keep a hold on her,” he told them, but not a single one went to do so. Not until Ruth realised she had done nothing to stop the match. The woman tried to put herself between the two fighters and she was snatched up then, arms held fast, her warnings falling on deaf ears.

  The crowd’s shouts grew louder.

  Isaac knuckled his nose, the blood clotting and itching as it dried.

  “Let’s do this,” he called.

  Brye looked doubtful, small eyes moving between him and the woman.

  “Come on,” coaxed Isaac. “It’s not over yet.”

  Brye stayed still.

  “Fight me.”

  Isaac moved first, a handful of shells and sand thrown upwards, a reckless, dirty tactic. Provoked, Brye lurched forwards, shielded his eyes, and barrelled into Isaac. A fist pummelled his ribs, then another. When Isaac tried to block a blow, his defences were found redundant. He was hurled sideways, scraping his forearm on a line of rock that jutted up from the shore.

  It didn’t hurt, not yet; the adrenaline saw to that. It soon would, God, how it would.

  “Hit ’im again,” barked a young man at Brye’s side – had to be a relative, for they had the same ash-blond hair.

  The ocean tanged on Isaac’s tongue. He coughed and choked as brine went down his airways. It was a struggle to get up and out of the swell that foamed around his wrists like shackles. The water stung and ran off pink. Isaac felt dizzy. The torchlight was painful as it drew his gaze, too many lights, always too many lights.

  “Go on, Brye,” another spectator yelled, a muffled call in Isaac’s ears. “Finish ’im off.”

  “Please, no – DON’T – you have to stop this,” shouted Ruth, hair wild, struggling against those who held her. He’d never seen her so unwound, so far removed from the prim and proper woman he’d always assumed she was. “For pity’s sake, he cannot take much more. You’ll kill him!”

  Isaac shook his head, hair dripping seawater as once again he pushed himself to his feet. The effort almost had him keel over as he raised his fists. Even though they were too heavy, like boulders attached to the ends of his arms. It was hard to remain steady, hard to focus, hard not to fall back down.

  If he couldn’t win, he could still fight. He could see it through. The longer he battled, the bigger the sum he’d get; what small amount he’d end up with.

  Better than nothing, better than—

  The crowd knew Brye was going to lash out before Isaac did.

  The anticipation was an audible sound, a combined intake of breath, before pain flashed up Isaac’s temple. The sky spun, seemed darker, as though all the stars had been drowned along with him. There was salt water in Isaac’s mouth, nose, ears. He couldn’t breathe – and then nothing.

  ***

  Isaac felt the bed dip beside him. A warm, wet cloth was pressed against his cheek. The contact made him grit his teeth, a sharp whistling inhalation. God. The pounding in his head made itself known, but it was nothing compared to the tear in his arm or the bruises and scrapes elsewhere along his body. Eyes heavy and sore, he pulled them open for a brief second, before letting them fall back again.

  “Why are we here?”

  “You live here, well, no, I suppose you don’t or haven’t been,” said Ruth slowly, though there was an edge to her voice. “Your name is—”

  “I know my own bloody name,” said Isaac, a low, grating sound as the words were dragged from his throat. “How – how did you get me off the beach?”

  It hurt to talk, hurt to breathe, hurt to think. Had he broken a rib? No, it was only bruised, that’s all.

  “Mr Tammin – Brye – he helped me,” she said, ringing out the cloth in her hands, musical drips into a bowl. “That man who fought you, he got you onto your horse and helped to get you here, even though his friends – they – they tried to coax him away. He wouldn’t go with them, not until he knew you were all right. He’s very strong.”

  “Aye, he’s that.” Isaac coughed, a movement that spread pain up his ribcage. “My clothes?”

  “I had to, they – they were wet,” Ruth said by way of exp
lanation, stammering with embarrassment. “I didn’t look.”

  He laughed. He wished he hadn’t. “Look all you want, love.”

  The more he said, the more annoyed Ruth seemed and the more it encouraged him. Isaac rolled his head towards her, sheets halfway down his torso. He didn’t miss the way her eyes wouldn’t meet his.

  Oh, she’d had a look all right.

  The fire was blazing, even if the night was warm. He was still cold.

  “I need to look at your arm,” she said, with no hint of apology. “It’s going to hurt.”

  Isaac nodded mutely as Ruth’s ruined shawl was unwound from the gash. The small part that had scabbed over came away with the material and he swore. That was all he said as Ruth washed the dirt and grit and sand away from the cut. Fresh water, a clean cloth, more pain and then she finally bound it with deft fingers.

  “You’ve done this before.”

  Ruth shook her head, face hard. “Not like this, never like this.”

  There was sweat on her forehead, damp patches and blood along her dress, and her hair was a ragged mass over her shoulders. When had she come to look so wild and so far removed from the bookish, uptight creature he usually took her for? Had he done this to her? Had he made her into this or had she, this other woman, always been there?

  “Do not ever do that again,” she added harshly, rooting around in a chest of drawers for a clean shirt. She handed it to him, but he still needed help and she offered it silently.