To Wed A Rebel

by Sophie Dash

  “I – I did not,” she faltered, arms around herself, but he couldn’t hear any more; he was done listening. “Isaac, it’s not like that.”

  It was bad enough to have his own flesh and blood think he would take an unwilling woman to bed, let alone Ruth. To have her fear him like that, expect that, it – he couldn’t. And worse still, she’d had to descend into drink to even stomach the thought of him, of being with him. She had been shaking, she had been terrified and she still thought him a monster.

  Isaac did not look back; he kept on walking through the ballroom. If he disturbed the dancing, he didn’t care. If he shouldered his way through the polite chatter, he offered no apology. The house’s layout was seared into his mind. He knew where the dining room was and where the port sat. He could recall Colin’s father drinking it, the parting words he’d offered, about honour and obligation and doing right by the Roscoe name. It had all been for his cousin’s benefit, or so he’d thought at the time. Now that forceful, stuffy, dry advice was repeated over and over in his head.

  Lady Mawes did not let him rest for long.

  “Do you want to explain to me what that was, Isaac Roscoe?” The door was closed firmly behind her, shutting them in silence together.

  Isaac kicked a chair free from its home under the table, decanter in one hand, glass in the other. The old woman’s scowl deepened when he slumped in it, staring her down.

  “What have you been saying to my wife?”

  “Only what she needed to hear.”

  Dark, blackish-purple stains peppered the woodwork. Isaac was not careful. He didn’t have to be. This wasn’t his property, wasn’t his house, wasn’t his drink – not yet.

  “You told her to – to – that I wanted to—” He clamped his lips together, only letting the thick, sweet fortified wine pass through them. “You know what you told her.”

  “I had assumed your tastes leaned that way, yes,” replied Lady Mawes, unperturbed by the direction their talk had strayed towards as she moved to the end of the long dining room table. “What’s wrong with the girl?”

  “There is nothing wrong with her, for God’s sake,” he snapped. “She’s – she’s perfect.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “I do not force myself on those who are unwilling.”

  Lady Mawes plucked a glass from the sideboard and took the decanter from her great-nephew’s unrelenting grip. “I never thought you did, Isaac.”

  “Then why did you tell the girl—”

  “Do you think Ruth despises you as much as you despise yourself?” Lady Mawes asked over her glass.

  “I have ruined her life, I have taken everything from her, I have—”

  The dining room door swung open. Jemima stood there, her thumb holding her place in a book, scruffy attire betraying how little she planned to partake in the evening’s entertainments.

  “I was sat in the library—”

  “Well that’s nothing new, dear,” interrupted Lady Mawes.

  “It’s Ruth,” said Jemima, ignoring her great-aunt’s jibes. “She’s gone.”

  Isaac stood up so quickly that he knocked his glass from the table, shards splintering against the floorboards, crunching under his boots. “Gone?”

  “I heard someone run down the path alongside the house only half an hour ago,” said Jemima. “It’s a clear night. I did not think it was her until that clergyman asked about her, said she’d vanished into the garden and hadn’t returned.”

  “She’ll be sulking in the grounds somewhere,” said Lady Mawes. “All women need time to themselves. No, Isaac – what are you doing?”

  “I know where she’s going.”

  “Where is that exactly?”

  “Home.”

  Isaac asked for no further details. He did not stop to answer his great-aunt’s questions; he did not listen to the harsh remarks that came his way as he headed straight for the stables.

  Ruth did not know the landscape like he did.

  She did not know the way back.

  She did not know all that waited on the dark, country roads or how easy it was to lose oneself by the dangerous cliff edges. There were poachers, smugglers, wreckers and the magistrate’s men who often took the law into their own hands.

  He had to find her before day broke – or else he feared he never would.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ruth

  She had been such a fool.

  Of course Isaac would never see her in that way. Hadn’t Lottie always told her, quite frankly, the sort of woman she was? Cold, uninteresting, frigid. And yet tonight she’d felt – she’d hoped – oh, surely he must have considered her, if only for a second?

  The sting of rejection brought tears to Ruth’s eyes – and she was angry for it, at herself, for ever showing such weakness. How could she face him after that? He had looked at her as though she were abhorrent, the very idea of her repulsive.

  All the awkwardness she had felt at Miss Lamont’s Academy, the ill-placed air she’d adopted when conversing with her uncle’s business associates, the sense that she was and always would be overlooked – it all pooled together, balled up in her stomach, a tight, heavy feeling. She was only baggage, a piece of furniture – useful, but never wanted, never welcome.

  The drink had given her courage, the attention she’d been given by others had buoyed her confidence, she had thought – hoped – that Isaac might – she didn’t know.

  Woodland bordered Trewince Manor in a jagged, patchy line. It ran alongside fields, grew wider, thinner, a forest cut away by agriculture. It was tracked through with dizzying paths and when the trees thinned, she could see the way ahead. The walkways grew narrower and narrower, until they became rabbit trails that darted underground where she could not follow. If only she could. Wasn’t there a wood beside the farmhouse? Were they all connected? Wouldn’t this take her to it?

  Ruth turned around and picked her way westward, or she thought it was westward, as she struggled to keep her dress from the gorse bushes. The lights from the big house were gone, blotted out – had they been to her left or her right? Where had Simms pointed to when he’d told her about the manor? It was an hour away – less than that. She’d walked farther before.

  And she’d walk for an eternity if it pushed down the shame and humiliation that swam in her veins.

  Isaac’s face, his words, his disgust.

  She put her fingers to her lips, regretting that kiss, the brief elation she’d felt when she’d assumed he wanted her back. This explained why he had not even been able to look at her when they’d been alone together, why he always turned away when she undressed – and yes, it was all a gentleman should do and yet, she wanted…

  God, she wanted to be wanted.

  Just once, at least a little, in the same capacity she thought about him. Because she did think about him, too often, whenever he was close and whenever he wasn’t. If ever she heard him laugh, though such sounds were few and far between.

  Ruth picked up her pace, drove herself on, her dancing shoes ruined now, powdered with dry dirt. A fox shrieked in the distance, the sound catching in the still air, stopping her heart for a moment. It had been a fox, hadn’t it? For a second it had sounded far more sinister: a woman’s cry, a shrill, panicked plea.

  A quick wind, there one second, gone the next, touched her cheek and pulled a few wisps of hair loose to dance across her face. Within it she heard the ocean’s swell. If she found the coast, she could find her way back to the farmhouse; she could follow the route until she came across what was familiar.

  The fields were stubble, already harvested. The crackling remnants of wheat grazed her ankles and cut her skin when she did not tread carefully enough. It was dark, but the trees and the hedges were even darker, smudges squatting on the horizon. All the shadows in the world had been netted together, boiled down and poured into the far-flung corners. The sea was ink. Ruth could taste it in the air, see its glittering, dark mass, hear the raging swell that s
eemed more ominous, more treacherous. The cliff edge and the scattered, safer routes to the beach were lost now amongst the long grass. One misstep could send her down and down and down.

  Which way?

  How long had she been running, walking, panting, driving herself on?

  An hour? More?

  It felt like seconds, minutes, since that shameful display in the garden. When she’d paced, patrolled, stepped in the places he’d stepped and told herself to go back inside but had not been brave enough to do so.

  She knew this place. It was easy to recognise. She’d found it before at night, when leading Brye back to the farmhouse with a battered, unconscious Isaac. It wasn’t long now; she’d soon be able to see the building’s outline, the trees beside it.

  Home.

  Ruth bunched up her skirts, picked up the pace and heard a snapping sound beside her, in sync with her footfalls, like another heartbeat. There was enough time to face him, the stranger, to see his eyes shining in the gloom like hot coals.

  A rough hand caught her arm. A heavy bulk brought her to the ground, winded her, before a palm was slammed across her mouth – its keeper not knowing she had no air left in her lungs to even breathe, let alone scream.

  Part Three

  Chapter One

  Ruth

  “Where can I find Isaac Roscoe?” A hot, stale breath reached her.

  The man at her back smelt as though he’d left his grave mere moments ago – or was minutes from it. Rotten grime, old sweat, crusted filth. If Ruth’s dress was not ruined before, it was now. She heard a tear as she struggled to pull her ear away from that harsh whisper, half-muffled as he spoke into her hair.

  “Where?”

  He jolted her, pulling a high, pained grunt from her throat. If she screamed, the noise would not travel. Even if it did, could anyone help her? They would have to find her first and search the endless dark – they wouldn’t be quick enough.

  “Why?” There was little use in struggling, for she was not strong enough. Ruth squeezed her eyes closed, tried to keep calm and think logically. “What do you want with him?”

  A gruff growl, a voice too low to be natural, purposely distorted. “That’s my business.”

  “It’s mine too,” she replied, not knowing if her next words would damn her or free her. “For I am his wife.”

  The hold on her vanished, she fell forwards, palms scuffing the hard earth. A fervent apology was uttered and a hand was placed on her elbow, hoisting her up as though she were feather-light. Ruth jerked back, almost too far, to where the cliff edge waited, and the uneven ground gave way to loose rocks and grit.

  The stranger had her, steadied her, and pulled her back. “Easy now. I am not here to hurt you.”

  “Then you are here to hurt Isaac – is that it?” Ruth recovered swiftly, eager to distance herself from the figure, to get to the farmhouse, to call for Simms. “Does he owe you money? He has none, trust me on that.”

  “God, no, I should think I owe him.” The stranger’s tone shifted, far warmer, softer, though there was a strain to it. He reached for her, a dim shape. “Are you injured? I did not mean to—”

  “Do not touch me.”

  “I did not know who you were. I thought it best to scare you, make you think I wasn’t – that I was after the man, not that I was a friend.”

  “You’re Isaac’s friend?” Ruth’s voice was heavy with doubt. “I didn’t think he had any.”

  “We were in the Navy together, a long time ago now.” Desperate, pleading, he added, “Look, we cannot talk here; it’s not safe.”

  Her mind worked fast. “Safe for who?”

  The stranger did not reply.

  Ruth’s hands stopped on her skirts and felt a coldness, a tacky substance on her hand. Blood. She could smell the metallic, rusty scent.

  “What have you done? Why do you need to seek my husband’s help?”

  “It’s better if I explain indoors.”

  “You are hurt,” she said, with no sympathy in her voice, no caring. Only a tactical, hard edge. “Will Isaac get hurt?” Another damning silence met her question. “Does you being here put him at risk?”

  “It puts you both at risk,” confessed the stranger. “But I would not have come here if I had any other choice.”

  And she could tell, by the hoarseness in his words and the redness upon her hands, that if she did not lead him into the house soon, he would not make it on his own. He would not make it all.

  Chapter Two

  Isaac

  Voices could be heard from within the farmhouse. Isaac clenched his jaw. One was a man’s voice. It wasn’t Simms. They didn’t have guests – hadn’t for years. No one had been welcome. The entire town knew not to come here. Isaac’s heart was in his throat and had been on the ride over, until he’d silently led the horse to shelter and found that Ruth had not gone home alone.

  Dry leaves crackled underfoot, the dog stirred, a low grumble from behind the door.

  Had she wanted to punish him? Was this a game? Had the drink and his harsh words forced her into the arms of another? His boot kicked a pebble, pushing a clatter along the cobblestones. The conversation inside stopped.

  Unkind thoughts, unwelcome visions, swam in Isaac’s mind.

  Their last conversation – his and Ruth’s – had ended poorly. The echo of her kiss was still on his mouth, but he could not trust Lady Mawes. Over the past week or so, he had come to know his wife better, to see beyond the first impressions and assumptions. And yet, at the prompting of his great-aunt, Ruth had reverted back to that unhappy, eager-to-please creature who would put herself at risk. Yes, he wanted her – God, he truly did – but not like this. Not until she wanted him back.

  That will never happen.

  When had those promises to himself, to never grow entangled with another, fallen to the wayside? He’d been a younger man then, naïve enough to think his heart would never change. To care was to open himself up to the worst the world could offer. Such pain, such loss, had stolen his father from him. Standing outside that farmhouse and contemplating what could be taking place within told him he did care, far more than he’d ever planned to.

  Isaac drew back from the side door, towards the tumbledown outhouses. He knew this place as well as he knew himself; he knew what would be here. But he wasn’t sure he’d need it. Although the darkness was near impenetrable, he found the shovel’s dull glint and felt the rough wooden handle upon his palm. Light flooded the courtyard, blinding after so long with only the night. There was a shape in the doorway, a pistol’s outline.

  Hell.

  Isaac swung. He wasn’t fast enough.

  “Christ,” came the other man’s shout, dodging out of the way by pure luck. “For God’s sake, Isaac—”

  The spade chipped off a section of the doorframe. Ruth shouted at him. He didn’t listen. The man he faced shoved him back carelessly. Isaac held on, dragging the stranger with him. When Isaac went down, the stranger did too, tussling until Isaac was on top, the spade’s handle pressed down, close to his opponent’s throat. It was only then he realised who the unwelcome guest was. Sand-coloured hair, a wide mouth, blue eyes.

  “William?”

  “Jesus, yes, it’s me,” he croaked, before Ruth’s hands pulled Isaac away and went straight to the other man, drawing him onto his feet.

  Jealousy lanced through Isaac’s middle, his mind still racing to catch up with all he’d seen, heard, suspected.

  “What are you doing here?”

  And what are you doing with my wife?

  “I need your help,” replied William, straining as he limped towards the kitchen and Isaac finally saw the mess he was in. There was a steady worry upon Ruth’s face and a sudden relief – followed by embarrassment – that came when she met her husband’s eye.

  Thank God you’re here, it seemed to say, or did he only imagine it, hope for it?

  Isaac helped William down to a chair by the fireside, to where blood-soaked rags sat in
heaps.

  “You have both undone everything I just did,” mumbled Ruth bitterly.

  Isaac almost replied, until he saw the state of her in the fire’s glow. Why did he always force her into these positions? Blood under her fingernails, concerned lines drawn upon her forehead, sleeves stained copper.

  Isaac wished he could still feel the port in his system, for the ride back to the farmhouse had shaken him into a cruel, wakeful sobriety. “Why are you here, Will?”

  “I had nowhere else to go.” Now that William knew he had found safety, he seemed to deflate, weaken, all the fight leaving him for he no longer needed to run. He’d clearly journeyed for miles and miles, and yet now even holding his head up seemed a battle.

  “They’ll kill you when they find you here.”

  The statement startled Ruth, her fingers pausing at the deep gash, a pistol’s graze, along William’s leg. “What do you mean?” She looked between the two men and Isaac wanted to reassure her, wished he could spare her, but knew better than to lie to the woman. He’d learnt that particular lesson.

  “William is wanted for mutiny,” said Isaac, watching her tending hands waver. “When His Majesty’s Forces find him, they’ll hang him – along with any others who dared to give him aid.”

  ***

  Isaac knew every movement Ruth made within the room, until she instructed him, in a voice far too calm and measured, to find their new guest a change of clothes and more clean rags. When he returned with them, she did not look at him, though he made sure to have one small contact with her, their hands meeting, a fleeting, fickle thing.

  It wasn’t an apology.

  He was too angry with her for that, for putting herself at risk, and for his own actions. But he pushed all that aside to aid his friend. One he had thought he’d never see again. Not alive, anyway.

  “That’s the best I can do,” said Ruth curtly, getting up from the floor and brushing off her dress – the action done purely to announce her departure, for it did nothing to push the stains from the material. “I trust you can take it from here.”