Marcel, engrossed in a low-voiced discussion with the innkeeper, did not join her at once. For this, Julia was grateful. She needed to collect her thoughts. Marcel’s great passion for her had suffered a more violent reversal than she had expected. She was glad of it, and yet, it argued that every word he had said to her was a lie. Could it be that the money had been her only attraction for him? Why should that be so when he had, or so rumor said, more than adequate means? He had asserted that his funds were also invested, but the words had lacked conviction. The answer to the question she had posed might give her the key to persuading him to abandon her completely.
The chill in the room was so great that Julia kept on both her bonnet and her gloves as well as her cloak of gold-brown velvet. She was standing with her arms wrapped around her beneath her cloak when Marcel entered. Following behind him came a gangling lad of sixteen or seventeen carrying a coal scuttle. From the stains on his apron, he served not only as parlormaid, but as kitchen help and potboy in the common room as well. He had the vacuous expression and drooling mouth of a halfwit, but he proceeded to make a fire with clumsy dispatch.
Through the open door came also the innkeeper’s wife bearing a decanter of liquor on a tray with two glasses. This she placed on a side table, then, bobbing the merest suggestion of a curtsy, went away again. When the boy had also taken himself off, Marcel shut the door and came toward her, rubbing his hands.
“Now, this is better, is it not?” he asked. “I have ordered dinner to be served in here. By the time we have had something to drink, the fire will have taken the chill from the room and we shall be most comfortable.”
Taking the stopper from the decanter, he filled a glass to the brim, then moved to the other glass. From the look of the liquid and the smell which permeated the room, Julia knew it was brandy. She would have liked to refuse to partake of it, but she needed something to warm her and sustain her spirits.
With fingers which trembled a little, she took the glass Marcel offered. The muscles of her throat contracted as the drink burned its way to her stomach. She watched with trepidation as Marcel downed the contents of his glass, then refilled it before flinging himself into a chair before the fireplace. After a moment, she followed his example by perching on the edge of a time-blackened settle opposite him.
She cleared her throat, turning her glass in her fingers. Watching the swirling liquid, she said, “Having something to eat here will be well enough, but I don’t believe I would choose to stay for any length of time.”
“No? And, I was so sure it would just suit your purse.”
“There must be another inn somewhere that is reasonably priced. Perhaps, an inn which takes its custom from country people, farmers and their wives?”
“An excellent notion, no doubt, but I feel not the least urge to venture out into the night again. It is as cold as the devil’s heart out, and there is a fog rolling off the Thames as thick as cotton wool.”
“I take it you have arranged for rooms here, then?”
He took a deliberate swallow of his brandy before answering. “Room. A single room.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, her head coming up sharply.
“Exactly what you think,” he returned. “Why should money be paid out for two rooms when one will do? I have been considering our problem and I believe the solution is to pool our resources — I assume you do have something to add, some small amount which you expected to use to keep yourself for a time.”
Julia shook her head. “My contribution will not be large. I have only a small cash holding, and my jewelry, which I was going to sell.”
“Jewelry?” he said, his eyes running over her as if he expected to find her wearing it. “Let me see it.”
“The pieces are not particularly valuable,” she said hastily. The bandbox holding her jewel case was sitting on the table. Deliberately, she kept her gaze from that direction, staring into the orange glow of the fire. Such tactics were useless.
Marcel set his glass aside. Getting to his feet, he went to the bandbox. “It is in here?” he asked, giving the silk-covered box a shake. Setting it down, he jerked apart the ribbons which held it closed. “Ah, yes, let’s see what we have.”
“You have no right,” Julia cried, springing up and moving quickly to his side.
With one hand, he held her back as he emptied out her chased-silver jewel case. Abruptly, he released her. “Trinkets!” he sneered. “Nothing, but trinkets. We could not live a fortnight on what they would bring. If this is what you hoped to use to pay your reckoning between now and August, you would be out on the street before summer comes.”
“I told you they were of no great value,” she said, pushing him aside to replace her treasures.
“So, you did,” he agreed, his tone vicious as he took up his glass and emptied it once more. “For the sake of my curiosity, tell me: what did you intend to do when you had no more money?”
“I don’t know. I had thought perhaps the Bonapartists here in London would advance something to me in respect of my father’s enormous contribution. I would repay them, of course, when Napoleon comes to power.”
Marcel laughed. “My sweet little innocent, do you really expect to be reimbursed by the emperor? The man will need every penny he possesses to put an army into the field if he is to regain his crown. Why should he worry his head over the plight of one young woman, be she ever so beautiful?”
Julia, touching one hand to the golden bee which fastened her cloak at the throat, saw no need to enlighten him. “He will,” she said. “He — he must.”
“Never argue with a fool or a woman,” he quoted, and reached for the brandy bottle once more.
Any reply she might have made was forestalled by the arrival of the loutish potboy with their dinner. From the tray, he took two dull pewter plates and a pair of double-tined forks, clattering them into place on either end of the table. Between these, he set a steak-and-kidney pie in a blackened dish, the pastry of which was a dirty gray. The aroma of boiled cabbage arose in clouds from a bowl which glistened with grease. Thick slices of ham crowned with fat sat on one side. On the other was a loaf of bread showing a rind of blackened crust.
What little appetite Julia had had vanished in the face of this repast. Though she removed her gloves and took up a fork, she could make no more than a pretense of eating. She could not force a morsel past the constriction in her throat. Covertly, she glanced at Marcel. He had spoken of sharing a room as if it were the most natural thing in the world. There could be little doubt that he expected them also to share the same bed. At the thought, she shuddered, the grip on her fork tightening until her knuckles turned white.
The urge to jump on her feet and run to the door was almost overpowering. She had tried that with Marcel once and failed, however. He was deceptively swift, and strong. Beneath his bottle-green coat and embroidered waistcoat, he had a full quota of muscles. Added to that was his present uncertain temper. Between the effects of disappointment and brandy, he had lost his urbanity, and there was an ugly look about his mouth as he stared at her across the greasy remains of his meal.
What if she succeeded in escaping? Where could she go? In the dark, cold, fog-filled streets, there was as much danger as inside the inn. To return to the Sea Jade would be to face the wrath of Captain Thorpe.
For some reason, the latter course filled her with a greater dread than dealing with Marcel.
Suddenly, the man across the table pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “Shall we go up and see what kind of bedchamber has been given to us?”
Julia looked at him, seeing the grease he had not bothered to wipe from his over-red lips and the weave of his stance. “No, Marcel,” she said with abrupt resolution. “I believe I will stay here. The settle by the fire should make me a comfortable enough bed.”
“What are you saying?” he demanded, leaning with his hands on the table.
“I am saying I will not share the chamber upstairs with you.” Her voic
e trembled, but the words came out plainly enough.
“Is that so, my fine little—” He stopped, senses alert despite the brandy he had drunk, as a shuffling sound came from outside the room. While they watched, a slip of paper was pushed under the door. Scowling, he shoved his chair aside and went to pick it up.
The contents seemed to give him no satisfaction, for his frown grew blacker and he crumpled the paper into a wadded ball before stepping to toss it into the fire. He stood watching it flame up before turning away with an oath to find his hat and coat. He swung the greatcoat about his shoulder and clamped his high-crowned beaver upon his pomaded locks. At the door, he stopped, looking back. “I have to go out,” he said in phrases so clipped it was obvious he was laboring under a sense of ill-usage. “I will return shortly, and when I do, I expect to find you tucked up in the bed in the chamber upstairs!”
When he had gone, Julia breathed a long sigh of relief. A moment later she uttered a grim laugh. Why should she be relieved? Soon, he would return. Nothing would have changed. She would have no one to defend her, but herself.
Her gaze moved about the room, returning once more to the table in front of her. On the platter holding the sliced ham lay a knife, a sharp knife with a long, dull steel blade and a thick wooden handle. Reaching out, she took it up and wiped the grease from the blade with a chunk of stale bread. Face impassive, she tucked the knife into the inside pocket of her cloak, then went to sit upon the settle.
For a long time, she sat staring into the dying embers, feeling the chill creeping back into the room. At last, she sighed, and reaching up, untied her bonnet. Taking it off, she laid it to one side, then leaned her head back into the corner of the high wooden bench.
She was shaken awake some time later. The jerking knocked her head against the wooden backrest. She came awake to a red haze of pain laced with a saving anger. Without stopping to think, she hit out with her doubled fist, catching Marcel a blow to the chin.
Enraged, he snatched her to her feet, smashing a ringing slap across her face. As she gasped with pain, he twisted her arm behind her, saying through his teeth, “What you need, ma chére, is taming, starting with a lesson in obedience. If you will not have the nice comfortable bed, then let it be the settle!”
He forced her back down on the hard wooden bench, tearing at the closing of her cloak with one hand. Struggling in his grasp, she kicked out at him. As her slipper came into contact with his shin, he grunted, giving the pin at her throat a savage jerk. The catch of the gold bee gave way. Julia cried out, trying to save it, but he threw cloth and pin aside. His fingers dug into the soft valley between her breasts, ripping at the fragile silk faille. She felt the cold touch her bared skin as her bodice and chemise parted to her waist. And then, he was pressing her back full-length along the settle. Her skirts rode above her knees and he swept them higher, his fingers raking along her thighs. Surging beneath him, she freed a hand to claw at his face, making red furrows down his cheek to his neck. He raised a hand and struck her once, twice. With the force of the last blow, she felt her teeth cut into her cheek, and she went mad.
“Get off!” she screamed, heaving, twisting, her movements carrying them over the edge of the settle to the floor. Her cloak slid with them, and through the fog of her hurt and fear and fury, she heard the knife as it struck the floor. Rolling, she felt it under her, and for a moment, she thought it was too entangled in the cloak for her to free. But, then the wooden handle was in the palm of her hand.
His weight drove the air from her lungs. His hot, brandy-fouled breath was in her face as his mouth covered hers. She felt the wet probing of his tongue against her clenched teeth, and her breasts ached from his merciless grip. His knee pushed between her legs as he ground the hardness of his loins against her belly. The knife was turned like a sword, blade uppermost in her hand. She gritted her teeth, drawing a sobbing breath, then drove it into Marcel’s side. With every nerve and sinew in her body, she recognized when the blade struck bone and tore through the thinness of skin into the muscles of his back.
He screamed, writhing. Arching his back, he flopped away from her to his side, reaching back for the knife. In mad haste, she scrambled from him, getting to her feet. Her legs would not support her. She fell to one knee, grasping at the edge of the table. In the light of the one guttering candle in the wall holder, she watched as Marcel floundered like a gaffed fish, blood from his wound soaking his coat, staining the floor.
Far away, beyond the confines of the parlor, she was aware of a clamor, of shouting and a banging noise which barely reached her. She paid no heed. Her eyes never left Marcel. He had ceased to struggle, but lay half on his side, his panting breath loud in the small room. He had not quite been able to catch the knife, buried at a slant in his back, though one arm was twisted behind him. The fingers of his other hand twitched, and his mouth hung open though his eyes were closed.
Carefully, Julia drew herself to her feet. She took a hesitant step toward him, circling slowly to his injured side. With a swift dart forward, she grasped the handle of the knife and pulled it out.
She backed away before he could move, the knife held tightly in her fist. He groaned and settled to his back. With dragging steps, she moved closer, peering into his face.
When the door crashed open behind her, she whirled, her free hand going to her torn bodice. The tall form of Rudyard Thorpe filled the doorway, with the innkeeper and a seaman from the
Sea Jade close behind. The captain took in the scene at a single glance, his eyes lingering on the bloodstained blade in her hand and the sprawled body of the man at her feet.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he drawled. “I am sorry if my interruption is untimely.”
5
The wedding ceremony passed in a gray haze of unreality. The priest stood before them, his lips moving in what might as well have been a foreign language. The altar cloth behind him, illuminated by candles, an oddity at midday, was edged in beautiful handmade lace. Julia stood in the place of honor with little realization of how she had come to be there. There was some mention of a special license, and she seemed to remember a long drive in a carriage, but the name of the church and the identity of the people around her were unknown.
Of the night before, she recalled even less. She had no memory of leaving the Dog and Partridge, nor of arriving back at the Sea Jade. The first thing she could recall was lying naked in her bunk in the pale light of dawn, watching without interest as Captain Thorpe had dragged from her trunk the white tissue silk shot with gold she had worn on the night of the soiree, the night they had met so long ago.
“Put it on,” he had instructed, and like someone lacking will of her own, she had obeyed. Once started, she had completed her toilette as a matter of course. She had dressed her hair high in a coronet of curls, applied a pink-tinged salve to her lips, and dusted her pale face with rice-powder papers in an effort to disguise the bruise which discolored her cheek.
She had exhibited a flash of animation when she had discovered her golden bee dangling from a thread on her cloak as she donned it. And, though the life had soon faded from her face, she had refused to put the pin away, holding it clasped in her hand until Rudyard had taken it from her to pin on a length of black ribbon at her neck.
Words, solemn and questioning. The faces of Jeremy Free and Second Mate O’Toole. Rudyard Thorpe’s warm brown hands holding hers. The cold slide of a gold ring. When Rud drew her close for the bridal kiss, she stiffened, her eyes growing wide, clearing with the sudden onrush of fear. But his touch was gentle, the kiss he placed beside her mouth without ardor.
He released her to Jeremy Free, who kissed her cheek with an air too bashful to be frightening, and cleared his throat before he spoke his congratulations. O’Toole gave her a hearty hug and a “Bless ye, me brave darling!” Then, M’sieu Robeaud was there to take her hand and carry it to his dry lips, the salute due a married woman.
A document to sign, and then she was leaving the church on R
ud’s arm. The sleeve of his uniform jacket was rough to her fingers, but beneath it she could feel the strength of his support. Wind, fresh and cold, fluttered her cloak around her, bringing color to her cheeks and causing her eyes to tear. Overhead, a fitful sun poured its cool light down upon the street and the carriage drawn up before the gray stone church.
For the first time, Julia really saw the equipage which awaited them, though she realized she must have traveled to the church in it. It was a barouche, its black sides glistening and its silver fittings reflecting like mirrors. A coachman in claret livery sat upon the box, while a footman, also in livery and a powdered wig, stood beside the folding steps, ready to swing the door open for their entrance. Four matched black horses stood stamping their hooves in impatience at being kept standing. Their leather harness was supple with polish and highlighted with silver, while nodding above each of their heads was an upstanding plume dyed claret.
“The property of my uncle, Thaddeus Baxter,” Rud said, keeping his voice low. Julia nodded and permitted herself to be handed in.
Inside, she discovered the luxury of claret velvet seats and squabs, swing-down footrests, and tiny flower vases of silver. On this occasion, the vases held a single white rose, a touch which pleased her far beyond what was normal.
The coachman gave the horses their office to start. Through the window, Julia caught a glimpse of Jeremy and the others and leaned forward quickly to wave. Then, they were drawing past, pulling out into the street.
She settled back. Her hands fell into her lap, and unconsciously, she began to turn the ring on the third finger of her left hand. She was married. The man beside her was Captain Rudyard Thorpe, and he was her husband.
“Are you warm enough?” Rud asked.
She sent him a sharp glance. “Yes, I — I’m fine.”
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Page 9