The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  Four guards surrounded him, all training pistol barrels at his skull. Alex tensed, not from the guns, but from the beast in a grey woolen uniform directly in front, one he’d grown to know intimately well the past few days—leastwise the man’s knuckles. Lord, did he have to be on duty today? Truly?

  “Getting handy with the delivery girl, are ye? We’ll have none of that.” The fellow to his left flipped his gun around, preparing for a sound pistol whip.

  Alex hesitated, one, two, then leaned away at the last instant before the strike, avoiding the whack to the head but not the incoming boot to his belly. Air rushed out in a groan as he doubled over. Agony radiated from gut to ribs. How much beating could a body take before breaking beyond repair?

  Johanna’s “No!” rode the crest of the brute’s “Move him out of here.”

  Hands gripped him under each arm, hefting him up, dragging him forward, pulling him from Johanna’s protests and toward the snickers and slurs of fellow prisoners coming out to the yard. By the time he gained his breath, the gaol swallowed him into a narrow throat of a corridor.

  The guards prodded him onward, two beside, one behind, and deposited him where he’d begun two days ago—in front of the slip-faced turnkey behind the scarred desk.

  “What’s this?” The man scowled down at them all, and Alex tried hard not to give in to the horrid fascination of staring at the ruined flesh that should have been a nose.

  Beside him, the biggest man growled out a profanity. “He took out Briggs and Grimley, sir.”

  “That so?” The turnkey’s gazed fixed on him. The man blinked, an odd effect from the offset eyes, like the half-flicker of a dying candle. “Didn’t fancy picking oakum today, hmm? And here I thought the honest work would make a new man of ye. Aah, well. We gots other methods.”

  Though it ripped a fresh wave of torment through his bones, Alex straightened and threw back his shoulders. “You have no right to hold me here. By who’s order am I detained?”

  “Rights?” A croak of a laugh issued from the turnkey’s mouth. “You sound like a flamin’ American.”

  “You have no idea who I am.” His swollen lips once again lifted into a smile. “Pity. You ought choose your enemies more wisely.”

  Purple crept up the warden’s neck, crawled over his chin, and bloomed upon his cheeks like a bruise. “What’s that? A threat from a scarpin’ piece of jailbait?”

  “A promise.”

  The turnkey reared back on his stool. “That’s it! Take him down, boys. We’ve wasted enough time on this one. He can rot.”

  Fingers bit into the soft flesh beneath his arms, yanking him back into the corridor. The biggest fellow led them on a return path to the yard. At least he wasn’t going toward the gibbet. A small mercy, that.

  As they neared the door, he considered an elbow jab to the fellow on the right, just for spite, but that would be the best he could manage. Trapped between two guards and spent beyond exhaustion, any resistance he might give would cost more strength than he owned.

  The big man opened the door, holding it wide, then swiveled his head to the guards. “Let him go.”

  The fellow gripping his arm on the left dug his fingers in deeper. “But warden said—”

  “I’ll do as warden asks—and more.” A wicked grin exposed the brute’s mustard-coloured teeth. “Just go open the hole for me. That’s all.”

  Alex stumbled, though he was hard pressed to decide if it was from the sudden freedom of being released or the revelation of his new home. The hole? That couldn’t be good.

  “Go on.” The beast at the door glowered at him. “Move it.”

  Fine. With a defiant lift of his head, Alex strode out—and a boot to his back sent him sprawling down the stairs. He landed chin first in the gravel, the sting against flesh hardly a comparison to the humiliation of knowing Johanna likely saw from across the yard—if she were looking. For a moment, he lay, stunned. Oh God, please don’t let her see this.

  A yank on his collar lifted him from behind. Airborne, he was driven around to the side of the staircase, where a cellar door gaped into blackness.

  “Kneel.”

  Hardly a command, for the man’s fists drove him to his knees.

  “Hands behind your head.”

  A sigh emptied his lungs. Fight or flight? What choice did he have? It was eight stairs up to the gaol door, but then the impossible odds of making it through the corridor, past the turnkey, and out the front. Or, had he enough stamina in store, he could take out the brute behind him and dash across the yard, disable the guards by the gate, and flee in Johanna’s wagon. He grimaced. The way his muscles quivered, he’d be lucky to crawl the distance, let alone dash. Blast it!

  Slowly, he lifted his arms.

  “Yer nothin’ but jailbait. Rat bait. Hell bait. Any way you look at it, bait’s what you are, and you ought not forget it.” Behind him, the man leaned closer, his breath fouling the skin on the back of Alex’s hands. “If you move, if you flinch, if you so much as make a noise, that hole in front of you will be your grave. Understand?”

  Alex sucked in air and held it, steeling his body for whatever torment the brute had in mind.

  Without warning, the sharp point of a knife cut into the flesh at the nape of his neck. Alex bit his tongue, trapping a cry. The blade dug a long line, from hairline to shirt, not deep, not to kill. Just to mark. He bit harder when the point struck again, slicing two curves attached to the line. Warm wetness drained out, soaking into his shirt, sticking the fabric to his back. Sweat dotted his forehead, but still he did not move.

  “There’s a B for you to remember what you are, Bait. Think on that. Think real well. I’ll give you all the time you need—and then some.”

  While the man chuckled, Alex dove, unwilling to suffer one more kick in the back. He somersaulted down moist rocks, each bump jolting pain deep enough to uproot the marrow in his bones. He landed on muck and rolled over, fighting to breathe.

  “That’s right, scurry off, vermin.” Above him, the man’s silhouette was a demon against the sky, but only for a moment. The door slammed.

  Blackness attacked, and he blinked as he rose to sit. But no. This was not a blinding dark. It was worse. A crack of light reached down from a weathered scar in the hole’s door, taunting him.

  Oh, God. Please. Not this.

  Rage shook along every muscle, masking the pain of cut and bruise and brokenness, and he pounded his fists onto the mucky earth. Over and over. Not this! Who’d put him here? And why?

  Finally spent, he leaned back, ignoring the fire on his neck from the torn flesh. Don’t look. Don’t do it. He repeated the words, shoring up against a coming attack that would leave him more ruined than a knife point.

  Just. Don’t. Look.

  Too late.

  His gaze shot upward, and as he stared at the crack in the door over his head, suddenly he was ten years old again. Alone. Isolated. Utterly, completely helpless. As powerless as the day his parents were gunned down.

  When he’d watched from the darkness of a closet through a crack in the door.

  Johanna pulled back on the reins, halting the old nag. She needn’t have. The horse had stopped more often than not on the entire plodding route up to Foxend Corner. Perhaps it was a small mercy the oakum load hadn’t been overlarge today, or the animal would’ve keeled over long ago.

  To her left, a margin of swaying grass dropped off to the crash of wave and wind below. She set the brake and climbed down, rounding the wagon in the opposite direction, then hesitated before a pile of leftover boulders. Should she climb over the rocks, or skirt them and fight with waist-high brush and scrub? She sighed and lifted her gaze skyward. Is this a fool’s errand, Lord?

  The trek up here supplied ample time to sort through her thoughts, so why were they still such a tangle? On the one hand, her heart broke afresh each time she replayed the blows Alex had suffered in her sight. On the other, why would he have been arrested in the first place were he not suspect
?

  She searched the sky for answers. Hoping for … what? Direction clearly written on the parchment of a cloud? Maybe she really was a fool after all.

  Setting her sights on the stand of trees beyond the rocks, she hoisted her skirts and began picking her way from stone to stone. Were Thomas up and about, this adventure would’ve suited him. The sun, high now in the sky, was a ruthless taskmaster, as was the gusty wind vying for her bonnet. Perspiration dampened her shift. Her toe caught on her underskirt, ripping the hem and teetering her off balance. Was Mr. Morton worth this much effort?

  She paused, her vision suddenly watery. Her last glimpse of the man, bloodied, beaten, and plummeting into some kind of cellar was answer enough. Traitor or not, no one deserved such violence—and he’d taken the brunt of it on her behalf simply by fighting off that ill-mannered guard.

  For a moment, she lifted her face to the sky, and prayed for the man who was a strange mix of honor and secrets. A man who took big risks but paid his debts, never seeming to wager what he could not afford to lose. She sucked in a breath as a stunning realization hit her for the first time.

  Maybe—just maybe—there was such a thing as an honorable gambler.

  The thought was so preposterous and alluring, that she hopped down from the last boulder, landing in weeds up to her knees. This close to the trees, beneath a leafy canopy, the wind took on a chillier note. She’d have to think on such disconcerting ideas later.

  Now then, which tree? She scanned the branches and found the leafless limbs, east of center. Swishing through the vegetation, she neared the dead ash and bent.

  Just as Mr. Morton had described, she spied a hollowed opening at the base of the trunk. She retrieved the small note from her pocket and poked it into the hole. Hopefully an animal or the wind wouldn’t steal it. Ought she put a rock or something in front of it? Well, that would be easy enough to find. Rising, she turned.

  Then screamed.

  A pace away, dark eyes stared down into hers, what she could see of them, anyway. The man wore his hat brim low, his black hair framing a face better suited to night and shadows. He was a ghost, this one. A spectre. A spirit.

  And entirely familiar.

  “La, sir!” She slapped a hand to her heaving chest. Had Mr. Morton known his friend would be here? Why had he not warned her? “You scared the breath from me, Mr … who are you?”

  His mouth, set in a flat line, didn’t move. Nothing about him did. The man was as hard and unyielding as the boulder pile. Even the blessed wind hardly riffled the tails of his riding cloak.

  “Who I am is of no consequence.” His gaze flicked past her shoulder and landed at the base of the ash. “More important is what’s on that piece of paper.”

  The next slap of breeze snagged a piece of her hair loose, a usable excuse to stall as she tucked it beneath her bonnet. Should she give him the note? Was this who Alex hoped would receive it? Clearly he had some sort of relationship with this man. Besides, if she didn’t give the paper to him, he’d simply take it when she left or maybe even shove past her to grab it.

  Bending, she fished the missive out and handed it over.

  He unfolded the message, his hat sitting so low it was impossible to read a response in his eyes. But she didn’t have to. His jaw clenched, and the muscles on his neck stood out like iron rods. The note disappeared in his fist as he shoved it into his pocket. “Blast!”

  She flinched. Not that she hadn’t heard coarser language in the taproom. No, it was the roar behind it, the man’s guttural, livid tone. She’d heard once that a tiger’s growl could kill a wildebeest just from the fright of the sound. She hadn’t believed such a fairy tale—until now.

  “What does it mean?” Her voice squeaked in comparison.

  Taking the hat from his head, he ran a hand through the tangle of black hair beneath and looked up at the sky. A sigh, long and low, slipped past his lips like a prayer. Finally, he reseated the hat and stared at her. “Better not to know.”

  She fought her own tigerish growl. Frustrating man. She stared right back. “You are a friend of Mr. Morton, are you not?”

  His head dipped, a clipped sort of nod yet fully believable.

  “He is in trouble, sir. I think you know that, though I cannot fathom how the single word Sackett penned on a slip of paper conveys such a message.” She stepped toward him, stopping an arm’s length away, willing him to see the desperation that surely must be written in the lines on her face. “Mr. Morton needs your help. He is in gaol, for what I suspect is a wrongful accusation. You must go speak for him.”

  A shadow crossed his face. What went on behind those dark eyes? Was he devising a plan? Composing a note for her to return to Alex? Deciding which official to speak to first?

  Without a word, he turned and walked away.

  Johanna’s jaw dropped. What? Why would a man turn his back on a friend?

  Clutching handfuls of her skirts, she ran after him. “Stop! You owe me an explanation. Both you and Mr. Morton.” She grabbed his sleeve, trying to turn him back around. “The least you can do is tell me what I’m involved in.”

  “I said it’s better not to know.” He shrugged from her grasp and continued his long-legged pace to where a horse waited near the edge of the trees.

  In the few moments it took him to untie his mount, she caught up to him. “Listen, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is, I could barely stand to look upon Alex—I mean, Mr. Morton, without weeping. He is a beaten man, sir. What I know is that he suffers. What I do not know is if he really is a traitor, as accused.” She lifted her chin, daring him with a direct gaze. “Nor if you are.”

  “You would not be here if you truly believed him a traitor.”

  His words were a blow to her heart. How could he know what she barely acknowledged? Slowly, she nodded. “True, I believe Mr. Morton is a good man. You, I’m not so sure about.”

  It started small, a tiny twitch, hardly more than a whisper really. Then slowly, methodically, his mouth curved into a full-blossomed smile, his face years younger. Boyish, almost. The look captured her by surprise, for she never imagined this dour enigma could transform into such a dashing figure.

  “As I’ve said before, Miss Langley, you will do, and quite well.” Humor softened the edges of his words.

  “I can do naught. Will you help him, sir? Will you ride into town and speak to the magistrate?”

  Quick as a late spring tempest, his grin disappeared. His eyes sparked gunmetal grey, cold and unrelenting. “I cannot.”

  “What is wrong with you? You’re his friend. You coward!” Her fingers flew to her mouth. What had gotten into her? She’d done what she’d been asked. Delivered the note. End of deed. Why provoke for a cause she owed no further allegiance to?

  The wind lifted his collar. Beside him, his horse stamped a snort, and still he did not move. Had she pushed him too far? She retreated a step.

  But his quiet words pulled her back. “That word, Sackett. It’s a code. Long ago, Giles Sackett was a man imprisoned at Newgate. An innocent, chained for a trumped-up accusation of debt by a vengeful duke. Word got out to his family, his friends, and though they played by the rules, seeking justice in court, they were denied. Treachery begets treachery, and so they devised a plot to rescue him through bribery and violence, stealing him away by dead of night.”

  He stopped, abruptly, his story like a wagon gone off one of Dover’s cliffs.

  “What happened?” she asked. “Surely there’s more.”

  Turning his back to her, he swung one long leg up and over the saddle, then looked down at her. “They were all killed, Miss Langley. Every last one. The word Sackett means back away, leave off, which is what I intend to do.”

  He reached for the reins—as did she. “No! If Mr. Morton is innocent, you can’t leave him undefended and alone.”

  “He is not. He has you.” He yanked the leather from her hands and heeled his horse onward, into the tall grass, toward the road leading to London.

 
Johanna growled at the sky, as deeply primal as the man’s earlier roar. What else was there to do?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Johanna opened the door to chaos, then stood there, jaw agape. Nary a space remained on any of the benches in the taproom. Around every table in the Blue Hedge Inn, women chattered, men wiped foam from their upper lips, and off in the corner, four children squatted on the floor, playing a game of pick-up-sticks. All looked to be fed, happy and in no hurry to leave. What in the world?

  Across the room, Mr. Quail bounded down the stairway and entered the throng, a smile on his lips and bounce to his step. Clearly the man was not as ill as his friends had claimed him to be the previous evening, nor did he appear any worse for the wear from having fled into a rainstorm.

  Johanna loosened her bonnet and tugged it off, then worked her way toward him. “I see you’ve made a quick recovery, sir.”

  “Hmm?” He turned at her voice, and a grin spread as his gaze landed on her. “Aah, yes. I am blessed with a strong physique.” His chest puffed out, and had he the space for it, no doubt he’d make a show of flexing his muscles. “Nothing keeps me down for long,” he drawled.

  She clenched her bonnet brim to keep from smacking the leer off his face. “You don’t fool me, Mr. Quail.”

  “The beautiful Johanna can hardly be called a fool. But tell me.” He reached out and fingered a loose curl of her hair. “What is it you think you know of me, kitten?”

  She batted his hand away. “I know you are responsible for breaking a window last night, and I expect full reimbursement.”

  “All right.”

  She froze. That had been entirely too easy. What was his game now? “All right what?”

  “You shall have it.” He shrugged.

  “Good.” She sounded like a sulky child.

  Yet the smoldering flash in his eyes labeled her anything but.

  If Alex had looked at her that way, her heart would beat with warmth. Coming from this man, fury fired in her stomach. “And use the front door next time! The folk around here turn a blind eye to smuggling. There’s no need to sneak out.”