Born for Thorton's Sake

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  

  Maria dipped her fingers in the ashes of an old fire outside Bevary Prison. The fires that produced them had long since died out. No doubt their flames had warmed many a cold and lonely guard.

  She smeared the ashes on her cheeks and forehead and under her eyes, finally wiping her hands on her already dirty and ragged clothing. She was trembling, nearly uncontrollably. What if she were found out? What would they do to her? Yet as she approached the guard at the prison’s front gate, she pulled her cloak’s hood over her head, thoughts of herself only secondary.

  “Good day, old mother,” the guard said, nodding and moving aside for her to pass.

  “Good day,” she muttered as she passed him. Her heart was pounding so furiously with fear she was sure he would hear its mad drumming as she passed. But he simply stepped back to his post.

  Hurriedly, Maria entered the dark, cold, oppressive edifice. Several more guards, filthy and foul-smelling, nodded and let her pass. With each challenge met and conquered, she grew more confident and more impatient. The prison was damp, and the stench permeating every passageway sickened her. Maria held her cloak more tightly against her mouth and nose as she hurried through the dungeon-like corridors, at last reaching the furthest cells.

  The light from the flamed torches flickered ominously, and she began to sense doom and despair. Tears filled her eyes as she thought of her precious Brock locked up in one of the horrible Bevary prison tombs.

  At last she found it: the cell the old woman described. She knew she had only one opportunity. If she had been mistaken, taken one false turn, all hope would be lost for Brock and for herself as well. She had no doubt of it.

  She motioned to the guard to unlock the iron door imprisoning whatever man she might find inside. Maria watched anxiously as the guard inserted an enormous iron key into the lock. She jumped, startled, as the lock groaned and gave way with a loud knock of iron against iron.

  “He’s a lively one, that one in there, mother. Watch yourself,” the guard warned as Maria stepped from the corridor into the shadowy, filthy, frigid cell. The slamming of the enormous door behind her sealed her within the stone vault.

  For a moment, she remained motionless as her eyes attempted to adjust to the gloom of darkness in which she stood. One high, barred window allowed a solitary shaft of sunlight to permeate the miserable abode. Dirty straw was strewn on the floor and, to one side, two well-worn, tattered quilts.

  Her disbelieving gaze fell to the furthest corner of the room. There, sitting on the floor, arms resting on knees, head resting on arms, sat a pitiful figure.

  Maria’s heart beat madly! Tears filled her eyes, fear her heart. Surely, this cannot be he, was her first thought, for the shell of a man appeared emaciated, dirty, unshaven, and weak.

  “I’ve no wish for a visit today,” came the raspy, yet undeniably familiar voice. He spoke without looking up.

  Maria’s hand flew to her mouth to muffle a gasp as tears flooded her cheeks. She must remain calm! She must not raise the suspicion of the guards.

  As slowly as her body would allow, she walked softly toward him, saying, “Come now…let a lonely woman find comfort in a visit.”

  She stopped her approach when he lifted his head and demanded, “Who are you?”

  She raised her finger to her lips, indicating he should be silent. “’Tis I…Mother O’Malley. Come to visit, as I do every month, lad.”

  Maria hastily moved toward him as he stood and shouted, “Who are you? Your voice…it sounds to me…I’ve finally lost my wits, have I not?”

  Quickly, she moved to him. She placed her fingers to his lips as she dropped the hood that had hidden most of her face.

  “No, my love,” she whispered. “You are as witty as ever.”

  She smiled as she looked up into his beautiful, beloved eyes—the eyes she had dreamt of for so long. A shaggy, matted beard covered his face. Although his hair hung well below his shoulders, it was his hair—beautiful chestnut-gold flecked hair unique only to Brockton Thorton! The tears streaming down Maria’s face only increased as she saw the hollowness of his cheeks and eyes. His lips were dry and cracked. Looking at him, she could see how thin he had become. Fury at those who caused him such pain and suffering erupted within her!

  “Maria?” passed the raspy whisper through the parched lips. His eyes narrowed, and he reached out, wiping at the ashes on her face with thin fingers.

  “Shhhh!” she said softly.

  “What goes on there, old mother? ”the guard queried from beyond the door.

  “Not a thing, lad,” she answered in her best mimic of Mother O’Malley’s voice. “The lad was dreamin’ for a moment. He’ll be fine, he will. Now, let us be havin’ our words.” She sighed with relief as she heard the guard’s retreating footsteps.

  “Maria,” Brock breathed, reality finally penetrating doubt. The moisture in his eyes increased. “My pretty kitten,” he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion and fatigue.

  Maria looked back to the cell door to ensure their privacy. She let her arms carefully encircle his waist as she endeavored to embrace him. She was aghast to sobbing at how thin he was. He held her to him. She sobbed bitterly when she realized he was too weak to hold her with the strength he once had.

  “Brock,” she wept ever so quietly, “you’re here! I’ve found you!”

  A moment later, Brock dropped to his knees, his arms encircling her waist. His head fell forward against her stomach. He buried his face in the folds of her dress, and she let her fingers be lost in his hair. He shivered, and she fancied for a moment that he was close to something akin to sobbing. She did not find his emotion weak, for she could not fathom the horror he had endured over the past months. Further, she was close to fainting herself, so great and overpowering was her joy in feeling his touch once more.

  Sensing he may be too infirm to rise again, she knelt before him, his eyes again meeting her own. For everything he had endured, his eyes still captured her soul, her obsessive love and desire for him overwhelming her. Every essence, every pore of her being was alive in him once more.

  “Maria,” he whispered again as he raised one hand to caress her cheek, attempting to smile.

  Carefully, for fear she may cause him unnecessary pain, she took his bearded face in her hands and whispered, “Really, Brock. Such dramatic lengths to go to…simply to avoid losing one’s bachelorhood.”

  He puffed a single chuckle. It seemed to be all that was in him. Maria smiled and adoringly stroked his beard.

  He said then, “You are in grave danger, Maria. You must leave at once!”

  She shook her head and whispered, “Not alone. Never again will I be without you.”

  “Do not be foolish, girl,” he growled. “I am in no condition to execute any form of attempt at escape. If they find you here, they will…” His words trailed off and vanished. He seemed undone at the touch of her satiny lips to his cheeks.

  “I will not exist without you again, Brock,” she whispered. She moved to kiss his mouth, but he turned away.

  “No,” he mumbled. “I have no looking glass in which to sight my condition. Still I know what a devil must sit here before you.”

  Maria’s heart tore with pain. How many times in her life had he come to her rescue? Even saved her life? How many times had he salvaged her self-esteem and confidence? How many times had the situation been the reverse, with her feeling drab and plain in comparison with the magnificent lord of the manor?

  She took his face between her small hands and turned it to hers once more. She asked, “I have come all this way, and you do not even want to kiss me?”

  He rolled his eyes, and her heart leapt at the sight of the all too familiar gesture. “It is not a question of whether or not I want to kiss you, temptress. Look at these lips! The very flesh of them dry, parched. What do you expect me to—”

  Again his words were halted by her endeavors. Brock seemed to watch in disbelief, unbelieving and mesmerized as Ma
ria slowly moistened her own lips with her tongue. His eyebrows rose in wonder as she then placed one finger on her tongue and used the appendage to moisten her lips further. She smiled playfully and moistened the finger once more. This time she placed it on Brock’s lower lip.

  Instantly she was in his arms! His solid embrace was once again kindred to what it once was. Although his heavy facial hair scratched at the tender flesh of her face and his parched lips no doubt ached against her own, the tears of ecstasy flooded her cheeks.

  Brock’s kiss! Nectar to her senses! The physical strength may well have been drained from him, but his unconscious ability to send the blood hastening through her veins was as overwhelming as ever it had been. More so!

  He kissed her as he never had before, with a desperation and loving brutality, threatening to overpower her virtue and sanity! Her mind fought to regain control of their desperate situation, of the reality of it.

  Pushing herself from his arms, she put a hand at his mouth to keep hers from returning to it.

  “We must go, Brock. At once,” she whispered.

  “How?” he asked, collapsing back to sit in the straw. He was breathless, weakened from the effort at loving her. “You’ve a plan then?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  She quickly explained what action they must take, but he frowned. “I am greatly weakened, Maria,” he said as she helped him to his feet. “Still…to have you in my arms again…to take you to wife, to bed, and to my life…for that I may muster even what was once within me,” he whispered.

  Maria wiped the tears from her cheeks, desperately wanting only to be in his arms once more. Still, until escape was their success, it could not be.

  Maria took a deep breath. Brock nodded and doubled over to feign illness.

  “Guard!” she cried. “Quickly! Come in here this minute!”

  The heavy iron door opened, and the guard lumbered toward them.

  “What’s all this, old mother?” he asked.

  “The lad has taken ill with stomach pain,” she said. “See here. He’s bleeding as well, he is.”

  As the guard bent to inspect his prisoner, Brock looked up and muttered, “Hello, Petey.”

  “What?” the guard asked, astonished.

  Brock took the guard’s shoulders, bringing his knee up with an incredible force to meet with the man’s stomach. The guard fell to the floor, gasping for breath. Brock hit him squarely on the back of the head, rendering him unconscious and falling to his knees from the exertion.

  “Here,” Maria said, reaching beneath her cape and producing rope. “Help me to remove his clothing and then bind him. We must be quick.”

  The possibility of impending freedom seemed to rejuvenate Brock. Maria watched as he donned the guard’s dirty clothes and then tied and gagged the beast. Leaving the cell, they made their way up through the corridors, returning the greeting nods of the other guards they passed along the way. Maria was very grateful for the dim-lighted, shadowy state of the prison corridors.

  As they approached the front gates, however, the guard posted turned and looked at them, curious.

  “Ay? What goes on here?” he asked as they approached.

  “She’s hurt her ankle,” Brock said, imitating the guards’ roughened language.

  “You all right now, mother?” the gatekeeper asked.

  Maria nodded and motioned him aside.

  “I’ll see the ol’ woman home,” Brock said as they left by way of the Bevary Prison front gate.

  Slowly, they ambled down the lane, Brock pretending to help Maria walk as she limped. Once around the bend, they wasted no time in rejoicing at their escape but continued on in a quick manner, trying to appear unsuspicious.

  Several minutes later, they reached the home of Mother O’Malley. She was waiting for them.

  “There be a horse out back for ya, sire,” Mother O’Malley said in a whisper. “Me own dear lad, Michael, will see ya safely back to the inn, lass,” she said to Maria.

  “How can we ever thank you? How can such a debt ever be repaid?” Maria asked through her tears. The enormity of it all—the truth of Brock’s escape, of his very breath and life—was washing over her like a beloved spring rain. It was strenuous, and she felt the need to collapse. Yet there was not time for weakness of mind or body.

  The woman smiled at her. “’Tis no debt, I tell ya. His lordship was not meant to be there in the first.”

  Brock raised the old woman’s knurled hand to his own parched lips. “We are forever indebted to you, good mother. Remember it. When you need help of any sort, you will call upon me. I am your servant, ma’am.”

  The woman nodded, and Maria smiled at the woman’s blush.

  “Go on with ya now. They’ll be ridin’ here at any moment,” the woman whispered. “First, you’ll be tyin’ me to the kitchen chair there. I’ll say the lass came and stole me clothes to break ya from that hole.”

  Brock nodded. He worked quickly, and soon the old woman was tied comfortably to the chair. She assured them if it took the guards at the prison too long to find her, her son would find her when he returned from taking them to the inn.

  Brock changed clothes, as did Maria, and they rushed to the rear of the cottage. Brock mounted the horse tethered there. Maria looked up at him. He was almost vibrant looking.

  “I’ll not be able to return home for some time, Maria,” he said.

  “What?” she gasped. “Brock! I cannot possibly—”she began.

  “I will have to prove this crime of Harrison’s first. The declaration will have to be circulated I do not belong in prison. I promise I will come to you the moment I am able.”

  “Brock! Please!” Maria began.

  “I love you, Maria,” he said. He reached down, taking her chin roughly in his hand. Bending toward her, he kissed her once more. Then with a snap of leather, he was off at a gallop.

  Seated in the carriage and headed for the inn, Maria explained to herself that Brock had no time to dally. He had to escape, put distance between himself and the prison before he was found missing. Yet somehow she felt lonely and lost, frightened and defeated. He’d been away from her for so long. The evil of suspicion, the devil’s tool, doubt, began to whisper to her thoughts. Perhaps his feelings had changed. Men did change during long, horrid incarcerations. No! Brock loved her. She knew he did. She had seen it in his eyes in the cell when he recognized her. Had she not?

  The carriage stopped, and she alighted. She nodded at the old mother’s son and dropped several coins into his hand. She endeavored to appear calm as she entered the inn. Upon seeing her, the innkeeper broke immediately into a babble of local news.

  “Oh, miss! We’re so glad to see you’ve returned safely,” he exclaimed.

  Maria feigned ignorance. “Why? Whatever for?” she nonchalantly asked.

  “Such news! One of the convicts from the prison has up and simply walked out! He’s still in these parts, no doubt!”

  Maria put her hand to her mouth in a dramatic gesture. “No! How horrid! How frightening!”

  The innkeeper nodded vigorously and continued, “A mean one, they say. Killed someone, they say.”

  “No! How terrifying! A murderer? Unleashed in the township?” she gasped.

  Again the innkeeper nodded.

  “Well, I’ve no wish to stay here a moment longer! Imagine, cutthroats and thieves roaming freely about! When does the next conveyance leave?” she asked, fanning herself dramatically.

  “A wise decision, miss. A wise decision.”

  

  Two hours later, Maria sat in a coach as it raced toward home. As she gazed out the window, she whispered, “Is he well?” Where was he? Would she ever see his face again or feel his fascinating, loving kisses? Would she ever be his wife?

  How difficult it would be not to tell Lady Thorton she had actually seen Brock! Touched him! That he was, in fact, living! Yet she knew it would be far too dangerous. One mistake, one simple word at an evening meal atten
ded by Harrison, could be catastrophic if anyone but she knew of Brock’s liberation from the prison.

  Would he indeed return? she wondered. People changed drastically after enduring such atrocities. Would he still desire to live the life he had desired before? Would he want to live it with her? The utter elation and relief that had flooded her being upon their exit from the prison walls were fast turning to doubt and despair. Still, Maria shook her head. Closing her eyes, she thought of Brock, sensed his arms about her, his lips pressed to hers. She saw his smile, his beloved dimple, his eyes. In these visions, the devil was beaten, and affirmation he loved her warmed her once more.

  

  “You look far worse than you did upon leaving for your holiday, my darling!” Lady Thorton exclaimed upon Maria’s entering the house.

  “Simply fatigued from travel, milady,” Maria lied as the beloved woman embraced her.

  “Harrison is about,” Lady Thorton warned in a barely audible whisper.

  “Ah! Maria! Are we quite rested and recovered, my sweet?” Harrison’s voice boomed from behind her, sending a sickening sensation throughout her body. It was as if the mere whisper of his name conjured up the devil himself.

  Maria turned, glaring at him.

  “I see you haven’t lost the sorceress’s look in your eyes. Good to see it!” he chuckled.

  “The child is tired, Harrison. Leave her be,” Lady Thorton stated.

  “Mother,” Harrison began, “I have been very patient with you…tolerant of your assumed air of matronly authority. But I warn you…curtail it! The time is upon you when I will be listened to and obeyed here. I am in charge of matters of estate…and in charge of you.”

  Maria was tired and infuriated. Her words lashed out at the brute. “You are the most vile, loathsome creature ever to draw breath, Harrison Thorton!” she shouted, moving to stand before him. “It is no wonder to me your own father disowned and forgot you. To treat your mother so! And to despise a brother who never wronged you!”