Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series)

by Heisinger, Sonja

  Evelyn stared into the crowd, and in each face, she saw the likeness of her musical counterpart. She wondered if Lucius was here, staring back at her with his bright, ever-changing eyes. If she found him, if he saw her looking at him, would he know her thoughts? That in this moment, as the chemicals in her body screamed fearful, sad, and longing thoughts, would he know that she no longer wanted to be here? Would he know that now was the perfect time to rescue her? That she was desperate to be saved?

  She could not locate him, and her heart sank. Of course he was not here. Evelyn had ruined any semblance of friendship that had threatened to rise between them. Lucius would have no desire to watch her play her music. He had heard enough in his lifetime, as the songs from their past only served to widen the abyss between them. Evelyn had made certain of that.

  She positioned her fingers in new places, readying them to perform Mr. Dupont’s request. But before she could create a sound, Mr. Dupont changed his mind. Evelyn’s silence had lasted too long, and it was apparent her admirers were eager for the real show to begin. They no longer wanted music, fast, slow, or otherwise. They wanted Evelyn. Just Evelyn.

  His hands slipped over hers, and he met her gaze with sharp eyes.

  “All done, Princess.”

  She stared back, confused. Hadn’t he asked her for another song?

  The room was thick with tension. The men had been waiting for this. It was all well and good to watch Evelyn Brennan for any elongated period of time. She was a fine show, to be sure. But God knew they had come here for one thing, and listening to a piano was not it.

  As her performance came to an end, Evelyn began to think this nightmare had finally ceased. Perhaps now she could return to camp. Though she had departed in desperation, she was more than ready to go back. She might even return with the same relish with which she had left. She was not eager to offer explanations, but the idea of receiving a comforting embrace from Josephine, or a sweet smile from Adele was enough to bring her to her feet. She swayed beneath the sudden movement, and she might have fallen if Mr. Dupont’s hands were not upon her still. He led her away from the piano, but instead of escorting her offstage, he had her stand in the center, facing the men.

  Evelyn’s stomach churned with apprehension as Mr. Dupont’s claw-like fingers dug into her arms. She could not escape his grasp, even if she wanted to.

  Smiles crept further and further across the faces of the spectators as they looked up at Evelyn with hungry eyes. Suddenly, she felt exposed and embarrassed. Everything in her wanted to turn away.

  Please stop looking at me like that, she begged, though the words did not cross her lips. Instead, she shut her eyes in an attempt to shut out the room.

  Wake up, she told herself. Wake up.

  “Gentlemen,” Mr. Dupont’s voice boomed. “Let me introduce you to this evening’s entertainment.”

  He did not say her name, but he did not need to. Even if he had, it would not have been heard over the roar of the men’s applause. They clapped, whistled, shouted, and hooted their praise.

  The din was so loud it hurt Evelyn’s ears. If her arms had been free, she would have run.

  Instead, she squeezed her eyes tighter.

  “Look at them,” Mr. Dupont growled.

  She shook her head, to which his vice-like grip tightened. She emitted a small cry of pain.

  “You’re hurting me,” she told him.

  “Then open your eyes.”

  When she did, the light inspired an instant headache. The room seemed to spin, and Evelyn was at once dizzy. Her corset felt too tight, and she was acutely aware of the fuzziness that warned of fainting.

  It was all too much. The hunger. The wine. The clothes. The makeup. The absinthe. The opium. The piano. This. This was too much, yet she could not escape. Mr. Dupont had a hold of her, and he would not let go.

  He smiled at his audience.

  “You’ve wanted her,” he told them, and there was a cheer of agreement. “You have seen her in camp, have watched her as she passed by, have forgotten your wives and girlfriends as you’ve imagined yourself in her arms. Because God knows she’s better looking than anyone you left at home, am I right?” Another cheer. “You have heard the rumors. You have dared to hope that tonight might present you with the opportunity to make your dreams come true. The question is, what would you pay to feel the warmth I now feel beneath my fingers? What would you give to touch this skin, to kiss these lips, to lose yourself in the beauty and purity of this divine goddess? At what price will your imagination become reality?”

  Endless cheering.

  The speech was lost on Evelyn. It was only more noise, more words, more information she could not understand.

  Just then, a familiar face entered the room, and it was with this face that Evelyn’s jumbled thoughts unified in alarm.

  He had slipped inside, along with a small group of other men. He wore confidence as though everyone had gathered and waited just for him to arrive. As though this evening was in his honor, and Evelyn Brennan had been preened and adorned for him only. And she might as well have been, for all the fresh money he held in his pockets. It was her money, but no matter. She did not need to know she was about to be bought with her own purse. All she knew now was that she had walked away from Brock Donnigan, but he had found her, and he had come to claim her once and for all.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The sun had fallen behind the sea, the moon was full, and there were few stars to be seen.

  Josephine’s heart pounded swift and hard as she flew through a moonlit labyrinth of tents, and when she reached the main avenue into the city, her flight came to a standstill. The street was lit with torches, and a disheveled man was wandering alone in the lane, stumbling from cobblestone to cobblestone, his hair wild and his face bruised.

  It was Lucius.

  The air was filled with the sounds of saloons, brothels, and gambling houses, and with one glance at Lucius Flynn, Josephine could see he had gotten enough exposure to any number of the three, and had not emerged any better for it. His gait spoke of tremendous loss, his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his grievous disappointments.

  When he first saw her, he could not place her. She looked like Josephine: small, lovely, and glowing mutely in the torchlight. She was definitely a female of a young, transitory age, but she could not be Josephine, for there was no reason why Josephine would be out alone, at night, staring back at him.

  Unless something was wrong. Unless she had come looking for him.

  Selfless moments were a rare occurrence for Lucius. Indeed, even now he was sorely tempted to believe that Josephine had been worried about him, and that was why she had come searching. He almost called out to her, almost told her that all was well, that she must return to camp, that he would be along shortly. But he would not be along shortly, nor would he ever. He would find a way to disappear, for his great mistake was enough to render him unworthy of his friends. He had lost everything of value, had forfeited everything he possessed over a failed attempt at retribution.

  And yet, the look upon Josephine’s face inspired a strange breed of urgency, as though she had not merely sought Lucius for the sake of finding him, but instead required his help.

  He took a few carefully placed steps towards her so as not to betray his drunkenness, and at the sight of his wary movements, she broke into a sprint. She was with him in an instant, arms locked around his waist. Then, in such haste she hardly noticed the stench of ale and vomit about him, she pulled away and clutched his hand in her own.

  With one look into her pleading eyes, he knew he was to follow her. Whither to, he was uncertain, and his legs threatened to balk at the idea of returning to camp. But it was not in the direction of camp that she led him. Rather, they moved further up the lane, with Josephine inclining an ear from one side of the street to the other, listening. For what, Lucius did not know, but it was evident she was searching for something.

  Lucius wondered if he had passe
d out after all, and this was some sort of strange dream. He had never dreamt of Josephine before, but since the night of the cholera, he had dreamt of curious things. Once he dreamt he was swimming in a vast pool of water, wherein he opened his mouth and found he could breathe. He inhaled deeply, wondering why he had never tried to breathe underwater before, for the sensation was so fulfilling, so refreshing. He then discovered a ladle in his hand, like the one Josephine had given him when he was ill, and he brought it to his lips and drank.

  When he woke in the morning, he felt as though every cell in his body was rejuvenated, as though he could climb a mountain, or swim the sea.

  It reminded him of when he was a boy, when he used to dream about swimming to England. Away from Limerick, away from his father.

  He waited for it now, waited for the water to come gushing from windows and alleyways, flooding the streets, cleansing the city, and cleansing him. He longed to open his mouth and breathe it in, to feel it enter his lungs and heal his wounds: like his heart, which Evelyn had scorned, or his spirit, which Brock Donnigan had broken.

  There was no flash flood, however. Only the growing ruckus of Mr. Dupont’s eating house, which came ever closer as they walked. The sound of it eclipsed all the nearby establishments, even Mr. Barrie’s.

  It was called the Buck’n Burro, and the sign out front portrayed the silhouette of a kicking mule.

  Josephine stopped and faced the entrance.

  Lucius glanced from Josephine to the sign and back again. What did the girl want with the Buck’n Burro? And on a night like this? There was some commotion within, and it was apparently this commotion for which Josephine had been searching. But why?

  She gave Lucius’ hand a squeeze and turned to look at him. When he caught her eye, she nodded, and together, they went within.

  Upon entering, the noise was nearly deafening.

  The place was bursting with customers, all pressing against one another with their arms lifted into the air. The place stunk of unclean men, alcohol, tobacco, and opium, and a cloud of sweat and smoke hovered at eye level. The atmosphere was hardly conducive for breathing.

  Lucius was not yet aware of their purpose here, but Josephine was on the hunt. Though she was smaller than the rest, she caught a glimpse of the stage through a gap between two men, and gasped.

  Yes. This was it. They had found the right place.

  With Josephine’s hand secured around Lucius’ fingers, the pair elbowed their way through the crowd, while the crowd cursed and shoved back. Something splashed into Josephine’s face and ran into the collar of her dress, and she recognized the same acrid scent of ale that was on Lucius’ breath. She tried to keep walking, but Lucius yanked his hand free and used it to shove the man who had spilled his drink. Josephine intervened by pulling him away, lest he get involved in a fruitless altercation, and as Lucius was still quite drunk, he did not argue. But by God, if someone else should offend that dear girl, he would bash that man’s face in.

  The chaos of the Buck’n Burro was confusing enough to Lucius, who was still trying to figure out why Josephine had brought him here. As his thoughts were moving slowly, he was not as quick to solve this problem as he would like to be. Under normal- all right, sober- conditions, Lucius would have never allowed Josephine to come in here. She was a child, for God’s sake. What in the world could she be seeking in such a place? Lucius didn’t like it, but what choice did he have but to go along? He could barely form a coherent sentence, much less resist the surprising strength of the little maid. And she was strong, by Jove! How did she get so strong?

  As they advanced through the crowd, Lucius took notice of one particular voice that sounded dreadfully familiar, though he shook his head as if to dismiss the notion. It couldn’t be. It wouldn’t be.

  But it was.

  Not three feet from Lucius stood Brock Donnigan, one arm in the air along with the rest. He was shouting something, and once Lucius had experienced the initial shock of seeing him, he felt the desire to run out the door, while paradoxically hoping to gain more proximity to the bastard and plant a fist in his jaw. He did neither of these things, but instead paid closer attention to the whole of what Brock was participating in. Everyone present was shouting. It was some sort of auction, but for what?

  Lucius once more felt the tug of Josephine’s hand in his, but his feet were planted. For the first time, he glanced in the direction she was pulling him, and his stomach felt as though it had dropped and hit the floor. His jaw fell slack, his knees went weak, and his heart nearly exploded through his chest.

  A cold chill began in his toes and traveled up the length of his body, followed by a warm, tingling sensation.

  These men were facing one direction. They had gathered for one purpose. They were bidding on one thing. And there she was, on display, standing like a mannequin before them all.

  Josephine looked back at Lucius, saw the recognition in his face as he was stunned into sobriety. He had gone pale, and his eyes stared unblinkingly at the woman who was up for sale.

  His first reaction was dismay. He said her name, though none but Josephine heard it. He took a step closer, still struggling to comprehend the vision before him. Evelyn was dressed like a whore, and she was not alone on that stage. There was the establishment’s owner- the infamous and seedy Mr. Dupont- standing beside her, his dirty little fingers wrapped around her arm.

  How had she come to be here? And why? What the hell was she doing?

  Was this Lucius’ fault? Had Evelyn heard about his loss? Had she come to Mr. Dupont for money? Was this her way of earning back the fortune she no longer possessed? Could she sink so low? Would Evelyn Brennan, lady of Ireland, heiress of Brennan House, rumored duchess, princess, sell herself as a courtesan?

  No. No, she most certainly would not. Evelyn Brennan would never condescend to such a monstrosity. Not even if she knew she was penniless.

  That bastard Mr. Dupont was grinning wickedly, repeating the bids as they reached his ears.

  “Five hundred dollars for the gentlemen there… Do I hear five-hundred-fifty?... Five-eighty… Hot damn! Six hundred!...”

  Lucius looked around the room, taking in the red faces of the screaming men, the way saliva sprayed from their mouths as they hollered their bids…

  And then there was Evelyn: silent, wavering, her eyes rolling languidly from side to side. Something was wrong with her. Her mouth twisted into a grimace as she futilely attempted to tug her arm from Dupont’s grasp. He would not let her go, and she surrendered quickly, for she had little strength left to fight.

  To fight. She wanted to fight! Something suddenly seemed very clear to Lucius Flynn. However Evelyn had come to be here, she was in trouble. Lucius must do something to put an end to this before-

  “One thousand dollars!”

  There was a hush as the room went still and all eyes turned to Brock Donnigan.

  “One… thousand… dollars?” Mr. Dupont repeated haltingly, his heart racing. He gulped. “I’m afraid to ask if I heard you correctly, sir?”

  Brock Donnigan nodded once, a satisfied little smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

  “I can repeat myself, if you like,” he said.

  It took Dupont a second or two to collect himself.

  “No, no, sir, you’re quite all right.” Dupont cleared his throat. “Do I hear one-thousand-twenty-five?”

  The room was silent. Lucius glared at Brock Donnigan and felt the stirrings of hatred mingled with the heat of fury.

  “Anyone?” Dupont pressed.

  Lucius knew that the moment had finally come to repay the debt he owed to Evelyn.

  “Going once?”

  He would save her tonight.

  “Going twice?”

  “She’s my wife!” Lucius Flynn cried, his shrill voice cutting into the thick silence that had descended upon the room. He wrenched free of Josephine, leaving her sandwiched between two men while he shoved his way through the crowd.

  Before anyone
could get a good look at him, Lucius put his head down and charged Brock Donnigan. He slammed into the Australian’s gut, knocking him to the floor. Several men jumped back in alarm while Lucius planted his fist into Brock Donnigan’s face again and again.

  “She’s my wife!” he exclaimed once more. “She’s my wife!”

  From the stage, Evelyn regained some lucidity. She had faintly heard Brock Donnigan call out his outrageous bid, and then Lucius… Lucius…

  She knew it was him the instant she heard his voice. He had come. He was here to save her.

  It took her a second to realize he wasn’t coming for her right away. He was diverted, and suddenly there was a great commotion right where Brock Donnigan had been standing.

  No, he couldn’t be, he wouldn’t be! Lucius was attacking Brock, and Brock was twice his size! Brock would kill Lucius!

  Evelyn began to scream and thrash, desperate to get to Lucius, to stop him, but Mr. Dupont held her fast.

  Lucius’ knuckles smashed against Brock’s bones relentlessly, and Lucius found the more he allowed himself to unleash his fury, the more his fury consumed him. He could not stop himself; he did not want to. He wanted Brock to pay for everything he had done. For getting Stephen Whitfield killed, for seducing Evelyn, for abandoning them, for robbing them, and now this… this crime. Brock Donnigan had taken Lucius’ money, and now Brock Donnigan was using Lucius’ money to bid on Lucius’ wife.

  Lucius could kill him. Lucius could kill him right now.

  But the crowd would not allow it.

  Several men grabbed Lucius and pulled him off Brock Donnigan. Finally free, Brock rolled over with a groan and stumbled slowly to his feet. The spectators leaned in for a good look at him, and there was a subtle but reverberating murmur when they saw his face. His left brow and his bottom lip had split, and there was a large shiny bump growing visibly over his right cheekbone. It would be a beautiful ripe plum in the morning, and as Brock’s blood spilled from his brow, it formed a river along the bump’s edge. He spewed blood on the ground while glaring murderously at Lucius and sneered, revealing teeth stained with red.