by Louise Allen
She reached out to snuff the candle. The room was lit now only by the moonlight from outside. It cast the old furniture in silver and laid eerie shadows over the strange objects that littered the room. The soft breeze flapped a curtain and sent the elaborate rope trimmings swinging. Gallows rope. Lina shut her eyes and made herself think of Bella and Meg. If she tried hard enough she could conjure up a dream of them all together again, of laughter, of happy endings. She felt her lids begin to droop.
Quinn gripped the great carved newel post at the head of the stairs with one hand and hauled off his boots with the other. The uncarpeted corridor creaked like a Chinese emperor’s nightingale floor and Gregor, every bit as alert for assassins as any emperor, had ears like a bat. He’d be out demanding to know what was going on when all Quinn wanted was to go to sleep.
He’d ridden hard and far, through the park, down to the coast road, out over the marshes to the sea. When it was daylight he’d bring Falcon down to the beach again to exercise him in the sea, but he wasn’t risking a strange coast and unknown currents at night, however bright the moon.
Now Falcon was dozing in his stable, the fidgets worked out of him, and Quinn was pleasantly tired, shoulders aching a little from holding the stallion in check and rubbing him down. His mind, finally, was clear. So, Celina did not want him, not for money, anyway, and he was not prepared to pay with any emotional commitment. It was going to be sticky, the next few days, with her bristling like a porcupine every time she encountered him.
Quinn grunted under his breath. Too bad. He was going to have to embrace celibacy for a while—somehow he could not find it in himself to ride into Norwich in search of a woman—and she was going to have to live with him watching her for any signs of weakening.
He padded down the corridor, boots in one hand, past Gregor’s room, grinned at the sound of snores rumbling inside, past Celina’s chamber door. And froze.
There were no snores coming from inside, but there was a thud, a choking gasp, the sound of a struggle. Quinn put down his boots, drew the thin blade from the sheath inside the left one and cracked open the door.
The moonlight flooded across the bed and for a moment he could not make out what he was looking at. Then he saw it was Celina, tangled in the sheet, her hands clawing at her throat, her bare legs kicking. He strode to the bed and caught at her hands, realising as he did so that the sheet had wound itself around her throat, choking her.
‘Easy, easy, let me.’ He tossed the blade on to the bedside table and took hold of the sheet, trying to get past her frantic hands to find the corner. She was fighting desperately, her eyes screwed up, deep in her nightmare. Her fingernails tore bloody tracks down the back of his hands and forced a hiss of pain from him.
Quinn dragged at the linen, pulled it away from her windpipe, found the end and yanked it free. Celina fell back, gasping for breath, her hands locked around his wrists. ‘No! You can’t… I am innocent…innocent… No!’
‘Celina.’ He shook her, harder than he meant to, control hampered by her clinging hands. ‘Wake up, you are having a nightmare.’
Her eyes opened, wide and dark in her pale face. Her mouth opened in a scream and, with his hands trapped, Quinn did the only thing he could think of to silence her. He kissed her.
Under him he felt Celina’s body tense, arch up to throw him off; he felt the desperate heaving of her breast against his and then, suddenly, she went limp. Quinn lifted his head and stared down at the sprawled figure. The faint was no ruse, she was unconscious and the bed looked as though…as though he had ravished her on it.
Quinn fought back the feeling of nausea, got to his feet and struck a flame. When he had a pair of candles lit he assessed the damage. His hands, raked by her nails, were already stiffening and her nightgown was marked with his blood. When he lifted the candlestick he could see red grooves where the sheet had wound tight around her throat. The bedding was churned into chaos by her struggles and her legs were bare from mid-thigh down.
He could not call for a maid, not and hope to explain this, but he could not leave her, either. Quinn pulled off his neckcloth, ripped it into strips and bound his hands to keep the blood from staining anything else, then he lifted Celina’s limp form off the bed and on to the chaise. He smoothed the nightgown down over her legs and found the blanket, tossed to the floor, and put it over her. Then he made the bed. There was no blood on that, thankfully.
There was nothing to be done about her marked throat and bloodstained nightgown. Quinn eased Celina up into his arms again and turned back to the bed before he realised he could not simply tuck her in and leave her to wake in the morning to find herself in that state. He was going to have to stay until she woke. As he lowered her towards the bed she stirred, murmured and her arms tightened around his neck.
Now what? He could hardly lie down with her; it would be enough to send her into hysterics, waking up to find him in her bed. She burrowed her head snugly into his shoulder and clung, limp and trusting and deep in an exhausted sleep. Hell. Quinn sat down on the chaise, leaned back, swung up his legs and settled Celina as best he could against himself. It was going to be a long night.
Quinn woke to the sound of a faint scratching. He reached out a hand for his knife, then found he was entangled with a body. Celina? The memory of the night before came back with horrible precision as the door opened and an arm appeared, the hand clutching his boots. They were lowered to the floor just inside. Gregor. He whistled softly and the Russian’s head appeared, his expression comical as he took in bed and chaise. Then he frowned, his eyes focused on Quinn’s bandaged hands.
Go away, Quinn mouthed.
The other man’s eyebrows shot up, then he grinned. Goodbye, he mouthed back and the door closed as silently as it had opened.
Quinn let his head sink back against the curved rail of the chaise and stared up at the ceiling in the dawn light. Gregor was off to London now, thinking heavens knew what, but Celina would wake soon. She was already stirring, her lips moving against his throat where his shirt had come open when he took off his neckcloth.
He eased his cramped limbs as best he could, wincing as he flexed his hands. Damn, but that hurt. And he had to find an explanation for the injuries too. As he thought it, Celina woke, her first gentle movements stiffening into awareness as she found herself in his arms. Was she going to believe him?
Celina came out of a dream of being safe and protected. Blissful, she thought, as she dreamed of arms holding her against a large male body. Then she woke fully and found that there was a man and his arms were around her, holding her to his chest, and her hips were curved into a definitely male lap and this was not a dream. She tightened every muscle, tried to wrench free even as she opened her mouth to scream, and her voice croaked out of a throat that felt sore and bruised.
‘Let me go!’ She hit the man’s chest with a clenched fist and he released her, one arm still steadying her as she lurched upright. ‘Quinn,’ she said flatly. ‘I might have known. Can’t you take no for an answer?’
‘You had a nightmare,’ he said, his face stark. There was no amusement in it, no lust, only tension and dark shadows under his eyes. ‘The sheet was round your throat and you were choking, struggling—’ He broke off to touch her neck lightly. ‘There are marks.’
She looked down and saw her nightgown, streaked in blood. ‘Oh, my God—’
‘It is mine.’ He held up his hands, the makeshift bandages stained, too. ‘You fought me.’
He did not resist when she pushed herself away, took the few steps to the edge of the bed and sank down on it. Her hands were stained, too, she saw, all around the nails. She had clawed at him. ‘A dream?’
‘You must have thought someone was trying to strangle you,’ Quinn said, sitting with his elbows on his knees, his bandaged hands held away from contact with his body.
Lina put her hands to her throat. No, not strangling, hanging. She had dreamed she was in Newgate, in the condemned cell. They were leading
her out, taking off the shackles, taking her to the scaffold, pushing her off into space to jerk and dangle…
‘Celina!’ He launched himself at her, caught her by the shoulders and held her as the room spun sickeningly.
‘I’m sorry, I am all right.’ He let her go, the absence of his strength a wrench. ‘Yes, I remember. Did I call out?’ She must have screamed if Quinn had heard her from his own room.
‘I was coming back from a ride. I found I was not sleepy,’ he said without emphasis, but she felt herself colouring. ‘I heard noises from your room and thought someone was attacking you. But you were entangled in the sheet, clawing at your throat. I tried to free you. You—’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘You came round and then fainted. I tried to put you back to bed, but you clung on, so we ended up on the couch instead. I did not think you would want to wake in bed with me.’
In the fog of the fading nightmare she remembered another dream. It had slid into the first in the weird way dreams had: a man. Was it Tolhurst? Only this time he was holding her, kissing her, his weight was on her and she could not get free. And yet it was not all unpleasant. There was something sweet, something she could not quite grasp as the wisps of memory faded.
‘Your hands,’ Lina said, her voice rasping sore in her throat. ‘Let me see.’
‘No. it is all right.’
‘It is not all right. I hurt you and you were trying to help me. And just now I leapt to conclusions, I assumed the worst.’ Doggedly she got to her feet, walked to the washstand and poured from the jug into the wide basin. ‘Cold water will be best. Come and put your hands in it, soak off those bandages.’ When Quinn made no move to join her, she turned and looked at him. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ He got to his feet and came across. ‘And do not make me into some sort of scrupulous gentleman just because you passed the night safely in my arms. I prefer my women conscious.’
‘Are you trying to shock me?’ Lina asked, finding she could smile. ‘Because after yesterday evening… Oh, my goodness, look at your hands! Quinn, I am so sorry. That is going to scar—and whatever will you say caused it? People will assume—’
‘That I was attempting to ravish a woman?’ He stared down into the water, picking the makeshift bandages loose. ‘I went for a ride last night, found a fox in a snare, tried to free it and was savaged for my pains. Will that do?’
‘Yes,’ Lina agreed, rummaging in a drawer. ‘That will be convincing. I have some salve and lint here. If you can dry your hands, I will dress them and then find an old soft sheet to tear up for bandages.’ She threw on a wrapper, startled to find that she had been unselfconsciously talking to Quinn dressed in nothing but a flimsy nightgown, and went along the corridor to the linen cupboard. There was a pile of laundered sheets too thin for use, kept for bandages and patching.
When she got back with the softest, Quinn was drying his hands, dabbing at the raw tracks where her nails had scored across the tendons. ‘Here. Sit down.’ She smoothed salve on the lint, then took his right hand and pressed it gently over the wounds, then repeated it for the left.
It was an accident, she told herself, but it was hard not to blame herself. It must be exquisitely sore and the scars would disfigure hands that were long and elegant, despite their strength. Lina bandaged as lightly as she could to keep the dressing in place. ‘There, you should be able to hold reins or a pen and even get gloves on if you have some large ones.’
‘And what about you?’ Quinn reached out and tipped up her chin. ‘You have some interesting marks and my imagination fails to come up with any innocent explanation for them other than the truth, which no one will believe.’
Lina moved away and picked up a hand mirror. Quinn’s touch on her chin was strangely pleasant, although, she thought with a rueful grimace, his touch anywhere would be. Her neck looked exactly as though someone had tried to strangle her. ‘I will develop a sore throat,’ she said, ‘and wrap it up in flannel. I don’t think the marks themselves will show over the top of my higher-necked gowns and once the redness fades in a few days I can safely make a recovery and remove the wrapping.’
‘Go back to bed,’ Quinn said, as he picked up the basin of water. ‘I’ll pour this away and bring the bowl back. What about your nightgown?’
‘Er…nose bleed,’ Lina improvised, digging in a drawer for a strip of flannel and a fresh nightgown. ‘We are obviously an accident-prone household. I do hope Gregor gets away safely.’
‘He’s gone,’ Quinn said, negotiating opening the door, balancing the basin and picking up his boots with the grace of a juggler. ‘I’ll knock before I come back.’
Lina changed in haste, wrapped her neck in a length of red flannel that felt immensely comforting, and scrambled back into bed. How did Quinn know Gregor had left? Did that mean the Russian knew that Quinn had been in her room? The thought was not as worrying as it might have been, she realised. Between Quinn’s propositions and her own thoroughly wanton fancies she was becoming immune to embarrassment. Or perhaps it was this strange new feeling of confidence; she had stopped worrying about things she could not change and which, set against the prospect of the scaffold, were of little importance.
The tap on the door was followed by a respectable wait before Quinn opened it to bring in the empty basin. ‘I’d best hurry and get into my own bed before Peter appears with my morning tea,’ he remarked. He paused in the doorway, his mouth twitching. ‘You need a nightcap to finish off that picture,’ he remarked. ‘You look like Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother waiting for the wolf.’
Lina twitched her dowdy flannel wrap tighter around her neck. ‘I am quite well aware of the risk from wolves, my lord.’
Quinn grinned. ‘I had noticed that,’ he remarked as he closed the door behind himself.
Chapter Ten
Lina expected the events of the previous evening and night to make things awkward between herself and Quinn once the intimacy of the bedchamber was behind them. But the need to play their parts in front of the staff only deepened the feeling of complicity between them.
She remembered to exclaim in concern at the sight of Quinn’s bandaged hands at breakfast and to provoke him by making a great fuss over his humane efforts to free the fox. It was not difficult to speak with a catch in her voice, for her throat felt bruised both inside and out and the staff brought her honey to go in her tea and promises of the recipe for Trimble’s late mother’s infallible remedy for quinsy of the throat.
‘I do not appear to be coming down with a cold,’ she told Quinn, answering his convincing concern about whether she should be resting in her room. She really should be treating him with cool reserve, but that was impossible when she was so grateful to him for rescuing her from her choking nightmare at the cost of painfully lacerated hands. And he had behaved impeccably afterwards, which confused her. If he could only be consistently wicked she would at least know where she was with him.
‘I think I will take a walk into Upper Cleybourne and go to the shop,’ she said. ‘Perhaps the fresh air will help my throat.’
‘Would you like me to accompany you?’ Quinn asked as the footman left the room with a tray full of empty dishes. ‘I can renew my attempts on your virtue in sunlight for variety.’
‘You—’ Lina put down the spoonful of warm milk toast with honey that she had been about to eat. ‘Last night you behaved faultlessly. Now you say you still want to make me your mistress?’
‘Of course.’ Quinn watched her from under hooded lids, his eyes amused at her indignation. ‘If I was simply in the grip of uncontrollable lust, then I would have tried to ravish you last night, which, you will agree, would not have been the action of a gentleman.’ He paused as though expecting a response, but Lina did not rise to the bait. ‘As it is, I am perfectly in control of myself and just as determined as I was last night to reach an agreement with you.’ He paused, again waiting for her retort, but she simply glared at him. ‘And it is not, my dear Celina, because you are convenient.�
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‘If you are not looking for convenience, my lord,’ she said with a sweet smile as the footman came back with a fresh pot of coffee, ‘then I suggest you ride into Norwich. I am sure there are places that can supply the commodity you seek in abundance.’
‘Yes, but not the quality, I suspect,’ Quinn replied.
There really was no response to that, not in front of the servants. What would Quinn say, she wondered, if he discovered that the experienced married woman he thought he was propositioning was actually a virgin with a completely theoretical knowledge of the arts of love?
There were the arts of love and the art of loving, Lina thought as she walked through the park an hour later, the red flannel replaced with a soft silk scarf. Quinn was doubtless well versed in the former, but he quite obviously had no intention, or desire, to look for love—and love was the only thing that made the risks of lovemaking worthwhile, she decided.
Without it the woman was vulnerable. She would be left no longer marriageable, possibly with child and, if she had been so foolish as to fall in love with the man, emotionally shattered. Look at what had happened to Mama and Aunt Clara—ruined, deceived and abandoned. Their only recourse had been to selling themselves and they had not even been left with child. The simple fact of their lost virginities was sufficient.
Virtue, Lina told herself firmly, would have to be its own reward. Not, of course, that virtue would reward her now she had lived in a brothel. If that came out, she was as ruined as she would be if she had sold herself there.
The walk helped blow away the last wisps of the nightmare and she felt better by the time she reached Morston’s Stores. They sold everything from boot laces to papers of pins, ink and sealing wax, sewing requisites and tobacco. They were also the receiving office for the mails and the depot for the London newspapers, she was reminded as she met Mrs Willets in the doorway, her daughters at her back. The squire’s wife had a folded newspaper in her basket, the Morning Chronicle banner clear at the top.