by Laura Parker
Merlyn rose lazily to his feet. “Jack is not easily aroused with a summons. I, myself, feel in need of the night air. For a friend, I will journey to collect Old Jack. An hour, shall we say?”
Chapter Eight
Cassandra finished the last knot in the rope she had fashioned from the old bedding she had found in the trunks scattered about the attic. The only light, from a small arch window six feet off the floor, made the pale semicircle of light in which she frantically worked. Her breath came in quick shallow gasps of fright and her hands smeared the rope with flecks of blood from the cuts she had received when she pried the trunks open.
She tried not to think of what might be happening below. Inside her there was only a dull ache. Surely, she thought numbly, the pain should be a greater. Even now she could hardly believe the moments following Nicholas’s entrance into the room. She had expected aid and succor, but he had not recognized her. He claimed he had no wife. And the pain, the pain he had inflicted on her made her body throb and her head ache worse than the beating she’d received in Newgate.
Nicholas did not, would never, love her. Cassandra felt a queer lurch of her heart and her hands momentarily stopped working. Shame and anger roiled in her, heaving suddenly to the surface with an intensity that made her moan under its onslaught. Nicholas hated and despised her. He would not even admit that he knew her. But she had seen the moment of recognition, and the disgust in his face that came with it. The marquess was right. Nicholas had used her, made her a victim of his scheme, and then abandoned her when he changed his mind. All this time, while she had been waiting, hoping, and fashioning beautiful dreams of their future life together, he had been hoping that she was dead. There was no love. There never had been. Only on her side. Like all the times before.
“How could I have been so stupid?” she whispered brokenly, her fingers clenching tightly to stop their trembling. It was all a joke, a great huge joke which she had taken for reality. The man belowstairs was as blackhearted as any Newgate denizen. Like a wormy apple, his core was rotted and poisoned.
Trepidation and fear quaked through her, but she quickly squashed the disabling emotions before they completely swamped her. Nicholas would be back, she had no doubt. Before that, she must escape.
Cassandra found a heavy shoe and, standing on a trunk with her hands wrapped in cloth, she broke the window’s glass and began picking the pieces free from the molding. Adam. He was the only thing of her own she had ever possessed, and all the pent-up love she had carried within her the eighteen years of her life was his. But first she must find him.
The scraping of the key in the lock came as she hoisted herself headfirst over the edge of the sill. She had thrown her cloth rope outside onto the roof and was halfway out when the attic door creaked open. Squirming wildly, she thought she would slip through before someone spied her, but a moment later she was grabbed by the hips and pulled back into the dark.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried, struggling like a wild animal against the arms encased in coarse linen that engulfed her. But the man was stronger and he clamped a hand tightly across her mouth as his other arm dragged her from the trunk and into his embrace.
“Quiet, chit, and ye’ll ne’er be harmed. Scream and ye’ll be killed,” a rough country voice said against her ear.
The man did not wait for her reply but forced a kerchief into her mouth when she opened it to scream. A second one he used to secure the first, effectively gagging her.
“That’ll do the trick,” he said in a good-natured voice. “Best rest easy, girl. Jack’s got hisself a job to do.”
He released her and quickly knelt. Seizing the opportunity, Cassandra kicked out wildly at the figure in the dark and caught him under the chin. He muffled an oath and caught her foot. “Be still, you little slut, or I’ll bash yer head in!” he muttered furiously as he bound her ankles together with still another kerchief. “Old Jack means ye no harm. We’re goin’ on a little trip.”
“You’re certain you know what’s to be done?” Cassandra jerked her head up to find Nicholas standing in the doorway, a silver candlestick in his right hand.
“Aye, guv’nor. Ye’ve nary a worry. The comte told me ye had a bit o’ petticoat goods for Mother Tess to be delivered.”
Cassandra’s gaze switched to the shadowy face of her captor at the mention of the comte’s name and she tried to put a world of questions into her frightened stare, but he did not look at her. He was tall and stoop-shouldered, with long greasy ropes of grizzled hair and a beard. A patch covered his right eye, and the left was red and runny. Yet her heart lurched in instinctive recognition. Almost at once she discounted it. He wouldn’t be so foolish. It was her fevered imaginings.
She tried to laugh at her foolishness, but the cotton stuck to the roof of her mouth and she began to choke. Then, miraculously, the gag was torn from her mouth.
“Quiet, now, or I’ll throttle ye,” she heard her captor say as he braced her between his knees and pushed her head forward to ease her nausea. Leaning over her, he growled in her ear, “Play the victim, you wretched little bitch, or we both may die.”
“There, now, I’m ready,” he said, rising to his feet and jerking her to hers. “I’ll be taking me wages, gov’nor.” And he held out his hand to the man in the doorway.
“Outside,” Nicholas replied and turned and started down the narrow steps.
Cassandra was lifted and thrown over Old Jack’s shoulder. Every jarring step brought her closer to freedom, but she took her captor’s advice and kicked and twisted and made his progress as difficult as possible.
When they reached the kitchen door only the butler was there to greet them.
“See this man to the hack in the alley,” Nicholas directed. He had pulled his jabot loose and it hung open from his shirt, revealing fine golden hairs, but Cassandra closed her eyes to this. He was a devil, just as his father was.
Old Jack paused on the threshold. “What am I to tell Mother Tess?”
Nicholas shuddered, remembering how close he had come to falling into his father’s trap. It would be best if he stayed clear of the girl entirely. “The girl’s hers to instruct as it pleases her.” His smile was chilling as he added, “As I’ve had some experience with her, I’d say she deals well with pain. She’ll be a special pleasure to certain clients.”
Before she could protest, Cassandra was dumped from Jack’s shoulder to her feet and his hand closed her mouth. “Ye’ll keep yer mouth shut, if ye’ve good sense,” he warned. “Ye hearin’ me?”
A little shake brought her eyes up to the bearded man’s face and a terrified nod was extracted from her. Immediately he bent and untied her feet.
“Me coins,” Old Jack said, once more holding out his hand.
Nicholas handed him a small purse, surprised by the smoothness of the thief’s palms. They were not at all what he expected. This was noticed in passing, but later, when he had retired with the pink of dawn, Nicholas was to remember and wonder.
A heavy hand pushed Cassandra into the alley off the kitchen. When Old Jack reached out to open the hack’s low door, she ducked under his hand and would have run. But he was quicker, grabbing her by the collar. He scooped her up and dumped her into the cab without any regard for her safety.
Only when the vehicle was lumbering down the narrow passage did he turn to her, his red eye blazing. “Damn you, Cassie!”
The plodding clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on the brick pavement was at odds with the galloping pace of Cassandra’s heart. “Merlyn?” she whispered between doubt and relief.
“Certainly,” Merlyn returned coldly, “and you nearly gave me away!”
“Can’t you beg for more speed?” Cassandra replied, her voice rising in irritation against his unfriendly tone.
Turning his head, he gave her a withering glance. “Had I not held you back, you’d have fled pell-mell down the street, all heels and petticoat hems. Briarcliffe is no fool, for all
his indolent air. When it suits him, he’s a quick and deadly enemy.” He allowed a moment to pass before he added, “But then, you’ve learned that much, have you not?”
Cassandra looked away from the even stare of his single eye. “He didn’t even recognize me. I thought he cared for me a little.”
Merlyn saw the spasm of pain cross her face, and it roused in him a fierce jealousy. The man would have destroyed her, yet she pines for Briarcliffe, he thought in a heaving rage as he spied the shadow of the bruise on her face. When he spoke, his voice was colder than ever. “Nick cares not a fig’s worth for anything but his own desires. You think he did not recognize you? I beg to differ. But you were in his path and he meant to strike you aside, like a mongrel dog.”
Cassandra turned her face back to him, but all she saw was the austere lines of his profile. “But I am his wife!”
Cassandra thought she heard him mutter an oath before he grabbed her by the shoulders and effortlessly dragged her into his lap. He brought her so close she could feel the hairs of his false beard on her face. “Every look, every word you utter, makes me want to shake you till your teeth rattle. Then I remember you as you were in Newgate, and the notion is replaced by an equally strong desire. But I must submit to neither, must I?”
Cassandra stared at his shadow-sculptured face and murmured, “No.”
It was more than she should have dared. He jerked her against his chest as a hard kiss stopped her mouth.
It was as before; at the touch of his mouth everything else disappeared. There was only the warm pressure of his lips and then the gentle flick of his tongue into the moist valley behind her lower lip that made her gasp. She was melting, her limbs becoming softly pliant in his hard embrace. She did not want this, this warm dissolving that made her forget, forget so many things, but neither could she break his spell.
When he suddenly broke their contact, shoving her back into her seat with his hands on her arms, she was left bereft, lips parted and eyes half closed.
“Damn you!” Merlyn muttered savagely, holding her still. “I understand now what I should have realized before. Oh, yes, you play very well the role of ingenue. But you know, damn you! You know what it is to heat a man’s blood. You lift your head so appealingly and say, ‘Pray, do not hurt me,’ knowing a man will want to taste the sweet nectar of your lips. Well, no more,” he bit out, his voice lowering in warning. “If you dare ply your wiles on me, you’ll pay the full price. For tuppence I’d take you now and—” Merlyn caught himself in time and released her.
When his dark head moved away, Cassandra sucked in a trembly breath, the strange warmth that had flooded her ebbing away. “I don’t want your help,” she flung at him. “I want Adam. What have you done with him?”
Merlyn’s expression turned faintly mocking. “So poor of heart? If you would outwit Nicholas Briarcliffe, you’ll have need of my talents.”
“What talents?” Cassandra retorted, heedless of the narrowing of his sapphire gaze. “I’ve no need of thieves and rascals. If not for you, Adam and I would be safe.”
“Would you, now?” Merlyn replied, his ironic voice at its most dangerous. “And where would that be? The dungeon of Briarcliffe? Or do you believe Nicholas will change his mind and welcome you home with a babe at your breast?” Merlyn saw her cringe at the mention of her husband, but he could not stop the angry words.
He seemed to grow larger in the confining space, filling up every corner of the private coach. “You are certain to be caught, Cassie, in one trap or another. At best you’ll suffer least at my hands. At worst …” He shrugged. “The worst you cannot imagine. But that will change if you leave my side.”
The words were said fiercely, as if in challenge, and Cassandra understood that she would be made to honor some new bargain between them. The knowledge trembled through her, and she closed her eyes to blot out the desire she saw in his stern masculine face.
Merlyn studied her a long moment without comment. She seemed unaware of the danger lurking nearby. The rough gin-blurred voices of the lane in which they had turned echoed in the narrow corridor between the dun-colored houses of the district. She would have no experience with the kind of life that inhabited the lane, the sort that would slit a throat for the sake of a pair of silk stockings or a lace handkerchief. No, she could only stare up at him with her sherry-colored gaze, as intoxicating as any distiller’s brew.
Innocent, he thought yet again as he pressed the itchy whiskers of his disguise back into place, and the idea angered him anew. He did not want her innocence. Whatever idiot’s dreams he had fashioned that night in Newgate were smashed when she chose Briarcliffe over himself. Yet he craved her company and her body, freely given as before. Nothing else mattered—except his son.
“Enough of this nonsense,” he muttered as the hackney halted in the lane. “Come.”
Cassandra’s wrist was caught in a firm grasp, but she didn’t protest when he stepped out and pulled her after him. He alone knew where Adam was and must be followed. “Even into hell,” she whispered to herself.
Mud ran thickly in the street and splashed in over the sides of her shoes, cold and sticky, when she stepped down. From Tom Thumb’s Public House on the corner the smells of hot rum and cinnamon vied with fried sausage and potatoes. The melding of odors made her stomach churn, and Cassandra clapped a hand over her nose and mouth as Merlyn pulled her into a nearby alley.
Here a new stench rose up to meet her nose and sting her eyes as she was led past the refuse of chamber pots and cleared tables. A dozen dark doorways, some no higher than four feet, passed her view as she was relentlessly dragged along behind the huge cloaked figure of Old Jack.
Thief. Accused murderer. The appellations sped through her mind, reminding Cassandra of the dark deeds to which Merlyn had confessed. It suddenly occurred to her that such a man might be leading her from the street so that no one would hear her cries of help as he encircled her neck and throttled her. The thought instantly took root in possibility, frightening her to action.
“No! No! Let me go!” She tried to jerk her arm free from his grasp, but the momentum of his larger body pulled her two or three steps before he swung around to her.
“What flight of fancy is this?” Merlyn thundered. In the perfect light of day these side streets were treacherous to traverse. In the dark, with a vocal bit of muslin in tow, he might as well have hired a band to herald his arrival for all pickpockets and cutthroats abroad.
Cassandra dug in her heels in the mud, more confident now that he had stopped. “Release me now, or I’ll scream. I swear I’ll scream fit to rouse the dead.”
“God in heaven!” Merlyn muttered and gave her arm a tug that sent her stumbling into his waiting arms. One scoop of his powerful arms lifted her into his embrace. He hadn’t meant to touch her again, not until the safety of his destination had been reached, but she struggled so helplessly, her soft warm weight invitingly rubbing against him, that Merlyn forgot his resolution. He was furious with her for being young and enticing, and for having spurned him for a man who cared nothing for her. There came a sudden need in him to possess, to master the passion she roused against his will. No attempt was made to beguile or seduce her, only his pleasure was served in the crushing violence of their lips.
Cassandra did not struggle. She did not even whimper. She’d learned much of men in her few hours in Merlyn’s company, most of it to do with passion. This knowledge served her now and a feeling of power triumphed over her fear. Merlyn had a weakness. He wanted her, desired her even against his will. Her death was the last thing on his mind. Laughter curved her mouth beneath his and then bubbled out of her throat and into the night.
Merlyn dropped her back onto her feet as though she’d suddenly bitten him. “Mistress, one of us is mad!” he uttered coarsely before swinging around and stalking off.
Cassandra watched his dark silhouette for perhaps three steps before racing after him, her skirts lifted against the f
ilth.
When he turned and stopped at one dark entryway, she paused several paces behind, feeling suddenly shy. What if he decided to leave her behind? The throbbing of her lips answered quickly enough and she stepped near him, so close she could reach out and touch his arm, but she did not.
Merlyn’s knock was a hard rhythmic tattoo. Immediately there was a scraping noise as a bolt was drawn and then the door opened a crack, pouring yellow candle-light into the gloom of the alley.
“It’s Merlyn, Meg,” he whispered and then turned to Cassandra with a motion of his arm. “Inside, you little fool!”
Cassandra stepped over the threshold into a poorly lit room furnished with a rough board table and two chairs.
‘“Ere, what’s this?” their hostess cried. Six inches above Cassandra’s own five feet, a pretty auburn-haired woman stood behind the door. With hands on hips, her full bosom was forced to the brink above the lacing of her low-cut bodice. Her eyes, an astonishing China blue, went in slow consideration over Cassandra, ending at her muddy skirts before rising with contempt to her face again.
“There’s a good girl, Meg,” Merlyn said in his best Drury Lane voice as he slammed the door shut behind him. “Meg, my love, meet Lady Cas—ah, Cassie.”
Meg’s eyes flashed once more over Cassandra in rapier-sharp appraisal.
Cassandra noted the hostility in surprise but forced a polite smile to her lips as she acknowledged calmly, “Meg.”
Ignoring the greeting, Meg turned to Merlyn. “I didn’t count on her.”
“Your diction’s slipping, Meg,” Merlyn said as he slipped his cloak from his shoulders and began removing his beard and wig. “You’ll get only maids’ and tarts’ roles if you do not polish your speech. Cassie may prove helpful there.” He took out a kerchief and rubbed at the greasy makeup that had made his eye red and runny-looking. “After all, you’ll be providing a home for her these next few days.”