Whisper Always

by Rebecca Hagan Lee

The prostitute hurried to join him. "Do you see her down there?"

  "Good God!" He leaned out the window and searched the courtyard below first, squinting against the falling rain and the darkness looking for a mass of red hair against the gray stone. The makeshift rope reached below the second-floor windows but he couldn't see her. An experienced climber might make the jump without serious injury, but a young woman? "Cristina?" he called in a low, urgent voice.

  She heard him call her name and knew that one of the men she'd been trying to escape from had found her hanging for dear life, onto a rope made of bed sheets. "I'm here," she answered, afraid of what would happen when he rescued her, but more afraid of letting go of the rope.

  Blake grabbed hold of the pile of bed sheets and jerked.

  "Don't!" He heard the panic in her voice. "I can't hold on much longer. I'm slipping."

  "Bloody hell, Cristina! I thought you said you had good sense. Just hold on. I'm coming."

  "She ain't got a bloody lick!" The prostitute whistled again.

  "Stay here," Blake said to the girl, "and don't let anyone into the room except me." He raked his wet hair out of his eyes. "Christ! I've heard stories of girls who prefer death to ... to ... this!" he finished, at a loss for words.

  " 'Appens all the time in my line of work. But not tonight. Not to your young lady, guvnor." She grinned. "We got 'ere in time to save 'er."

  "Lord Lawrence?" Cristina called from below. "Hurry!"

  "I'm on my way." He sprinted out the door and down a flight of stairs, praying all the while that he would get to Cristina in time.

  When he reached the second floor, Blake tried door after door until he found one that wasn't locked. He pulled the heavy velvet drapes open and spotting the white rope, quickly unfastened the window, swung it open, and glanced down. Cristina clung to the knot of sheets about two feet away.

  "Cristina?"

  She looked up and breathed a grateful sigh when she saw him. "Lord Lawrence."

  "I'm going to pull you up," he explained. "Hold on tight."

  Blake carefully pulled the line of sheets up the wall and over the window casement until Cristina Fairfax lay huddled on the floor. She wore one petticoat and her traveling cloak. A bare, shapely calf was exposed to his view and she was soaked to the skin. He struggled out of his coat and placed it around her, before he leaned forward to pick her up.

  Cristina wrapped her arms around his neck in a stranglehold and buried her face against his damp shirtfront. She listened to the thumping of his heart and admitted, "I was more afraid of falling than I was of you."

  "It's all right. You're safe," he said, inhaling the scent of her. She smelled of rainwater and strong wine and a floral perfume he couldn't name. "I've got some business to attend to upstairs," Blake explained, "then I'll take you home."

  "No."

  He saw the flash of alarm in her green eyes. "Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm taking you someplace safe."

  Too tired and wet and cold to do anything else, Cristina huddled against Blake as he carried her out of the room and back up a flight of stairs.

  The young prostitute met him at the door to Rudolf's apartments. "Looks like she was bolstering her nerve a bit." She held up another half-empty bottle of wine.

  Blake placed Cristina on the chair near the fire and tucked a lap robe around her. Cristina closed her eyes, too exhausted to fight any longer.

  The prostitute followed him to the chair, then leaned in for a closer look at Cristina and whispered, "Cor! She looks almost like me!"

  "She doesn't talk like you," Blake reminded her.

  "I bet she doesn't do lots of things like me." She glanced pointedly at the empty bed, then licked her lips.

  Blake ignored her flirtation. "In that case, grab those sheets--you'll need them."

  The girl muttered beneath her breath as she hauled the rope of wet linens inside the window and carried them back to the bed. She untied the knots in the sheets, then flipped back the top covers. The mattresses were bare.

  "These ain't going to do me no good," she said, showing Blake the halves of a monogrammed sheet.

  "Give them to me," he ordered.

  She tossed the sheets at him.

  "Lie on top of the covers. Maybe he won't notice that there aren't any sheets."

  The prostitute laughed seductively. "I can guarantee he won't notice if I'm on top of the covers." She flopped down on the bed and struck a classic pose. "Turn around."

  "Why?" Blake asked.

  "I've got to get ready."

  "No, you don't," Blake decided. "I'll think of something else."

  "A deal's a deal, guvnor," she said.

  Blake turned to face her.

  "Don't look!" she ordered.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing's wrong, guvnor, 'cept I like you, you see. And I don't want ya comparing her and me." Her voice dropped to a whisper, before she regained her bravado. "Your ladybird might not measure up." She finished with a sad laugh.

  "Are you sure you want to go through with this?" Blake asked again.

  " 'Course I am. It's a pleasure helping ya out. Doing business with ya, so to speak. Wot's your name, guvnor?"

  Knowing he was opening himself up to potential scandal or blackmail, but somehow trusting this girl of the streets, Blake answered. "Lawrence. Blake Ashford, Lord Lawrence."

  She tapped him on the shoulder.

  He turned to find her encased in the coverlet, her hand outstretched.

  "Frances Kilkenny," she told him. "My customers call me Fran."

  Blake took her hand in his, but instead of shaking it, he brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them. "A pleasure, Miss Kilkenny."

  Tears sparkled in her eyes. She brushed them aside. "You better get going, guvnor. From wot you told me, that royal gent could come anytime." She winked at the double entendre.

  Blake scooped Cristina up in his arms. She was breathing heavily. Sound asleep.

  Frances held up the bottle of wine. "No sense letting this go to waste."

  Blake smiled at her. "If you change your mind ..."

  "And lose this golden opportunity to sleep with a real prince? Not a chance, guvnor." She opened the door for him. "I'll be just like bloody Cinderella."

  Blake glanced at the hallway. Footsteps sounded on the stairs to his right. Unsteady footsteps. Drunken footsteps. He hoisted Cristina higher into his arms and turned to the left.

  "Lucky girl." Frances Kilkenny took a drink from the wine bottle, then lifted it in salute, watching as handsome Lord Lawrence carried his lady friend away.

 

  Was it a vision, or a waging dream?

  Fled is the music:-- Do I wake or sleep?

  --JOHN KEATS 1795-1821

 

  *Chapter Five*

 

  Cristina dreamed of warmth pressed intimately against her and snuggled closer to the source, enjoying the novelty of sleeping nestled in between two warm arms. She dreamed of his gentle hands with long, strong fingers and the enticing roughness of knuckles decorated with coarse, black hair that stroked her body through the silk of her shift. She dreamed vividly of the man who had haunted her thoughts since the night of the ball, perfectly recreating his face in her mind.

  She luxuriated in the sensual dreams as she allowed her long-dormant emotions to come to life. She pictured his black eyes burning into hers, his long legs nakedly entwined with hers and the feel of his dark hair, rough and crisp beneath her questing fingers. Her instant attraction to him was as confusing as it was overwhelming, but he had somehow become her dream lover. He was her fantasy and she was loath to give him up. Cristina strained, arching her back, moving even closer in her dreams to the lover waiting to fulfill her desires and make her his woman.

  He responded to her body with an answe
ring moan.

  Cristina opened her eyes and recoiled in horror as she realized she was not alone in her bedroom. She fought to piece together the fragments of her memory--to separate the dreams from the reality.

  Glancing down at the strong arm wrapped around her waist, she discovered that it was not part of her dream. It was real. She was in a bedroom in Marlborough House with the man selected to be her lover.

  Cristina pushed back the covers, struggling with the insistent hands that pulled her body back into the circle of his warmth.

  "Be still," he hissed. "I'm not going to hurt you. We can't leave until the party breaks up. And I need a little sleep."

  Leave? She couldn't leave with him. Any more than she could continue to share a bed with him. Cristina turned and shoved him away.

  He grabbed at her again, one hand reaching around her waist while the other caught the back of her camisole. "Lie back down. We'll leave just before daybreak. By then everyone else will have retired for the night."

  "Let go of me. I'm leaving now.'" Cristina turned on him in fury, lashing out with her hands. Her clenched fist connected with the bones of his face.

  He groaned again, this time in agony, instinctively releasing his hold on her as warm, sticky blood gushed from his nose. "You can't leave now. Dammit to hell, Cristina, I'm not after your bloody virtue. I'm trying to save it. But I need some sleep." He pinched his nostrils, attempting to,, staunch the flow.

  Cristina slid off the bed and pressed herself against the wall as he rolled off the opposite side of the bed and got to his feet. She dared not breathe as she waited for his next move.

  Water splashed in a basin nearby. She listened intently to the mutters and moans as he poured more water into the bowl. Cristina peeked around the bed hangings and stared in astonishment as her velvet cloak disappeared from the back of a brocade chair. She realized suddenly that she was in her underclothes. Her dress and petticoats had been removed. She tried to remember where she'd last seen them, but her head ached unbearably and she was unable to recall anything except the vague blur of her arrival and the vivid dream.

  The splashing ceased abruptly. Cristina pressed farther back against the wall, scarcely daring to breathe. She listened to his footsteps as he left the basin and stumbled back to bed. She recognized a grunt of pain, a muffled thud, and the scrape of furniture against the floor. Colorful curses in a variety of languages filled the air. The brocade, Cristina thought, as the chair crashed to the floor.

  She sucked in a deep breath at the sound of the mattresses creaking beneath his weight.

  "Are you coming back to bed?" His words were somewhat muffled, but Cristina heard him.

  She didn't answer, but remained pressed against the wall.

  "Suit yourself," he said as he rolled over in bed and pulled the covers up around himself.

  Cristina allowed herself a tiny sigh of relief when she heard him begin to snore. She would wait a little while longer, she decided, to be sure he slept and then she would make her escape.

  She awoke with a start sometime later to find herself in bed, the covers wrapped firmly around her. Her memories of the previous night returned with a vengeance and she jack-knifed into sitting position, prepared to do battle with him once again. But she was alone. He was gone. She rolled from the bed and stumbled to her feet. Her queasy stomach rumbled in protest at the sudden movement and Cristina rested her head against the wall for a moment, willing her unruly stomach to settle down.

  She raised her head and swallowed a new wave of nausea. Her head pounded from the effects of too much wine and Leah's concoction and her body ached in a dozen different places. But Cristina forced her eyes to focus in the dimly lit room before she made her way around the foot of the bed to the brocade chair. Her feet throbbed and her legs wobbled like the legs of a newborn colt. She used every ounce of her concentration to lower herself onto the chair. Gritting her teeth against the incessant pounding in her temples, she belatedly realized the folly of looking for courage in the bottom of a wine bottle. The wine hadn't helped at all. It hadn't steadied her nerves. It had given her only a colossal headache.

  Forcing herself to her feet and moving as quickly as possible for a human being in her condition, Cristina began the arduous task of dressing herself. Her underclothes were torn and damp, but wearable. She could only guess at the condition of the rest of her clothes as she scanned the room in hopes of locating them. But the rest of her clothes were gone. She was left with the clothes she wore--her camisole and drawers--and a chemise, petticoat, and her cloak. And all of them were damp.

  Cristina inched toward the velvet cloak. It lay in a heap on the floor beside the screen. She hated to wear it. She could feel the rough, matted spots where the blood from his nose had dried. He had used it as a towel, then kicked it aside. She pulled it around her, anyway. She had no choice. Dressed in her underclothes and wrapped in her traveling cape, she waited in the chair gathering her strength, preparing for her escape. A surge of nausea threatened her. She balled her cold, numb fingers into fists and jammed them into the pockets of her cloak. Her right hand touched the small glass bottle and she remembered Leah's insistence that the medicine would help her on the morning after.

  Tiptoeing to the washstand, Cristina poured a glass of water, mixed the powder, and drank it down as Leah had instructed. Then she crept from the room without a backward glance.

  She paused in the doorway studying the corridors before she made her decision. Turning right, she headed down the maze of passageways. Her satin slippers pattered against the marble floor.

  Somewhere down the hall, a clock chimed six times. She had very little time. Soon the staff would begin their workday. She could not be seen leaving the house with her hair lying loose about her shoulders. She could not be seen leaving the house at all. Cristina stopped short, trying to get her bearings. She must have turned wrong. Where were the doors? She bit her lip, mentally cursing herself for not being able to concentrate when she arrived, and slowly retraced her steps. Her heart pounded as she spotted the doors at the opposite end of the hall. Through those doors lay the stairs. Three flights down and freedom. Down and down and down once more and then she was free.

  Cristina emerged from the house and stepped out into a downpour, but she paid the rain little heed. She was free and that was all that mattered at the moment. She ignored the burning in her lungs, the pounding in her chest and the cold rain soaking her to the skin. Drawing a ragged breath of the early-morning air, Cristina mouthed a prayer of thanks to the heavens for allowing her to escape. And she prayed for the strength that would carry her down the long winding drive, on aching feet, to the streets of London and all the way to Fairhall if necessary.

  The pink- and mauve-colored fingers of dawn streaked the misty horizon before she made her way to the end of the drive. Her wet slippers blistered her heels and added to the agony in her feet. She limped slowly down the drive until the blisters forced her to remove her shoes and walk barefooted.

  A cabbie caught sight of her and pulled to a stop.

  Cristina climbed into the comfortable cab, rested her weary feet on the opposite seat, and allowed her mind to wander at will. She would have to face her mother once she reached Fairhall, but the London morning traffic was heavy. She had a little while to rest before the confrontation. She didn't have to think about the coming battle. For as long as it took the cabby to negotiate the crowded streets of London, Cristina could close her eyes and forget.

 

  Those sweetly smiling angels with pensive looks,

  innocent faces, and cash-boxes for hearts.

  --HONORE DE BALZAC 1799-1850

 

  *Chapter Six*

 

  "I want the necklace." There was steely determination in the voice of the girl who stood dripping in the doorway. A determination that surprised the occupants of the room.

  "
Cristina, what are you doing here? I thought you'd be busy this morning."

  "I came to collect my belongings," Cristina ignored her mother's other remark. "And I want the necklace."

  "Darling, this isn't the time." Patricia glanced at her lover, then back at Cristina. "I thought I taught you better manners than to enter my bedroom unannounced. Why don't you run down to the kitchen for breakfast? We can discuss the necklace later."

  "With you fluttering about somewhere in Europe? I don't think so, Mother. We'll discuss the necklace now." Cristina's gaze bored through her mother, noting the rumpled bed and the naked man lying next to Patricia. Yesterday she would have left the room in embarrassment, but Cristina had changed overnight. The sordid tableau before her angered rather than embarrassed her. "I want the necklace. It was sent to me and I mean to have it."

  Patricia recognized the change in her daughter. There was a new strength of will about her that hadn't been there the day before. The night with Crown Prince Rudolf hadn't broken Cristina's spirit. If anything, the night with the crown prince had added to Cristina's strength of mind, given her confidence, made her more determined than ever to defy her. Patricia smiled nevertheless and tried to dismiss her daughter.

  "Darling, all this quibbling over a necklace. Why don't we discuss this after you've cleaned up and eaten breakfast? When you are in a calmer frame of mind?"

  "Stop it," Cristina demanded. "Stop your pretended concern for me. You don't care about me. Let's end the hypocrisy. You simply want to delay the inevitable. We aren't quibbling over the necklace--you are. It was sent to me and I will have it. Give it to me."

  "Cristina, you're making too much of this," Patricia began.

  "Too much? Hardly. I don't consider being sold too much," she replied coldly.

  "You would have been auctioned anyway," Patricia declared. "What do you think marriage is for people like us but a business transaction? It's all buying and selling."

  "No, it isn't. Marriage is about choosing a mate because you can't stand the thought of living without him. It's a partnership, a sharing, and before I spent the night alone with a man, I should have had a ring on my finger, the blessings of the church, and all the rights that go along with being legally married."

  "You can still think that after being brought up in this house? After viewing the sorry state of my marriage to William Fairfax?" Patricia laughed. "My darling, you are an innocent. A married woman has no real rights. Marriage for women of our status is a form of slavery. We are commanded and we must obey. For life, Cristina. When you marry, you're trapped until one of you dies."

  "I don't believe that."

  "Then you're going to be very disappointed," Patricia warned. "Love is an illusion, Cristina. It's like a fairy tale. It makes a nice story, but nobody really believes it. It's what we're promised when we're young children, but I'm here to tell you that it's just a word. It has no meaning."