Herrington read her thoughts, for as soon as she whirled about, he rushed forward and lunged. Ceressa shrieked as he caught her arm and pulled her into the room.
“Let go of me. Let go of me now. I don’t know what you are about, but I’ll have no part of it.”
“For one so incredibly bright,” Herrington breathed close to her ear, the scents of garlic, stale tobacco, and wine wafting, “you should realize it’s not your decision to make. I’m in control.” Ceressa coughed, nausea sweeping so powerfully, she was certain she would retch upon his costly garments if his fetid breath showered her again. Slamming the door, he shoved her forward, and she fell against a chair that had one leg broken and a spindle missing. Righting herself, she watched Herrington with fascinated horror as he locked the door and pocketed the key. He advanced and she backed up, forced to stop when she hit a table. Receding footsteps in the hall told her the man who’d tricked her was leaving. He’d completed his mission, she thought grimly, wondering how much Herrington had paid for his night’s “work.” Catching her by the shoulders, Herrington shook her, forcing her full attention back to him.
“Your parents can’t help you,” he snarled. “They aren’t around to save you. Jonathan’s precious little princess, untouchable and untainted by corruption. Well, I plan to see that ended tonight. The times I asked you for one dance, and you answered me with a properly cool ‘no, thank you,’ and a lift of that haughty little chin. You won’t tell me no tonight.”
“Where are my parents?” Ceressa’s voice quivered. “Why did you send word they are dead?”
“Because they are.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re lying. What do you want?”
“Shut up. You do exactly as I say or you won’t live to see tomorrow. I’ve waited a long time for this opportunity, and I won’t be denied. I’m tired of the snubs and snide remarks—the poor relation living off the crumbs of the powerful and mighty brother-in-law. There’s no denying everyone feels that way. Even that insufferable Kirkleigh left me off his guest list for his affair tonight. Do you know what it’s like to have revenge, sweet Ceressa?”
“Revenge? I don’t understand. You’re not making any sense.” She gasped, desperately wishing he wouldn’t hold so tightly, his skeleton-like fingers bruising flesh beneath the fabric of her gown. Her gaze was drawn to the fireless hearth—that in itself foreboding. To her side was a bed in worse shape than the chair she’d nearly fallen over, its coverlet rumpled and filthy. What was Herrington’s plan?
“I’m in a position where I don’t have to make sense. Believe me; your parents are dead. And you have no one to turn to but me. That’s all you need to know.”
Ceressa had heard Sir Geoffrey say her father would befriend the most detestable man or woman if he thought there was a shred of decency to be found in the lost one’s soul. That could be the only reason her father spoke to this monster. What was this talk of revenge? Her father had never been unkind or unjust. He was a truly good man.
Looking into Herrington’s gaze, she stared into the eyes of a lunatic. Why was he doing this? The pounding in her head was merciless, and fear churned. She was so terrified it was nearly impossible to pray. The more she tried to reason, the more illogical everything became.
“Please let me go,” she pleaded, trying to wrench free.
When that failed, she shoved him, and he staggered back, nearly losing his balance. Like a caged animal suddenly freed, Ceressa rushed toward the window, hoping there might be a way to escape, but he caught her wrist, twisting it until she feared it would snap. Crying out in pain, she realized Herrington was forcing her toward the bed.
Flinging her facedown, Herrington leaned, pressing his elbow into her back. Her face sank into the feather ticking, and suffocation threatened to rob her of consciousness. Taking hold of her hair, he jerked her head back, the pain clearing her mind while he placed a knife to her neck. “You’ll be nice to me, or I’ll slit this lovely, pale throat. I haven’t forgotten how you avoid me; how you look at me as though I’m a rat. All I ever wanted was a smile and a kiss. I’ll wager you’ve never been kissed—I know you’re innocent of a man’s lust. You’ll see that I can be so good to you.”
“God, help me,” Ceressa sobbed, her lungs nearly shutting off air. If only she hadn’t been so foolish to rush off—if only she’d taken the time to find Sir Geoffrey. If only…What was she to do? She had no weapon, and though he was a small man, he was stronger and driven by anger. Then she saw it lying upon the bed beside his feathered hat and fringed sash—a saber that she doubted Herrington was skilled enough to use. If she could reach it.
Ceressa groped for the weapon. She knew it was close—just beyond her reach. She had to see this man brought to justice, and that wouldn’t happen if she died. Her fingers touched the cool metal then curled about the hilt. Summoning what strength remained within, she rolled over and dislodged his pinioning arm. Bellowing a curse, Herrington drew his hand back to strike. She placed the tip of the saber beneath his chin while inching back from him upon the bed. She managed to get her legs beneath her while keeping the blade at his throat. His face paled more, and he swallowed convulsively. After what seemed an eternity, she gingerly placed a foot on the floor, then the other, and stood. Her legs were wobbly, but her hold on the saber was sure. Herrington stared, but he still held his knife.
“I will leave now,” she said unsteadily, “and if you’ve any sense, you’ll see my parents are returned home safely. Otherwise, I will find you and use this.” She backed toward the door, still holding the saber, and reached her hand behind to jiggle the latch. Her heart sank as she remembered—he’d locked it after forcing her into the squalid chamber.
“I have the key, Ceressa,” he reminded her in a voice that wasn’t as confident as it had been, even though he still held the upper hand. “You might need that to get out.”
“Give it to me,” she commanded. Her voice shook with fear.
“You’ll have to come get it.” He pulled it out and dangled it. Ceressa hesitated, not certain she should get that close. But she had no choice. Carefully she advanced, and when she was near enough to touch, she extended her fingers.
“Give me the key.”
Herrington threw it, and it struck her jaw, enough of a distraction for him to lunge. Herrington slapped her, and Ceressa staggered, her head swimming from the impact of his palm on her face. When the dizziness passed, she saw he was moving in, the knife raised. Screaming, she dodged but lost the saber. As it clattered to the floor with deafening finality, Ceressa whirled around. Pushing blindly, she encountered his chest and forced him back, but he thrust the blade into her hand. His roar of anger and her shriek of pain merged as she pulled the imbedded knife free then thrust it into his shoulder. Herrington trembled and shuddered, his reddened eyes immediately glazing with shock. Blood seeped from the wound. He uttered a rasping curse then closed his eyes and collapsed.
The door imploded with such force Ceressa was showered with splinters. “What in—?” boomed, followed by an oath. And as Herrington was unceremoniously kicked out of the way, she found herself looking up into the gaze of a man who truly breathed fire.
Fire Dragon's Angel
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Latimer Kirkleigh loomed, a man not of this world, but of her imagination. Breathing heavily, his stance and manner that of a fierce, fearless beast, Ceressa truly believed Latimer was a mythical dragon in human form. Her hysterical musings evaporated as he took hold of her arm then wrapped his handkerchief about her bleeding hand. “What happened? A rendezvous turned sour? You should know better than to meet Charles Herrington, or haven’t you heard of his reputation? Unless, of course, you enjoy pain and humiliation. Come with me.”
“I d-d-don’t think I can walk,” she managed, unable to understand how Latimer had found her. And what did he think had happened? That she’d willingly come to Herrington? Did he think her—“I didn’t c-c-come here to—is—is he dead?”
“Don’t you
want him dead?” he asked harshly. “Or were you actually enjoying his company?”
Ceressa looked up at him, shocked by his suggestion and the fury in his gaze.
“I only wanted him to let me go. He was lying—he lied to me.” She was trembling so badly she feared her limbs might detach.
“There seems to be a lot of that going on tonight. Hurry.”
“I c-c-can’t just leave him.”
“You’d prefer to wait until the drunkards downstairs realize he’s dead and that you murdered him?”
“Is he dead?” she asked again, thoughts rolling around in a senseless jumble. She hadn’t meant to kill Herrington—just make him let her go.
“I’m not going to stay to find out. And neither are you. No one would believe whatever story you concocted. Discovered in the room of a renowned licentious, corrupt barrister engaged in whatever you were engaged in is unlikely to earn you any sympathy. And I’d hate to see that beautiful neck encircled by a rope.”
“Please,” she begged, the tears flowing. “If you could just see if he still breathes.”
Uttering a huff of disgust, Latimer knelt, leaned over him, then stood. “I believe he’s only fainted. Now, we’re leaving.” Clasping her arm, he gave her no chance to delay as he dragged her from the room. And none too soon. The man who’d brought her to Herrington was hurrying toward the door. Latimer’s pace increased, forcing Ceressa to run to keep up. The man looked through the door, saw Herrington’s prostrate form, and yelled. Then loudly labeled her all manner of horrible names that jarred discordantly in her already ringing ears.
“She’s killed ’im, she has. Hurry! Stop her! Fetch the constable. She’s a murderess, she is. Stop her, I say!”
“What did I tell you?” Latimer asked even as he lifted her. Being carried down the steps proved quicker than her earlier ascent on foot, and even when they reached the street, he still carried her. He headed toward another carriage that Ceressa recognized as Sir Geoffrey’s.
“I c-c-can’t go with you.”
“You will go with me if you want to live.”
“You don’t really believe I was here to service—to do whatever a woman like that does? Charles Herrington asked me to meet him here on what I believed to be a serious matter. Take me back to Sir Geoffrey’s. He’ll straighten all of this. We should summon a doctor for Mr. Herrington.”
They’d reached the carriage, and he dumped her, climbed in, and took the opposite seat. The vehicle lurched and sped along the streets. Latimer kept looking behind, and she gasped aloud when he drew a pistol from beneath his coat.
“This is all a terrible misunderstanding,” Ceressa cried. “Please return me to Sir Geoffrey’s. My parents are in trouble, and their lives have been threatened. Charles Herrington is a criminal, but I can’t run away from what I’ve done.” Latimer turned back, and though she couldn’t see his face, she sensed he was breathing fire again. He took hold of her shoulder with his free hand.
“I’ll thank you to shut up. We have a mob of crazed sots lusting for blood giving chase, and you are in danger of dying before the proper authorities can be summoned to sort out this morass. The man was screaming loud enough for Gabriel to hear up in Heaven that you’d murdered Herrington. That’s all it takes to arouse the rabble that frequents the Red Rose Inn. You really should have met Herrington elsewhere.”
“He was supposed to be at the Sword and Crown.” Ceressa realized that Latimer was being sarcastic, and she clenched her uninjured hand to keep from pummeling him. Her wounded hand was beginning to throb. “I don’t much care for your manner or opinions.”
“That doesn’t bother me. And I care not a wit for a spoiled, thoughtless, flighty woman who’d place herself in such a mess.”
“Then why are you helping me?” Angry tears scorched her cheeks.
“Because you remind me of someone, and I would hope, were she in trouble, some soul would come to her aid.” His voice was unexpectedly soft as though the memory had robbed him of his anger. But such proved to be painfully temporary. “However, I’m now seriously questioning why I’ve involved myself in your tawdry affair.”
Ceressa winced at the unmistakable aggravation in his voice.
“I hope your time with Herrington was worth it.”
This particular dragon was lightning-quick, and he saw the slap coming. Grabbing Ceressa’s wrist, he forced her arm back and rose from his seat to lean over her.
“Listen to me and listen to me well.” He hissed, now reminding her of a striking adder. “I don’t care why you went to Herrington tonight after offering yourself to me on the altar of marriage a scant two hours ago. Lying and telling me this has to do with your parents is truly an insult to my intelligence. Women are all alike—schemers and manipulators. But now you’re coming to Virginia. You can thank yourself for this peccadillo, and you have no choice unless you prefer I let you be torn limb from limb by the patrons of the Red Rose Inn. I’ve decided to take you up on your offer. You’ll do nicely as a replacement to the bride Geoffrey chased away. I hope that suits you.”
****
Though the carriage was dark, Latimer had a good idea what expression covered her face. He suspected her lovely visage would have paled to ashen with shock. But there would be something in her violet-brown eyes—he’d seen it when he rejected her offer to marry. It was dignity and, regardless of what she’d done or with whom she’d unadvisedly chosen to cavort, he knew it was there. He’d once possessed the same, which had filled him with a sense of rightness that only God could give. But it’d been so long since he’d felt that—so very long.
She breathed erratically, and he sensed the rise and fall, felt the steady drum of her pulse where his fingers clamped. She had spirit, he’d hand her that, and even when terrified, it wouldn’t be subdued. If he’d been a minute later in that dismal room, she’d have died. Her life was still in jeopardy if they didn’t reach the ship. He’d seen what angry, drunken mobs could do both in London and in James Cittie.
“You’d force me to go to Virginia against my will.”
Ah, she’s found her tongue; what joy, Latimer thought derisively while his pulse commenced hammering with…what? He refused to pursue that.
“Less than two hours ago you were volunteering to go. Have you forgotten?”
“I’ve forgotten nothing.” There was a distinct catch in her voice. “Just stop the carriage and let me out. They’re looking for me. I’ll take my chances on the streets.” The carriage chose to balance on two wheels as the driver rounded a corner only to stop so suddenly, Latimer was thrown back. The lady was thrown forward, stopped by his chest, the top of her head just below his chin. The unmistakable babble of a frenzied crowd shouting and yelling filled the cold, damp air.
“We’ll take our chances on the street,” he corrected. Kicking open the door, he hauled her out. She fell heavily. Latimer called up to the driver. “Go back to Sir Geoffrey. And don’t stop until you’ve passed through the gates of the property. Hurry.” The driver lost no time in complying, flicking his whip over the heads of the snorting, lathered horses. In possession of her hand, Latimer strode toward the murky shadows. His pace forced her to run, but he made no effort to slow. He knew with deadly certainty she would never convince the men that she was innocent of any wrongdoing.
The evidence was irrefutable—a young woman alone with an affluent, older, married man, sequestered in a squalid chamber of a disreputable inn where no one will look. The encounter turns violent, and she decides she doesn’t want to fulfill her part of the clandestine liaison, stabbing her lover during the ensuing altercation. Below stairs exists an assortment of waterfront scum and salacious individuals, drunk with ale and a lust for violence that burns feverishly.
Latimer was sickened by the vivid images. For one brief moment, he chastised himself for judging—judging her, Herrington, Herrington’s slimy minion, and all the others that had become part of this macabre night. There’d been a time when his greatest desire and hop
e had been to bring God’s gift of salvation to such individuals. Had God led him to help her turn her life about? He seriously doubted that the Creator had any plans to use him, given the fact he’d pretty much ignored the Almighty since leaving England. Her reputation was now in shambles, ruined beyond repair, and if Herrington’s injury led to his demise, she could still be convicted of murder—if she survived the mob. Her only hope was to leave England.
“You have to keep up with me.” He spoke tersely. “We’ve got to reach the ship before it sails.”
“I can’t go with you,” she insisted, her voice catching on a sob. “I have to find my parents.” She pulled back to slow him, but he wrenched her arm, which encouraged her to keep up.
“I have no idea why you’re babbling about your parents, but your real concern should be avoiding a noose.” He gave her no chance to protest as, with pistol in hand, he endeavored to lose them in the endless alleys and narrow streets that he’d explored as an oft too adventurous lad. Following a number of meandering paths, he took them deeper into the heart of the wharves and further from the mob.
Soon the demands for blood and drunken shouts were left behind with the rabble that had given chase to Geoffrey’s carriage. They were replaced by the welcome creak of timbers, the strain of ropes pulled taut by the rising tide, and the wind soughing through furled sails. Water slapped, and the clanging of a bell signaled the hour.
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