A milkmaid at a crossroads leapt out of the way. Milk splashed from her pails onto the cobblestones. “Cork head!” she screeched. “Clod pate! The devil take ye!”
The devil shall not take me, Elizabeth thought desperately. She would not let Walter or his fellow vermin capture her.
She tried to keep up with Rand, whose trail resembled that of a serpent’s. The river disappeared, reappeared. Greylag skittered round a corner, then raced on. Through blurry eyes, Elizabeth saw occasional fields and orchards… fewer houses… they were leaving the city. Escape actually seemed possible—
Greylag stumbled over a loose cobblestone. Elizabeth tilted sideways. Dropping the reins, she grabbed at Greylag’s neck, which was slick with perspiration. No! Please, God, no!
Desperate, Elizabeth kicked the stirrups free, hoping to better grip the horse’s barrel with her legs. Then she felt her feet tangle in her billowing skirts.
Greylag, still game, kept on going. Elizabeth did not.
Twenty-four
“I’ve had all manner of interesting patients, some of them quite mad.”
Through the pounding of her head, Elizabeth recognized the sonorous voice of Doctor Arthur Purefoy.
“Some years ago I treated a prominent lord who believed himself to be a turkey hen. He made a nest of straw in his coach. Except for a brief luncheon and the evacuation of his bowels, he sat there, atop a veritable dozen of eggs.”
“I trust the gentleman didn’t lay the eggs himself.” Walter sounded sardonic.
“What happened to the prominent lord, Dr. Purefoy?” Dorothea’s voice. “Did you cure him?”
“No, Mrs. Wyndham. Eventually his wife, an accommodating woman, removed the eggs and replaced them with chicks, whereupon his lordship strutted about, clucking delightedly.”
“I wonder if His Majesty thinks he’s a chicken. Have you attended him, Dr. Purefoy? Is he as clapper-clawed as they say?”
“Ah, Mrs. Wyndham, the stories I could tell.”
Elizabeth opened her eyes to discreet slits. Judging by the shadows, it was late afternoon, though it was impossible to be certain since the sky was obliterated by a dreary rain. Incense pots burned pastilles, saturating the room with a strong, pleasant scent. Dorothea, Walter, and Dr. Purefoy were seated at a table. The physician was middle-aged and corpulent, his nose broken-veined, his complexion marked by either venereal disease or smallpox.
“Did I tell you about the time at Windsor when His Majesty, dressed in a nightshirt, happened upon the Prince of Wales and his younger brother?”
“No, Dr. Purefoy, but I’m breathless with anticipation,” Dorothea said, pouring coffee from a silver urn.
Even the weak light was painful, thought Elizabeth. During her fall from Greylag, she had struck her head on the cobblestones, and she wished Dr. Purefoy would not speak so loudly. Every word was a hammer blow to her brain.
But he had already launched into a spirited account of the incident. “Old George said to young Frederick, ‘Oh, my boy! I wish to God I might die, for I am going mad.’”
Flourishing his gold-knobbed cane, which along with his black wig and pompous expression were necessary accouterments of his profession, Purefoy continued. “One of the king’s physicians, Dr. Baker, tried to lead His Majesty from the sitting room. Whereupon, the king grabbed Dr. Baker by the throat and pinned him against the wall. Nearly strangled the poor chap.”
“Mercy!” Dorothea exclaimed.
“His Majesty’s actions bring to mind an interesting dilemma,” said Walter. “Whether force can be used on a king, or whether you must allow him to kill you if it pleases him, rather than commit treason by restraining his illustrious person.”
Elizabeth’s eyelids drooped. She knew Dr. Purefoy had bled her, but she remembered little else, save that Rand had escaped. Even through her haze of pain, she had heard Walter bellowing his rage and frustration.
“Many physicians treat His Majesty,” Purefoy said, “but some of their remedies are nonsensical. One physician insists on immersing the king in hot baths when everyone knows how unhealthful water is. I recommended shaving the top of His Majesty’s head and blistering it to remove the poison in his brain. And indeed, when that remedy was applied, His Majesty immediately improved.”
Elizabeth struggled to stay awake. The potion Purefoy had earlier administered made her feel so drowsy.
I must escape, she thought. Must. Find. Rand.
***
“Two o’clock and a fine clear night, and all’s well.”
Elizabeth heard the call of the watch outside her window. Save for the sound of coal shifting in the fire grate, her room was silent. An oil lamp burned, illuminating Patience asleep at the table, her face resting on her arms.
Head spinning, Elizabeth inched upwards. Gritting her teeth, she touched the dressing Purefoy had applied to the side of her head. Pray to God the doctor didn’t recommend shaving and blistering for anyone other than the king. A lock of hair, tangled but securely fastened to her scalp, reassured her.
“All right, Bess,” she whispered. “Think.” She knew that she had fallen from Greylag and hit her head. She didn’t know how she had been returned to Great George Street, but that wasn’t important. Rand was important. His whereabouts. He had said they’d meet in Dover. Had he said it this morning? Yesterday? Three days ago? Perhaps at this very moment he waited for her on the sands below Dover Castle.
I must escape!
The maid’s sudden snores provided an excellent opportunity, as did the lack of guards at the doorway. Since her debilitating injury, Walter had dismissed them.
In Castles of Doom, quiet but determined Lady Guinevere had given lust-crazed King John the slip by climbing out of a tower window. By comparison, Elizabeth’s escape would be effortless.
She edged her calves over the side of the bed. Her legs felt remarkably leaden, but she eased herself successfully off the mattress. Overcome by a wave of dizziness, she slouched back until the spell passed.
From outside drifted the sound of an off-key baritone, struggling through a ballad. Patience snorted and sputtered, but didn’t awaken. Elizabeth tiptoed past the table. Her balance was awkward, and while she tried to be stealthy, her legs responded erratically. One foot left the softness of carpet for bare wood. A board creaked. Heart in her throat, she froze and stared at Patience. Lamplight played across the maid’s small eye socket while yet another snore wheezed through her lips.
At long last, Elizabeth reached the door. The knob felt cold in her hand. She turned and pulled. Nothing happened. Desperate, she tried to yank the door open.
“Damn,” she breathed. “Locked.” She should have known. If her mind hadn’t been so fogged, she would have known.
What now? Think! Patience carries the key between her breasts. I don’t want to grope around in there!
Trying to conjure up an alternative solution, Elizabeth slumped against the door. She spied the poker beside the fireplace, near a stack of wood, and sighed with relief. She would whack Patience over the head, rend her bodice, then extract the key.
Once again Elizabeth tiptoed past the table. Reaching the fireplace, she grasped the poker.
“What’re ye doin’?”
Elizabeth whirled. Face thrust forward like an angry bull, Patience was on her feet.
“Give me the key!” Elizabeth hoisted the poker.
Flexing her fingers, Patience approached. “Get back in bed ’fore I throw ye in.”
Elizabeth swung the poker. Patience grabbed it and wrenched it from Elizabeth’s hands. Off balance, she staggered and fell. Scrambling to her feet, she scooped up one of the logs.
Weapons in hand, the two women circled each other.
“I’m not giving up and you don’t dare hurt me,” Elizabeth said. “Lord Stafford will pike your head if you do.”
“When ye bug
gered off last time, I took the scold. This time I’ll make certain ye stay put.”
“The only way you can stop me is to kill me, and if you kill me you’ll be dismissed.”
“’Tis worth the price!” Patience shouted, swinging the poker at the log.
The shock of impact reverberated along Elizabeth’s arms. Pain stabbed her brain so suddenly and powerfully, she was momentarily blinded. Dropping the log, she stumbled toward the table, hoisted the coffee urn, and threw it. The urn bounced harmlessly off the far wall. She hurled the cups and saucers, even the tray, but Patience dodged them all.
Walter bolted into the room, followed by Dr. Purefoy.
“What’s going on here?” Walter demanded, dropping his ring of keys into the pocket of his silken dressing gown. In lieu of a wig, his shaven head was covered by a turban.
“She tried t’ kill me!” Patience screeched. “I was only per’tectin’ meself.”
Walter’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have an explanation for your behavior, Elizabeth?”
“I should not be kept prisoner, especially since I am innocent of the first abduction and did not instigate the second. John threatened us with a pistol, which she can verify.” Elizabeth pointed at Patience. “When John was far ahead and I could have halted, your men shot at me, forcing me to continue my ride. I am not at fault and should be allowed to come and go as I please.”
Dorothea swept inside, while a half dozen servants peeked through the door. “What has happened?” she cried.
“Your daughter was trying to escape,” Walter replied, his gaze still fixed on Elizabeth.
“Surely not! Why would she do such a thing?”
“I could administer another sleeping potion,” Purefoy offered. His wig, hastily donned, was off-center. His head bobbed and the cascading curls brushed one shoulder. “Her actions prove how sick she is, how irrational—”
“Nonsense!” Walter scowled at the physician. “She knows precisely what she’s doing!”
“Are you questioning my expertise, sir?” Purefoy assumed his most authoritative stance. “Need I remind you that I have a degree of Doctor of Medicine from Marischal College, Aberdeen? Furthermore, I am a member of the Royal College of Phys—”
“I don’t care if you’re a member of the Royal College of Asses, and I don’t require a list of your bloody credentials. All of you! Get out!”
Dorothea hesitated at the doorway. “Elizabeth isn’t herself, my lord. Her head suffered a nasty crack. Please don’t judge her too harshly.”
“Out now!”
Once they were alone, Elizabeth faced him. His breathing sounded as loud and uneven as her own. To support her body, shaking from fear and fatigue, she sagged against the table.
“You bitch! How dare you humiliate me?”
“I didn’t mean to. I merely wanted—”
“Shut up! Ever since our first meeting, you’ve treated me like a bug. I didn’t mind. Challenges always intrigue me, but this time you’ve gone too far.” His face contorted. “I won’t be made to look the fool.”
“That was not my intention.” She inched away from the table. The poker remained in the middle of the room. If Walter became violent, she might be able to protect herself. “Even you must admit I’ve never led you on. From the very beginning I was truthful about my feelings.”
“I don’t give a damn about your bloody feelings. You should have thanked God that I even deigned to look at you. No money! No prospects! What did you ever have to offer except a pretty face and body?”
“That’s what I despise about men like you.” She felt her temper flare. “Why should I have to bow and scrape just because your private parts are a different shape than mine?”
“What about your highwayman?” Walter grabbed her wrists. “You were happy enough with his private parts. That’s the ultimate insult, the one thing I cannot tolerate. To prefer a common criminal’s cods to mine.”
“I didn’t prefer—”
“Shut up!” He jerked her to him. “You’ve driven me to distraction. I don’t desire anyone but you, and I hate it. You’ve ruined everything.” He pinioned her against his chest. “I was willing to marry you, even after I knew you were despoiled for honest wedlock. That’s how far I’ve fallen. A magistrate who lusts after the mistress of a highwayman!”
“I’m not his mistress.”
“Whore, then.”
“I’m not his whore.” I’m his love, his only love. “It wasn’t my fault. John threat—” She swallowed the rest of her words as terror stabbed through her.
Walter was smiling! His eyes sparked, but a smile that could only have been cast by the Lord of Vermin himself twisted his lips.
“You’ll not have a shred of pride left when I’m done with you,” he said, pushing her to her knees.
Her gaze skimmed the edge of his dressing gown. Walter was wrong. Her pride ran deep and left no room for begging. In any case, she had a feeling his lust fed on rebellion. Swallowing bitter bile, she prayed she could endure.
“No resistance, dearest?” Walter crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought you were filled with contumacy. Remember our discourse? Lady Guinevere?”
“Yes. Outside the White Hart, in the fog, the night you were robbed. That was when you first said you enjoyed a challenge.” She touched her fingers to her bandage. “In my weakened state, I am no challenge.”
“We shall see. Lie on your back and raise up your shift.”
“Go to hell,” she said softly.
“Do you prefer the bed?”
“I prefer death, my lord.”
“I think not.” A chuckle rumbled in his throat as he grabbed her wrists, pulled her from the floor, and crushed her against his chest.
She reacted instinctively. Situated beneath the canopy of the forest, waiting for nightfall, Rand had taught her several methods of defense. Now, she yanked her knee up hard into Walter’s groin.
His smile finally disappeared. His eyes bulged. Doubling over, he groped beneath his gown, below his stomach.
Elizabeth froze, torn between the urge to flee and the urge to whack Walter with the poker. That indecision, brief though it was, cost her the advantage she had gained.
Only partially recovered, he was on her in an instant, toppling them both with the momentum of his body. The hard floor rose up to meet her back. Pain exploded in her rump and legs, as well as her head. Her arms felt numb.
Still grunting, Walter ripped apart her shift, his nails leaving small gashes across her naked flesh. His hand squeezed her breast and she let out a piercing wail. Then, with the greatest effort in her life, she bit back a second scream.
Walter appeared disappointed, but that didn’t prevent his lustful gaze from scouring her body.
Elizabeth shut her eyes. Footsteps sounded in the hallway, soon muffled by the loud beat of her heart. She felt her thighs wrenched apart, felt Walter grind his hips into position.
Suddenly, his hardness diminished. His weight abruptly left her body. Taking one deep breath, then another, Elizabeth opened her eyes.
Dressing gown askew, Walter loomed above her, facing a man who stood less than three feet away.
Billy! Rand’s cousin, Billy Turnbull.
The Stafford livery barely contained Billy’s chest, a prizefighter’s chest. Beneath the livery, his muscles rippled menacingly. His gaze imparted anger and sympathy, just before he challenged Walter’s glare.
“Get gone from this room!” Walter shouted, his face red with fury.
“The lady’s hurt,” Billy said, his fists clenched.
“That’s none of your concern!”
“I heard her scream, m’lord. I sent a servant for the doctor an’ her mum.”
“How dare you! I’ll have you killed, you witless scum!”
“For wot?”
Elizabeth struggl
ed to a sitting position. A fierce stab of joy coursed through her. Rand wasn’t in Dover. He had planted Billy in Lord Stafford’s employ so that Billy could watch over her, protect her. If her pride had not prevented her from screaming at the very start, Billy would have put a stop to the rape much sooner.
Walter’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, and Elizabeth realized that Billy was in no immediate danger. Walter couldn’t kill him. What explanation would serve to justify such an action? Interrupting the rape of a gentlewoman would never suffice, and Walter might even find himself gaoled with the same felons he had captured—a fate worse than death.
“You’re sacked, dismissed!” Walter roared.
“In that case, m’lord, I have nothin’ t’ lose.”
Billy’s fist snaked out so quickly Elizabeth couldn’t believe her eyes. She heard Walter hit the floor with a teeth-jarring thud. Billy tossed her a blanket from the bed, then grabbed Walter’s ankles and dragged him toward the door.
“His lordship won’t come ’round till mornin’, Miss Wyndham,” Billy said, his taut muscles rending the seams of his livery. Dead to the world, Walter’s weight was considerable. “And me cousin will have brewed up some new scheme by then, never fear.”
“Where is…?” Elizabeth clamped her mouth shut. Dr. Purefoy, Dorothea, and Patience had entered the room.
Dropping Walter’s ankles, Billy bolted through the confused maze of bodies.
Nobody tried to halt his flight, and Elizabeth silently wished him Godspeed.
***
Everything was gray, as if viewed through a fog. She saw herself from a position directly above the bed where she lay. Her pale hair spread across the pillows, dwarfing the delicate features of her face. She had wasted to little more than a shadow. Finally, she was dying. Upon Ranulf’s death, she had willed herself to die, but it had taken far too long. She welcomed Death. More than welcomed him. Hungrily embraced him.
But Death had proven himself a capricious lover, just like Ranulf. She wanted Ranulf so badly. She missed him more than the children she’d never borne. Without Ranulf, her life had lost all meaning, like a summer without sun. Life would be forever gray and black and white, without the green of tree leaves, the red of roses, the pinwheel colors of excitement and laughter. Soon she and Ranulf would be reunited. In hell, most assuredly, for their sins had been great.
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