by Cerys du Lys
She located the back stairs, and with clammy hands, began to speed down them, as fast as she dared in the gloom. To her dismay, the shouting and cacophony was growing louder as she descended to the ground floor, and she had to stop and hide as suddenly light flared in front of her.
She was in the back corridor but all the doors were standing open, and she could see that light was pouring down from the main hallway - not just light, but smoke.
And voices.
Tristan’s voice.
“I will burn this whole place to the ground, and all of you in it!” he was shouting.
For me? she thought. No; do not dare to hope.
“And where is Hugh?” Tristan hollered.
Then she heard Gallagher. “Hugh! Where are you, you little shit?”
They both wanted Hugh? She was mesmerized. Part of her rational brain told her to seek an exit from the back of the house - she could find her way to the kitchen from here, and then out through the scullery. Yet she remained in hiding, listening.
“Tristan! I knew you’d come for your pretty little whore.”
It wasn’t Tristan that answered. She was dying to know why he had come, but instead Gallagher jumped in, saying, “Hugh Craythorne, I ought to whip the fucking skin off your back for bringing this trouble down upon us - and the Earl shall hear of it, too, and what do you think he will say?”
“The Earl can go hang!” Tristan roared, his voice sending shivers down Anna’s spine. She should run. She knew she ought to run. Yet the fury and energy in Tristan’s tone was compelling; she wanted to stay and see how it played out. Yes, this was the voice of a man who could have killed his sister. And what of his wife? Did she believe she really was in Bridlington by choice - and happier?
And even though she believed he could have killed someone, she wanted to know why, as if any kind of explanation could be had for such a deed. Foolish heart, she told herself. But this action, this danger - finally she was alive, and feeling once more. Since Lucy’s death she had been only half awake. Now, at last, she was returned to herself, and she knew what a precious thing life was. Tristan had woken her body. And she wanted to know more of life, and her body… and love.
“You are a fool, Tristan - you underestimate what you are up against.” That was Gallagher again.
Then she heard Hugh, his voice half an octave higher and vibrating with suppressed fear. “Listen Tristan, let’s go in together with Gallagher and the Earl. Together we’d be invincible, unstoppable! We control nearly half the imports of gin and opium; the Earl the same. We’d wrap this city - nay, this country - round our fingers, together! Think of the profits!”
“Think of the risk,” Tristan spat back. “Bigger, we’re a target.”
“The Earl-”
“The Earl does not have every judge in the land sewn up in his pocket. Nor every magistrate. Nor every gutter journalist.”
“But fighting amongst ourselves is counter-productive!”
“Fighting amongst ourselves, you idiot, is why the government does not bother to crack down even more on us. If we ally and mobilize and dominate, they will have to act.” Tristan spoke with a snarl. “I didn’t come here to debate.”
“Did you come for the girl?”
“I came to give you a choice, Hugh. With me, or with Gallagher, but you cannot act for both.”
There was more shouting, then, and a woman’s desperate screaming: “Fire!”
“The authorities will be upon us-” Gallagher shouted.
More cacophony and noise, and scuffling, and another shot that made Anna’s heart stop. That was her signal to act. Smoke was filling her nostrils now, and the light of the flames was rising and filling the corridor, casting heavy wavering shadows in the corners. Tristan was not here for her.
So she turned and made her way back towards the kitchen area, but halfway there, a tall woman with a scarred face barred her way, holding a wooden broom as a weapon. “You are to stay!” she shouted.
Anna could hardly believe that even now, Gallagher’s own influence still held. “Let me pass - and you should flee, too, or we shall all burn.”
“No!” The woman was half-crazed with fear and wine and goodness knew what else.
Anna decided she had no time to argue. She doubled-back but changed direction suddenly, wrenching open the first door she came to, and plunging into a large sitting room cluttered with chairs and screens and small round tables.
But there was no second exit out of this room, as she had hoped. Just tall windows at the far end, and all manner of panic occurring behind her.
All the suppressed energy of days - of years, of her whole life - burst out of her then. She picked up a small table, surprisingly heavy given that it was only two feet across, and hurled it as she ran at the windows. It crashed through with the most pleasing sound, and she used a chair like a club to smash out the larger shards of glass that remained in the frame. Then, still crackling with new life, she grabbed one of the heavy curtains and swung on it with all her body weight until it came free of the rail at the top, and she was able to use it to pad the frame.
The shouts and shots behind seemed louder. She had no more time to lose. She scrambled through the opening, her legs and knees protected by the curtain but her hands and elbows scraping on the vicious spears of broken glass that protruded from either side. Her hair snagged on a twist of wooden frame that had snapped, and she cut her arms as she tried to free herself.
The outside level of the ground was far lower than the inside and it caught her by surprise as she tumbled low into the night, falling to an unexpected jolt into gravel. Her ankle twisted but she was on her feet anyway, looking right and left. Where was she? In a small garden, in a backyard, in an alleyway? Her sense of direction had completely deserted her, and she could only choose a direction at random and run for it. There were no lights save that which spilled from the windows, and the noise which now seemed to assail her from all sides.
Something warm stung her eyes and she touched her face, and realized it was blood. Somehow, the knowledge that she was bleeding made her feel more afraid.
She stumbled to the corner of the building and pushed at a wooden door, and the rotten planks gave way and she tumbled through, landing on her hands and knees. She was in the street in front of the house, and in spite of the late hour, there was now a raucous crowd outside.
And standing on the steps, lit from behind by flames, was the tall silhouette of Tristan Craythorne.
Chapter Seventeen
In spite of everything, her heart flipped and a strange, sick, quickening started in her belly when she saw his outline. He had not come for her - and yet here he was, and she wanted to run to him.
No. Suicide. She had to go the other way, and after a split second - no longer - of debate, she turned to run.
But she ran straight into the arms of a heavy-set man who stank of alcohol and sweat and wet wools and tweeds. He wrapped himself around her and she was helpless yet on she fought, screaming and kicking as he lifted her and walked toward the steps. “I caught one of your whores running away! How much for her return? She’s a bit damaged - might not be worth a lot. Hey, can I keep her?”
She wriggled and squirmed, desperate not to be brought back to the house again, and as he shifted his grip on her she was able to sink her teeth into his bitter-tasting hand. He yelped and let go, and she twisted - but like a tormented dog, unable to escape, Gallagher was upon her. He grabbed her roughly by her hair and she screamed, clawing at his hands, sure that he was about to rip her scalp from her skull.
“My whore?” he said. “Hugh’s, Tristan’s, everybody’s whore! I’d wager even Mercy has had a ride on this pretty little one.”
“Let me go! I am nobody’s,” she snarled. “Nobody’s!”
Suddenly the truth of what she had said hit her, and it hurt harder than the feeling of Gallagher’s fingers curled so tightly in her hair. She was nobody’s - not any more.
He wasn’t looking at
her. He was gazing up the steps, and she followed his line of sight. Next to Tristan, Hugh had appeared. The brothers were like bad copies of one another; but Tristan was the larger, and the darker.
Both looked furious.
“Oho,” Gallagher said, laughing. “Which one are you going to beg to save you?”
“Nobody’s,” she said again, defiantly.
Something crossed Tristan’s face but before he could speak, Hugh shouted, “Oh, just slit her throat and be done with it. Fuck her if you like but kill her first; I cannot be doing with her mewling.”
That galvanized Tristan into action. He sidestepped, half-turned, and swung such a mighty punch to his brother’s face that Hugh lost his footing and tumbled down the steps, his head knocking on each stone step, until he came to a crumpled heap at the bottom.
Gallagher was pulling on her hair and she tried to dig her fingernails into his hands. Tristan was jumping down the steps now. In the distance, there were hoof beats and shouts coming closer through the dark night.
“Let her go,” Tristan was yelling.
Gallagher let go with one hand but only to plunge his hand into his pockets, evidently searching for a weapon of some kind. The shouts were getting closer. All was confusion and pain, but she was relieved to hear someone call “The militia!”
Now, perhaps, would come her salvation from all of this nightmare.
Tristan was upon her first. Finally Gallagher had to let go completely, and he withdrew a short shiny pocket-knife. Anna tried to dodge to one side, to leave the men to their fight, but Tristan brought his forearm up in an arc and knocked the knife flying from Gallagher’s hand before seizing Anna around the waist. She was so shocked by his hands upon her that she could not move, and he was flinging her over his shoulder before she recovered her senses.
And then he was running, and behind them were shouts of “They are come from Horseguards!” and “Stop!”
On, Tristan ran, his right arm curled hard around her upper thighs where they hung from his shoulder. She was bent over him, hanging down his back, her fists balling up the material of his jacket to try to cling on.
How could he run while she dangled over him like this, her arse in the air, so undignified? She grew uncomfortably aware of the bunching of his muscles and the rasping of his breath. It reminded her of the depths of sexual passion, and her cheeks grew hot, although no one could see her embarrassment.
The city changed around them. They were moving from the rough, poor district where there was darkness and shadows, into the wider, cleaner streets where there were gas lamps on high metal poles, and the houses stood back from the street with railings in serried ranks, little private castles of residence for the well-to-do occupants.
And his pace slowed.
“You must let me down,” she said.
“I can carry you,” he muttered.
She thought about how he had to be strong. “No,” she whispered. “Only that it looks mighty strange for you to be hauling a woman around, in these streets. So please, let me down, sir.”
He stopped, and stooped, his stuttered exhalation belying the effort he had been putting in. She slid to the ground, and staggered on her feet, her sore ankle now finally giving way.
Tristan moved her to a patch of smoky yellow light, and glared at her. She licked her lips, and tasted blood once more, and touched her face; she was tacky and tender to feel.
“What have you done?” he growled.
I? What have I done? How can he be angry at me? She frowned, and stayed quiet. Talking got me into trouble; I doubt that more talking can possibly get me out of trouble.
“Anna!” he said, his voice louder. He put his fingers under her chin and raised her head. “You are bruised, you are bleeding, and you are in rags. What have you done?”
Ought you not to ask, what has been done to me? she thought, and mulishly remained silent.
He sighed in frustration, and gripped her upper arms, almost pinning them to her sides. He pushed her back, so that her spine was against a wall. The street behind him was quiet, in that dead time between returning home late, and rising early. The harsh brick and stone was oddly comforting and grounding; she felt a little bolder, even though she was captured by him.
If he wasn’t so angry with her, she would feel protected by his bulk and his passion. Stay strong, she told herself. You’ve survived so much more than you ever thought you would. Just this last thing to endure - and then…
Freedom.
If that was what she wanted.
She felt hollow. She was tired, injured, and hungry. Suddenly she found herself blinking back tears; fighting on and on was just so damned hard.
He was staring at her intently, as if he was trying to read her thoughts. His fingers tightened on her upper arms. “Anna,” he said, his voice now low and strained. “Tell me what happened!”
“I haven’t done anything,” she said defiantly. “Except try to survive.”
“I know…” he said, and tailed off, still frowning. He seemed to be thinking. “Oh. I did not mean you had done any of this… but what has happened? Words. I am not good with words - with explanations. With…”
“With what?” She dared to probe him.
“With saying sorry.”
And with that, she was once more undone, and all her stifled, secret longing burst open for him. “You don’t need to…”
“Stop. And now, tell me what happened to you!”
“They did not defile me,” she said hastily.
“You think I would think less of you for that? I only wish to know what has hurt you - in whatever form that hurt took. I must have the truth.”
So she explained, in short sentences, how she had been kept, and what had happened to Mercy, and how Gallagher had not taken her against her will. And how she had escaped, and fought, and how her injuries were not as bad as they might look.
As she spoke, his hands moved. No longer was he holding her to keep her still; his fingers moved down, and around, and he drew her close to him, and now he was protecting her from all her memories. He murmured into her hair, and her belly coiled again, but with lust rising from within.
Her own desire built, now she was hard against his body, and filled with the intoxicating scent of him. She pulled back, trying to put some distance between them.
“What? What is it now? I thought…” he said, beginning to frown again. She saw that he didn’t like complications, and she longed to remove all complication from his life.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I am simply scared of what I am becoming.”
“I do not understand.”
She had to be honest. She owed it to both of them. “With you, sir, now, life has changed. My own self has changed. I am no longer that innocent girl with a good future. And I am resigned to my fate, now. But with you, something awakens. I want things. Things I ought to not want. And it scares me. I ought to think it as a kind of sin, except my soul disagrees. I am becoming something, someone, different. I am losing myself.”
“No, Anna!” he said, and pulled her to him once more. “No. It is only society’s artifice falling away from you in layers, revealing the true woman within.”
“But I need this artifice!”
“Why do you think you need it?” he demanded.
“For my future.”
He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “And what do you think your future will be?”
“I am not sure. Living quietly as a governess in the country, as I said before, if I am able to find such a situation. I know I will be in reduced circumstances but some place must be found. I have skills and education. Perhaps, I could be a companion somewhere.”
Tristan’s lips moved down, and he tipped her head to one side, to trail his kisses with an excruciating lightness across the skin of her neck. “My brother cannot destroy you,” he murmured into her ear. “And Andrew Gallagher cannot destroy you. But to live quietly in the countryside - oh, Anna, that would destroy you. Do y
ou not see it?”
His lips sought hers then, and she yielded to him almost instinctively, her body pressing forwards against his as his tongue probed and she opened her mouth to let him in. HIs hands were hot on her back, burning even through her ragged and torn dress.
“And more,” he said, pulling back slightly so he could stare into her eyes. “It would destroy me.”
Such a confession from the man! Her head whirled as she stared back at him, trying to find the trick or the lie. Surely he jested with her? “Nothing could destroy you,” she whispered, and she needed it to be true, or else, what was the point?
“No, nothing would ever destroy me, as long as you are by my side.” He pushed her harder against the wall and moved his hands to her sides and breasts. He pulled at her loose bodice and tugged her ill-fitted corset down, and she shivered at the contrast between the cool night air and his hot, burning hand as it covered her flesh.
“But how can I stay?” she asked, pleading. Her body was melting, her loins dissolving; she wanted him inside her but she had to have answers first. Oh, treacherous flesh! she thought.
“You must trust me!” he said. “And believe me. I need you, Anna. I need you.”
She reached up, curling her hands behind his neck, and pulled him to her; this time, she kissed him, and he responded. His cock was pressing hard against her thigh, and suddenly she wanted it; she wanted to make him come.
She began to sink to her knees. At first he was confused, and tried to hold her up. “Anna, are you all right?”
“Hush, sir,” she admonished him, and her fingers fumbled with his breeches, and he realized what she was about. He braced his hands on the wall above her as she drew his erect cock into her mouth.
How strange it was, she thought idly. The idea of this act never even occurred to me, but a week ago. And now, I cannot wait to pleasure this man in this way. Is this the mystery of love that they speak of?
His soft skin encased his hardness and she licked up and down, probing and curling, and wrapping her hands around the base of him to mimic her own pussy clamping upon him. As she did so, her pussy throbbed in time to her movements and she felt dampness between her thighs when she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
