by Jane Feather
Then his hand stilled; his entire body became motionless as she began to unlace her bodice in a strangely matter-of-fact fashion. In a gesture devoid of artifice, she opened the front of her smock beneath, revealing the full, creamy swell of her breasts, rose-crowned and proudly upstanding. Nicholas sat down on the lumpy flock mattress on the narrow bed. The ropes creaked in protest beneath his weight. His eyelids were inordinately heavy, yet he could not take his gaze off her as the tawdry red dress fell to the floor, to be joined by the grimy petticoat.
Polly stood still, wondering desperately what to do next. She had never been obliged to remove her smock before. The gulls had always lapsed into unconsciousness before she had slipped off her petticoat, yet this one remained awake, and was clearly waiting for the disrobing to be complete. She looked anxiously into his eyes for the dilation and cloudiness that would indicate the potion was about to take effect. The eyes remained fixed upon her; clearly she had no choice. Her hands moved to slide the opened smock off her shoulders.
Nick found himself slightly breathless as she slipped slowly out of the thin garment to stand naked in the cold, dirty chamber. The contrast between their surroundings and that flawless body, glowing opalescent in the flickering light from the oil lamp, was beyond contemplation.
“Come over here.” The soft command seemed to shriek in the silence. Polly swallowed, taking a tentative step toward the bed. The room spun suddenly around Nicholas; with a dreadful flash of apprehension he realized that things were not as they should be. Even as she drew close, this amazing creature seemed to flicker and fade before his eyes. “In the name of God!” he exploded, rubbing his eyes in the vain hope that his vision would clear. “What have you done to me?”
To Polly’s mingled relief and dismay, he tumbled onto the bedstead. She stepped cautiously over to the bed, looking down at the inert figure. Her task as lure was completed; she should now dress and go back to the taproom, leaving the rest to Josh. What would they do to him? They would not kill him, surely? But she knew that they would. Left alive, he would bring the Watch down on them, and they would all end up at the end of a rope—herself included.
She bit her lip, thinking of the wise man’s prayer: Give me not poverty, lest I steal. But she had been dealt poverty in this world of scant justice, and permitting regrets or the voice of conscience was a luxury she did not have. A roar of laughter from the taproom below set the oak boards shivering beneath her feet. It was a timely reminder. Josh would be waiting for her, and if she didn’t reappear, he would come in search. Her eyes drifted to the bulge in the gentleman’s doublet where he kept his purse. Josh would not miss a guinea. He could not know how much the purse had contained.
Stealthily, she bent over the still figure, her fingers sliding inside the pocket of the velvet doublet.
“So that’s your game! Thieving doxy!”
The world seemed to tilt; then Polly found herself flat on her back on the bed, staring wide-eyed with shock into a pair of dazed but unmistakably livid emerald eyes.
“You take your payment before rendering the service, is that it?” His body was heavy on hers, one hand holding her wrists above her head, the other gripping her jaw with a determined force that was not consonant with the drinking of one of Prue’s specials.
“You are supposed to be asleep,” she gasped with mistaken, ingenuous candor.
“And God help me, I deserve to be!” he muttered. “Of all the dupes! To be taken in by such a trick in a place like this.” Nicholas did not know why the feel of those probing fingers had penetrated his torpor, but he did know that he must fight the continuing creeping insensibility with his last ounce of strength—both mental and physical. Anger was a powerful aid as he examined that beautiful, deceitful countenance, the enormous glowing eyes leading him into a green-brown land of promise, the sensual mouth slightly parted over perfect white teeth. The soft body moved beneath him, bringing the image of her nakedness to vibrant life. Lust was also a powerful force, particularly when combined with fury. “This time you provide the service before payment,” he said, bringing his mouth to hers.
Polly writhed and twisted beneath a ravaging assault; the buttons of his coat bit into her softness; the velvet seemed to rasp against her skin. And threading through her panic was the infinitely terrifying thought that Josh and his cronies would arrive at any minute, would find her naked … would find their victim in possession of his senses … She did not know which thought was the more hideous. She had not waited for the gentleman to finish his mulled wine, and to that extent she was responsible for the failure of the plan. But Prue must have miscalculated, also.
“Please!” She fought free of his mouth. “You do not understand.”
“Understand!” Laughter cracked in sharp derision. “I understand that I am buying what you promised to sell.”
“But I did not promise …” Polly’s voice faded as she realized how pointless and unconvincing was her defense. She had always known that one day her luck would run out; one day she would not be able to protect herself; one day would come the unvanquishable assault on a maidenhead that she had so far managed to preserve against all the odds, knowing that its possession was the only thing that set her apart from the ranks of dull-eyed slatterns who peopled her world. Lost virginity led to a swollen belly, to the pox, to the hopeless, self-perpetuating cycle of rape and childbirth, broken only by the grave. Once she had started upon that road, there would be no turning back, no possibility of theatres and stages and applauding audiences—no possibility of a future.
But if the time had come, then perhaps it was better at the hands of this man, who might have some delicacy, than for a few pennies with one of the hardhanded, foul-mouthed customers belowstairs. Her struggles ceased. “Do not hurt me,” she whispered.
Nicholas stared down at her. “Hurt you! Why should you imagine I would do such a thing?”
Two large tears rolled hotly down her cheeks. “It hurts to breach the maidenhead, does it not?” Her voice was small, her face set.
Nicholas took a deep breath, struggling with the sense of unreality that seemed to have transcended the physical confusion brought about by whatever had been slipped into his drink. Since when was a tavern whore in possession of her maidenhead? “You would have me believe you are a maid?” he demanded incredulously, releasing his hold. He got off the bed and stood looking down at her as she lay sprawled on the coverlet. She seemed to be quite unconcerned at her nakedness, almost as if she had forgotten it, he thought, trying to shake his head clear of bewilderment.
Polly nodded, sitting up. “I am only supposed to bring the gentlemen up here,” she explained. “They always fall asleep before they can—”
“And then you rob them?” he interrupted harshly, seeing nothing to contradict in her statement. It was extraordinary to think that she had preserved her innocence throughout this fraud, but not an impossible feat in the circumstances she had described and he had experienced.
“Not I,” she corrected, as if it could possibly make any difference to her degree of guilt. “Josh and his friends.”
“And then what happens?” He began to pace the small chamber in an effort to keep the fog at bay. The girl did not reply. He swung ’round on her. “And then what happens?”
She shook her head, eyes wide with appeal. “I do not know.”
“Liar!” He caught her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You are a liar, a thief, an accomplice to murder.” And all that malefice was contained in a form so beautiful that it almost defied belief. He turned from her in disgust.
“No, you cannot go downstairs.” The urgent whisper arrested him as he put his hand on the latch. “They will not let you out of here alive.” Polly jumped from the bed, catching his arm. “There is a cupboard on the landing. If you hide there until they come up, then you can slip down the stairs when they come in here.”
“You expect me to hide from a pack of river rats?” he exclaimed, drawing his sword in one easy movement
.
“There are six of them,” she said. “You may be brave as a lion, but against such odds—” She shrugged and turned from him, bending to pick up her smock from the floor.
Her buttocks and thighs were bruise-tinged, the deep purple of fresh contusions overlaying the yellow of old hurts. Nicholas saw again the vicious Josh, his great red hands raised against her, the obscene glint in his little eyes. The anger ran from him. What right had he to judge this girl for whom violence was an inextricable part of daily living? She did only what she was compelled to do, and life was cheap in these back slums.
“And what will happen to you?” he asked quietly. “I doubt you could take another beating so soon after the last.”
Polly flushed. She had forgotten about the welts. Hastily, she pulled on her smock. “He only does it ’cause he wants to do the other.” Amazingly, an imp of mischief danced suddenly in her eyes. “But Prue won’t let him. Says she’s not about to share her husband with a chit of a girl she’s brought up from babyhood, and she’ll cut it off if he tries anything with me.” A tiny chuckle escaped her, despite the desperation of the moment. “She would, too. She’s bigger than he is.”
Nicholas could feel his own mouth curving in response. She did have the most infectious smile, even when, as now, it was one of pure mischief, with none of the come-hither quality of before. But then, that particular smile had been intended to deceive; this variety appeared to be without artifice.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and all desire to laugh fled. Polly went as white as milk as Nicholas, sword drawn, whirled to face the door. The door was flung back on its hinges to reveal Josh and five burly men ranged behind him, all armed with cudgels.
Why would they need cudgels if their intended victim was supposed to be unconscious? Nicholas wondered with dispassion, moving backward to give himself maneuvering space. They’d probably enjoy bludgeoning him to death before dropping him in the river, he reflected, still dispassionate.
“Get out of here, girl,” rasped Josh. “I’ll deal with you later.” He advanced on Kincaid, the others fanning out behind him in the small chamber. Nicholas wouldn’t have a chance. His sword flashed, catching Josh’s arm as he raised the cudgel. Blood dripped from the cut; the tavern keeper roared like an enraged bull, bringing the cudgel down with full force. Nicholas jumped aside, and the club just missed shattering his arm; but he was almost against the wall now. There would be nowhere to jump the next time.
A sudden blast of freezing air filled the room, setting the sullen coals in the hearth to hiss and smoke. Someone had opened the casement at his back. “Quickly!” Polly’s anguished cry from behind told him who to thank for that piece of quick thinking. He relinquished all vainglorious thoughts of fighting to the death to preserve the honor of the Kincaids. There’d be no honor in the demise that awaited him here, beaten to a pulp like a rabbit in a harvested field. He leapt backward onto the broad stone sill, keeping his assailants momentarily at bay with rapid thrust and parry of his sword, desperation lending him both speed and strength. Then he consigned himself to the air, jumping backward into the unknown.
He landed with a jarring thump. But he had landed on earth, not stone, and for that he could be grateful. The cold air, combined with the tension and excitement of the last few minutes, cleared his head miraculously. He blinked, trying to accustom himself to the darkness. The men would, know how to find him, and since he didn’t know where he was, he could not know how to remove himself from this insalubrious neighborhood.
“Catch me!” a now familiar voice called in a desperate plea. He looked up to see Polly in her white smock poised on the sill. A hand reached to seize her waist; with a wild shriek she kicked herself free before tumbling, unbalanced, from the window. Nicholas managed to break her fall, although she knocked him to the ground again, and he wasted desperate seconds trying to disentangle himself from her flailing limbs, swirling hair, and the folds of her smock.
The sounds of confused bellowing from above ceased abruptly. “Quick,” Polly said. “They are coming downstairs.” She grabbed his hand, tugging him into the shadowy darkness, away from the lamplight of the window. “This way.”
Nicholas opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. So he was going to run through the streets of London on a foggy, freezing December night in the company of a barefoot tavern wench wearing nothing but her smock! It seemed a fitting enough conclusion to such an evening.
Chapter 2
Nicholas had no idea where Polly was guiding him, but she was fleet of foot, showing no hesitation about their direction, so he followed where she led and saved his breath for running. The sounds of pursuit, at first alarmingly loud behind them, finally faded; the racing figure beside him turned yet another corner onto another narrow alley and came to a fast-breathing halt under an archway.
“They’ll not find us now.” Her breath came on a sob; she shivered as the heat engendered by movement abated and the freezing air whipped her smock against her body.
“God’s good grace!” her companion exploded softly. “Are you crazed, girl? To come out like that!”
“Had I stayed for my clothes, I would not have come out at all,” was the tart rejoinder. “And had I not done so, they would have caught you easily. There is only one way out of that garden, and ye’d never have found it in the dark.” She hopped from one foot to the other. The mud in the alley was frozen in hard ridges, and her feet were rapidly becoming numb.
“Just what do you intend doing now?” demanded Nicholas, shrugging out of his coat. “Put this on.”
“Coming with you.” Polly went on to inform him blithely of the part he was to play in her life. The idea had hit her with the blast of cold air from the opened casement, complete and perfect—the opportunity she had sometimes despaired of being given. It would require a little cooperation, of course, but surely he would be happy to take what she could offer in exchange. Men were not in general indifferent to her charms—an interest that so far had been nothing but a burden, but in this instance could be put to good use. Wrapping the coat around her shoulders, she stroked the sleeve, wonderingly. “I’ve never worn velvet before.”
“What do you mean, you’re coming with me?” He looked at her uneasily.
“Well, I can’t go back, can I?” she pointed out with impeccable logic. “Josh’ll kill me … if Prue doesn’t first.” Her dance on the frozen mud became more vigorous. “Besides, I saved your life, so now you can be my … my …” She searched for the right word, then found it. “Protector,” she finished triumphantly. “Or do I mean patron? Actors have patrons, don’t they? But I suppose, if I am to be your mistress, then you would also be my protector. Anyway, either will do.”
“Either will not do!” Nicholas, unable to make head or tail of this assured statement, stared at the prancing figure swathed in velvet. “May I remind you that it was you who made the saving of my life necessary in the first place?”
“Ah,” Polly bit her lip. “I suppose that is true. But what am I to do? I cannot become an actor without a patron. I have been waiting for one forever. And now you have turned up so fortuitously—” A violent sneeze brought an end to this confusing recitation, returning Nicholas to his senses. She was going to freeze to death if he left her here, if she had not already contracted an inflammation of the lungs. He didn’t want her death on his conscience—time enough when they found shelter to decide what to do with her.
“Where are we?” He peered into the murk, but could see nothing familiar.
“Near Gracechurch Street,” was the prompt reply. “Cornhill’s up that-a-way.” She pointed ahead.
“We’ll mayhap find a hackney there. If there’s a jarvey willing to ply his trade on this filthy night.” He glanced down at her bare feet. “Can you walk that far?”
Polly shrugged. “Have to, won’t I?” She began to run up the lane—an extraordinary figure in underdress and a gentleman’s coat, that honey hair streaming in the wind. He’d be lucky
to find a jarvey willing to take such a motley creature, Nicholas reflected gloomily. She looked as if she’d escaped from Bedlam! Mind you, he was beginning to feel as if he had done so. He set off at a brisk walk in her wake.
There were few people abroad to witness the strange pair, but Nicholas, alert for footpads, kept his hand on his sword hilt and his eyes peeled for a sight of the Watch, unsure how he would explain matters should he be challenged. They reached Cornhill, where Polly stopped. She dashed a hand across her eyes—a gesture that did not escape Nicholas, coming up beside her. It was too dark to see the extent of her distress, but her posture had lost its previous jauntiness. He looked anxiously up the street. Not even the lantern of a linkboy showed through the fog.
“Lord of hell! You could at least have brought your shoes!” The irritable mutter produced a gulping sound from his companion, but he was too worried about her physical state to care overmuch about wounded sensibilities. Then the sound of hooves pierced the dark. Nicholas stepped into the street. A coach lantern wavered, its light a will-o’-the-wisp in the fog-dark. He ran toward the vehicle, praying that it was a public hackney so that he would not be obliged to throw himself on the mercy of some late-night traveler, who would be justifiably suspicious of an apparently benighted gentleman and a half-clad female.
“Wha’ y’want, then, foin sir?” The muffled figure on the box swayed, his words slurred. “Foul night to be abroad.” He raised a bottle to his lips and drank deeply, hiccuping.
“Your services,” said Nicholas briskly, pulling open the coach door. He turned to yell for Polly before the jarvey could whip up his horses and take off without them, but she was right beside him. He bundled her inside. “A guinea for you if you can take us to Charing Cross, man.”
“Ah’m for me bed,” the coachman protested in spite of the promised largess. “Wrong direction.”
