Ryan's Bride

by James, Maggie

  “The only thing is,” he continued, “you will have to leave a week later.”

  That was no problem. He needed the extra time to go to Blois and find Francois DeNeux. If he went home without the horses, his father would be upset, and he didn’t want that, not when he was bringing home a wife. “All right. Change my reservation to the James Munroe and book two cabins—one for me and one for my cousin, Corbett Tremayne.”

  The agent leafed through his book and frowned. “I’m sorry, I only have one left, but I can put your cousin in steerage.”

  Ryan groaned to think of how Corbett would react to that. Then the thought struck that maybe he would want to go back as scheduled, which would be much better. Having him around Angele might prove awkward. “Reserve the cabin on the James Munroe, but hold back on changing my cousin’s ticket from the Victory till you hear from me.”

  As soon as Ryan left, he wasted no time in getting to the office of the commandant général, the person he knew to be in charge of the city jails. The hour was growing late, and he did not want the sun to set on another day in the hellish prison run by Captain Duclos.

  He told the story about how a friend of his had endured unspeakable horror at Duclos’s jail, as well as being coerced into agreeing to sell herself into prostitution in order to be freed. The commandant général was not only appalled—he was furious. He assured Ryan he had not known what was going on and that Duclos would be dealt with severely. It would never happen again. Apologies were offered. Ryan said it was not necessary. He just wanted to make sure that no woman would ever suffer again as his friend had.

  As he walked back toward the hotel in the gathering dusk, Ryan thought of the word he had used to describe Angele—friend. It was a very important word, perhaps even the key to a good marriage. They had to become friends. Maybe they would never love each other, but they had to make people think they did, otherwise there would be gossip and speculation, which he did not want. That meant he would have to talk to Corbett and see that he kept his mouth shut. But there was a chance Corbett might not even recognize her once she was cleaned up…dressed up, especially if he made up a story about having met her when Corbett wasn’t around. He would think of something. He had to.

  And, if Corbett sailed a week earlier, it would really be a blessing.

  Ryan quickened his pace as the idea of keeping Angele’s true identity a secret took hold. He would not take her out to dinner that night as planned, because Corbett would see her. Instead, he would have a tray sent to her room, then move her to another hotel first thing in the morning. She could spend the next two weeks being fitted for her wardrobe while he went to Blois. And when he arrived in Richmond with her later, dressed in her finest and tutored in the finer graces as much as possible during the crossing, Corbett would never recognize her as the thief from the catacombs.

  He passed a clock as it struck half past six and breathed a sigh of relief. Angele would be in her own room by now, and Corbett would be in the hotel smoking parlor, passing time till dinner.

  There was nothing to worry about.

  Corbett stood outside Ryan’s door, reeling a bit from side to side. He knew he’d had too much to drink, but the stuffy old fart he’d been talking to in the bar was willing to pay for his drinks as long as he listened to his stories. They were as stale as the cigar he smoked, but Corbett didn’t care. He never turned down free whiskey, because he seldom had money to buy his own. That irked him deeply, because whenever he needed anything, he had to go to his uncle Roussel and ask, which he felt was humiliating. He should have an allowance, damn it.

  But all that would change, he was sure, once Ryan married Denise. She and Clarice would run things like they wanted and see to it that he had money.

  Corbett pounded on the door. It was time, by damn, for Ryan to go home and make wedding plans. He had been acting strange lately, and Corbett had thought he was missing Denise. But when he’d said something about her, Ryan had blinked like he didn’t know who he was talking about. So something was gnawing at him, and the sooner they left Paris, the better.

  He knocked again, louder. Ryan was probably sleeping. He hadn’t seen him all day. In fact, he had been keeping to himself since they had returned from Touraine. But he always joined him for dinner, and tonight Corbett planned for them to have a serious talk. He had passed a jewelry store down the street, and there was a dazzling diamond necklace in the window. He intended to convince Ryan to buy it for Denise as an engagement present and propose again as soon as he got home. Corbett was sure she’d say yes this time.

  “It’s all quite simple,” he chuckled to himself as he knocked harder, making the door rattle in the frame. “Just let Cousin Corbett take care of things, and it will all work out…”

  He fell silent as the door opened and he saw the girl standing there, Ryan’s silk robe wrapped about her. Then he came alive to bellow, “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”

  Angele clutched the robe to her neck with trembling fingers. “He…Mr. Tremayne…he sent me here.”

  “Like hell he did.” Corbett looked her up and down. Then, despite the webs of whiskey lacing his brain, comprehension dawned.

  “You,” he whispered, reeling. “You’re the girl from the sewer.”

  Chapter Five

  Angele tried to close the door but wasn’t fast enough. Corbett threw his shoulder against it and shoved, knocking her to the floor. He yanked her up, and the delicate silk of the robe tore, revealing she was naked underneath.

  Pulling the robe around her, she backed into the room, angry but also fearful. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m warning you to get out of here this instant.”

  Following her, he kicked the door shut. He was able to speak French, because Clarice had taught him. “Not till you tell me what the hell you’re doing in my cousin’s room.”

  Angele’s eyes went wide. Cousin. So that was how he knew who she was. Ryan had said his cousin had been at the abbaye that day. “You’ll have to ask him,” she retorted hotly, figuring it wasn’t her place to explain anything.

  He towered over her. “Well, I’m asking you, and you’re going to tell me if I have to shake it out of you.” His hands clamped down on her shoulders and squeezed.

  Angele ground her teeth against the pain. She was not about to let him know he was hurting her. “You’ve no right to ask me anything.”

  “I’ve got every goddamn right.” He began to push her, his palms slapping her shoulders, as she stumbled backward. “You’re nothing but a common thief. You live in the sewers, and you steal from old ladies.”

  “That shows how much you know. They’re called catacombs—not sewers. Now get out of here, or I’m going to scream.”

  He snickered, giving her another hard shove that nearly sent her to the floor again as she struggled to keep from falling. “Go ahead. Scream. I’m going to call for the police anyway. You belong in jail. But first I want to know how you got in here and what you stole from my cousin.”

  She knew he would not believe anything she said, and if he sent for the police, she would be taken right back to jail, and this time there’d be no getting out. She thought fast. She had to keep him talking, asking questions, distract him, then lunge for the door. But she had to have her clothes. She had gratefully peeled out of her dirty, tattered boy’s attire and tossed everything into a corner. She would have to try to snatch it all up on the way out, because she couldn’t go running out of the hotel wearing nothing but a silk robe that was practically hanging in shreds.

  Suddenly she bolted to run around the bed, putting it between them.

  Corbett began moving slowly around it. “You’re a whore, aren’t you? You’re too scruffy to be anything else.”

  Angele knew she did look wretched. Too weary to bathe, she had decided to take a nap first, only she had fallen dead to the world. She had intended to try to make herself look nice for Ryan. She would put on the gown he was to have delivered, and he would be proud to take h
er to dinner, and—

  She glanced about wildly. There was no gown, but how could there be? A hotel employee or messenger would likely not have pounded on the door as though he were driving a nail as Ryan’s cousin had done.

  He was creeping closer. “Stay away!” she warned. He was between her and the door.

  He kept coming. “I don’t know how you got in here, but I intend to find out. I can’t believe Ryan would have anything to do with the likes of you.”

  “He said I could stay here. My room wasn’t ready yet, and—”

  “Your room?” he echoed, incredulous. “A fine hotel like this wouldn’t let you eat out of the garbage cans, you little liar. You’ll have to come up with a better story than that, and you will—even if I have to beat it out of you.”

  He lunged, and so did Angele. She tried to make it across the bed, planning to run out the door even if she didn’t have time to grab up her clothes. But he was faster. He caught her by her ankle and yanked her back. Flipping her over, he landed on top of her to pin her wrists above her head.

  She squirmed wildly, but he held her tight. The robe fell open. His gaze fastened upon her breasts, his breath momentarily catching in his throat. “Maybe Ryan doesn’t mind the dirt and grime. Maybe you’ve got something that makes him overlook everything else.”

  Fastening wet, greedy lips on one nipple, his hand dove downward to force her legs apart.

  Like the waving of a magic wand, Angele turned into a madwoman, fighting, twisting, heaving from side to side to get him off her. The last time a man had groped between her legs, she’d not been able to fend him off. But she had vowed that it would never happen again, that she would die before enduring such anguish and humiliation.

  The fierceness of her struggle caught Corbett off guard. Instinctively, he raised from her and fell slightly to the side. Not much, but enough that Angele could take advantage of the opportunity to slam her foot into his crotch, then again to his stomach.

  With a yelp of pain, he rolled to his side, clutching himself in agony.

  Angele sprang to her feet and began snatching up her tattered clothing to quickly dress. “Damn you to hell,” she muttered, furious. “Who do you think you are barging in here and thinking you can have your way with me? I told you the truth. Monsieur Tremayne told me to stay here. He’s taking me to dinner tonight.”

  “Why…why would he do that?” Corbett was gasping, rocking gently from side to side as he continued to hold himself. “I don’t…understand…any of this.”

  She stepped into the trousers, then pulled them tight around her tiny waist and tied them with the frayed rope to keep them from falling. She’d lost weight in the jail. Her hips were sharp blades, cutting into the already frayed material of the trousers.

  Maybe it had all been some kind of cruel joke, and Ryan Tremayne wasn’t coming back. No gown was to be delivered. There would be no elegant dinner. He had probably left her to his cousin to do whatever he wanted with her, then take her to their bordello. Marriage. Sailing to America. It was all part of the ruse.

  Dressed, her hand on the doorknob, she threw a hating glare at the man who had tried to rape her. He was still balled up on the bed, holding himself and groaning. “Tell your cousin that his scheme didn’t work, but I’m sure he’ll find other girls stupid enough to work in his whorehouse.”

  Corbett was lying on his side, head toward the door, and he craned his neck to look at her in bewilderment. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Don’t act innocent with me. You probably help him run it. But I have to say it was a clever plan—making me think he wanted to marry me.”

  “Marry?” With great effort, Corbett pulled himself up to sit on the side of the bed so he could look at her without straining. “You really are crazy. Ryan would never—”

  “Now who’s lying? He even said we were going to America to live…in a place called Virginia. He really went to a lot of trouble to make me believe him. You two must have a hard time recruiting your whores.”

  He held up a hand in gesture for her not to go. “Wait. Now I really am confused. Ryan said he was taking you to Virginia?”

  “It was all part of the plan—as you know.”

  “Well, I don’t know, and something isn’t making sense here. Where did he find you, anyway? I thought you were taken to jail.”

  “I was. He had me released to his custody, and now I’m getting out of here, because when he finds out I know what he’s up to, he’ll try to take me back to jail, and I don’t intend to let that happen.”

  She had not finished buttoning her shirt but opened the door, anxious to leave.

  A young man was standing there, about to knock. He was wearing a blue cotton coat with matching trousers. He blanched to see Angele’s open shirt, the line of her bare breasts beneath. Backing away, he murmured, “Sorry. I must have the wrong room.”

  He was holding a rectangular-shaped box. A blue satin ribbon was tied around it with a big bow on top.

  “I guess I’m going to be in trouble,” he said, edging away. “I’ve been knocking on the wrong door all afternoon.”

  “Whose room are you looking for?”

  “Uh, it’s…it’s all right,” he stammered. “I’ll find it. I apologize for bothering you.”

  Corbett, still sitting on the side of the bed, called, “Are you looking for Monsieur Tremayne’s room?” He looked past Angele and nodded.

  Angele quickly asked, “Are you supposed to deliver a package? To someone named Angele Benet?”

  He looked her up and down with uncertainty. “Yes, that’s the name on the box. It was delivered to the hotel earlier and I was told to take it to Monsieur Tremayne’s room—number 208.”

  Angele pointed to the numerals painted on the door behind her. “This is 208, and I am Mademoiselle Benet.” She practically yanked the package from him. “I’ll take it. Thank you.”

  “Wait a minute…” Corbett started to rise. “I think you’d better wait around till he gets here…”

  But the young man turned on his heel and rushed down the hall to disappear around the corner. Trouble was brewing, and he was not about to get involved.

  Angele stared at the box, unsure what to do. The fact that Ryan had kept his promise to buy her a dress meant nothing. It might be part of the plan. But she wanted to see just how nice it was. Perhaps she could sell it for enough money to sustain herself for a little while, anyway.

  She glanced at the man sitting on the bed. He only had one hand pressed against his crotch now, and he was sitting up straight, his face no longer twisted with pain. “You’re Corbett, aren’t you?” She walked back into the room and placed the box on the marble-topped table to the left of the door.

  “How did you know that?”

  She tugged at the bow. “Monsieur Tremayne told me. He said he hoped we would get along.”

  Corbett drew his hand from his crotch, the pain lessening. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Why would he say that?”

  “Because we were to all live together at BelleRose.” She hated sounding so wistful. She was a fool to think he had meant it. He had probably laughed all the way to the dress shop to select the gown she would wear while he wined her and dined her and tried to make her believe how good life could be if she agreed to work for him.

  “Live…together?” Corbett was sputtering, unwilling to grasp the implication of her words. “You…mean he was taking you to…to Virginia to be his mistress?”

  “Mistress. Courtesan. Whore. Who knows? When you get down to it, it’s all the same, isn’t it?” Opening the box, she gasped, long and loud. The gown was exquisite. Fashioned of emerald-green taffeta, it had a low in both front and back. The sleeves had several graduated puffs to the wrist, and the skirt was full and gored.

  Still making soft, adoring sounds under her breath, Angele gingerly lifted it from the box. And there were other things, as well. Forgetting about Corbett as she laid the dress out on the bed, she hurried to see w
hat else Ryan had sent.

  She had to giggle over the corset. Her mother had worn one, but Angele’s undergarments had been quilted and heavily starched cotton petticoats attached to the bodice with wide shoulder straps. Things like nipped-in corsets would come later, her very proper mother had assured.

  There was also a pair of green satin slippers with rounded toes, a lace shawl, and a pearl necklace with matching earbobs. Then she squealed with delight to discover at the very bottom of the box a prettily wrapped bottle of perfume.

  She pulled out the stopper and held the bottle to her nose and breathed deeply. It was sweet but subtle, reminding her of wet rain on the first roses of spring. “Your cousin has good taste,” she absently said to Corbett.

  “And he’s obviously lost his mind.”

  She paused in her pleasure to glare at him. “You don’t have to worry about me. I realize now it was all pretense. He never would have married me.”

  Corbett hooted. “You’re damn right he wouldn’t. And I think you’re making all this up, anyway. I don’t know why he sent the dress. Maybe he thought he owed it to you after bedding you, and—”

  “He never bedded me!” she snapped, pushing the stopper back in the perfume bottle with a vengeance.

  “You were here, sleeping naked in his bed.”

  “He wasn’t with me.” She began stuffing everything back into the box. It would all fetch a good price, and she felt she had it coming to her after Ryan had played her for such a fool.

  “He’s obviously been here. He had to have let you in.”

  “The concierge let me in.”