The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

by Anne Lethbridge

  ‘No. I won’t.’ Hurriedly, aware of time passing, he stripped the sheets off the bed and knotted them together. He tied one end to the leg of the sturdy four-poster. ‘We’ll use this to slow our descent,’ he said at Jeannie’s questioning look.

  Sylvia giggled. ‘What are you two doing?’

  He repressed the vision of two broken bodies at the mercy of Madame Gilbert and Alphonse. ‘Jeannie, remake the bed when we are gone and close the window. It might keep them confused for a while.’

  She nodded, then glanced at Sylvia leaning against the wall with a dreamy expression on her face. ‘She canna climb down.’

  ‘I have a solution to that.’ Using Jeannie’s discarded knife, he rent the pillowcase into strips.

  Sylvia smiled mistily as he tied her wrists. He placed her arms around his neck and she leaned against him, nuzzling below his ear. Cold shivers of hot pleasure ripped through his body. He hardened.

  Hell. She had no idea what she was doing. It meant nothing. He picked her up. She wrapped her legs around his hips. God, it felt so damn good.

  He tossed his cane out of the window into a rosemary bush, then perched on the windowsill. Grasping the knotted sheet, he swung his legs out. Sylvia slipped from his waist and hung like a dead weight, apparently asleep. As long as she didn’t fight him, he could hold her. He twisted the sheet around one arm, and leaned out. The muscles in his back screamed as he stretched across the distance. There. He had it. He scrabbled with his fingertips, then gripped the drainpipe. Using the ivy as a ladder, he clambered down.

  As his feet touched terra firma, he let go a long breath. Swiftly, he lowered the sleeping Sylvia to the ground, behind a rosemary bush, then glanced up, seeking signs of pursuit. Instead, Jeannie stuck her grizzled head out of the window and beckoned him closer.

  Blast. She should be closing the window and hiding the evidence.

  Gesturing to her to hurry, he ran beneath the window.

  ‘There’s an abandoned farmhouse off the Calais road, if ye need a place to rest,’ she whispered. ‘About ten miles on.’

  He waved his thanks.

  She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Wait a moment.’

  Damn it. They did not have time for this.

  She disappeared for an instant then returned with a bundle, which she dropped down to him. His driving coat and hat. He bowed his thanks and she pulled in the sheet and closed the casement.

  He collected his sword and took a quick look at the sleeping Sylvia. Quiet for the moment, at least. He crept to the front of the house. His heart sank. While his horse was happily chomping on the weeds by the front door, Alphonse stood a few feet away on the portico, smoking a pipe, the pungent tabacco drifting on the breeze.

  He cursed silently. There was no help for it, he would have to walk and he would have to carry Sylvia.

  He ran back, and gathered her into his arms, and ran for the back gate. Rusty and half off its hinges, it creaked open at a nudge. With a quick glance at the house, he dashed across the lane and through a gap in the hedge. According to his reckoning, they were about twenty miles from the outskirts of Calais. The hue and cry would start the moment the madame realised her customer had not emerged satisfied and sated by her exquisite new girl. At most, he had an hour before they discovered him missing.

  The rough terrain alongside the lane slowed his progress to a crawl. Sweat trickled down his back. Some thirty minutes later, he set Sylvia down on the ground and took stock of the distance he’d covered. A mile?

  He glanced around. Too damned bad he hadn’t been able to retrieve his horse. They would have been back to Calais and on the next packet to Dover long before dark. At this pace, so close to the lane, they risked imminent discovery. He had to cut across country.

  Sylvia moaned as he picked her up.

  Bloody hell. When she woke, he would have to contend with her needs again. Don’t think about it. His body howled a protest.

  Chapter Twelve

  T he rhythmic jolt of Sylvia’s body matched the steady drumbeat in her ear. She inhaled the spicy scent of sandalwood and shaving soap and heated man. One particular man.

  She opened her eyes. The world tilted, then righted.

  Against a backdrop of grey sky, a firm stubble-lined jaw appeared inches from her gaze. A trickle of moisture coursed from his temple, over his cheek and down the strong column of his neck into his collar.

  Christopher. A snaking desire to follow the trail of moisture with her tongue stilled her heart.

  With a slight grunt deep in his chest, his strong arms flexed around her waist and beneath her knees, shifting her weight. Why was he carrying her?

  An urge to press her lips against his warm skin flashed, torrid, through her body.

  He stumbled and his grip tightened, squeezing the air from her lungs.

  ‘Ouch,’ she gasped and pushed at his shoulder.

  ‘Damn it. Hold still.’

  Gripping her, he sank to his knees and lowered her on to the prickly grass. Brown flecked with green stared into her eyes.

  ‘How do you feel?’ His chest rose and fell in time to his harsh breathing.

  Confused, Sylvia stared across an open field, trees in the distance a dark shadow against a horizon of black clouds edged with gold. The last thing she remembered was arriving in Calais. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Still too close to Madame Gilbert’s, I’m afraid.’

  What did he mean? She tried to stand up. Her head spun and dry heaves wrenched her stomach. Bent double, she crouched on the grass, clutching at the rough stalks. She must have mal de mer.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  She would never be all right again.

  A comforting pressure squeezed her shoulder. ‘It’s the drugs, I expect.’

  Miserable and weak, she made no sense of his words, but the dizziness eased and she looked up into his concerned face. ‘Drugs?’

  ‘The madame drugged you.’ His voice sounded strained.

  What was he talking about? She glanced around. ‘What are you doing here?’ Where was here?

  His stiffened. ‘I might ask you the same question.’

  Flashes of recollection tumbled through her mind. Rafter, Madame Gilbert. Oh God, she was going to throw up.

  She retched, her empty stomach aching.

  He held her hair back from her shoulders and patted her back. ‘Relax. You’ll feel better soon.’

  A picture of Christopher, rippling muscles outlined in flickering candlelight, danced through her mind. ‘What have I done?’ she moaned.

  ‘You haven’t done anything.’

  As the nausea subsided, she managed to sit up.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ he asked and handed her a handkerchief.

  She wiped her face and her eyes. ‘Why are you here?’

  His jaw tightened and he looked off into the distance. ‘You left in rather a hurry. I followed you, to make sure you were all right. When I saw you with that man, I wasn’t sure what to think.’

  ‘I…Rafter. He forced me to go with him.’

  He leaned forward and peeled a damp strand of hair from her forehead. ‘I know.’

  The fleeting touch of his fingers brought back other memories. Warm hands on her body, doing things, pleasurable, wonderful things. Shame swallowed her whole. She turned her face away, staring at the clods of earth and matted grass. ‘How you must despise me.’

  Fingers gripped her chin, warm and strong. He turned her face towards him. ‘You have no reason to be ashamed. They drugged you. You could not help what happened.’

  She remembered how she had clung to him. ‘But you—’

  He shook his head. ‘I did not take advantage of you, Sylvia. Much as I wanted to. Jeannie saw to that.’

  ‘Jeannie was there?’

  He nodded.

  In spite of what little she remembered of her wantonness, his hand touching her in intimate places and the terrible overpowering need followed by hot waves of pleasure, she believed h
im. He’d never once lied to her. ‘I’m so ashamed.’

  ‘You must not be. That wasn’t you back there.’

  Her heart tumbled over. She trusted him. A strange and wonderful feeling. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled down at her. ‘Do you think you can walk? We have a long way to go.’

  She took stock of her body. Her stomach felt as hollow as a drum, her mouth dry and sour. ‘I’m hungry and thirsty.’

  With a gentle hand under her arm, he helped her to her feet. ‘Water we can do something about quite soon, but food will have to wait.’ He brushed the dirt from his knees.

  She gave a shaky laugh. ‘Water would be welcome.’

  ‘There’s a stream over there.’ He pointed in the direction of a stand of trees, willows and larches and long grass. ‘You can drink and rest, but not for long, I fear.’

  Unable to do more than lean on his arm and force her feet to move, she followed his lead. A small stream meandered through the field and she knelt on the bank and scooped up the clear water in her hands. Cold and pure, it settled her stomach. Her head began to clear. She washed her face and hands, but with nothing to tie or pin her hair, she had to leave it loose.

  When she had drunk her fill, he led her to the shade of a small larch. Grateful for the respite, she leaned against the rough bark. Small insects darted around her head and she batted them away. She felt safe with Christopher. Safe and secure.

  He leaned his forearm against the tree above her head and scanned the horizon.

  ‘Do you expect Madame Gilbert to leap out of the bushes?’ she asked.

  He threw her an irritated glance. ‘No. But your Irishman might.’

  A cold rock landed in her stomach, driving away the peace. ‘He is not my Irishman.’

  His lip curled. ‘Maybe not. But he’d like to be.’

  Nothing could be further from the truth, but who would believe a woman like her? Not true. She wasn’t like those women. Your mother was, the little voice of doubt whispered, so why not you? She squeezed her eyes against the fear she’d carried for years.

  ‘When did you eat last?’ His breath grazed her ear and sent a delicious shimmer to the depths of her feminine core and ignited her blood. Her mind whirled away.

  The drugs must still hold her in their lascivious grip. She fought her wicked desires.

  ‘When?’ he asked again.

  ‘When what?’ He spoke of food. She blinked to clear her thoughts. ‘This morning. Early. I was to catch the first diligence to Paris.’

  ‘We have hours to go before we reach Calais and an inn. Do you think you can last?’

  He looked so handsome, so fierce, like a chivalrous knight determined to protect his lady. The kind of man she had dreamed of as a child, until she realised that no honourable man would ever want someone of her birth.

  ‘How did you get here?’ she asked.

  ‘On horseback. The damned horse is nicely locked up in the madame’s stable by now.’

  ‘How far to Calais?’

  ‘Fifteen or more miles. Maybe less straight across country.’

  Fifteen miles? Lethargy invaded her limbs and she slid down the tree to the leafy ground. ‘I don’t think I can walk that far.’

  His jaw thrust forward and green fire blazed in his eyes. ‘We have to move on, even if I have to carry you every step of the way. I’m damned if I am going to risk them catching up with us.’

  The thought of Madame Gilbert spurred her on. She stretched out her hands and he pulled her to her feet. ‘Let us go.’

  Clumps of coarse long grass ambushed her legs; pebbles stabbed the soles of her feet through her shoes, while ahead of her Christopher, in his serviceable riding boots, set a gruelling pace. Every now and then, she had to half-run not to fall behind. Sweat trickled down her back beneath a gown that seemed too tight. It constricted every breath she took.

  Each time the memory of the darkened room flashed through her mind, a hot flush accompanied a horrible sinking sensation in her stomach.

  Forget about it. He does not blame you.

  Hours had passed since they’d first stopped to drink. Whenever they crossed a stream, they swallowed another mouthful or two of clear water.

  They kept to the strip-farmed fields and, where possible, small stands of trees. They crossed lanes only when they were sure they were clear of other travellers. They avoided farms and other signs of habitation.

  Night drew in. Sylvia’s feet and thighs ached and burned. All her years of long walks on the Kentish downs had given her endurance, but she doubted her ability to continue much further. Hunger gnawed at her insides.

  As if he had read her mind, Christopher ceased walking. ‘We have to find somewhere to rest for the night. Even if there is a moon later, it might be difficult to find our way. If I am right, we should be close to the main road between Calais and Paris.’

  Legs, leaden only moments ago, felt light and airy at the thought of food and a soft feather bed. ‘Is there an inn nearby, do you think?’

  He frowned. ‘We dare not risk it and unfortunately I gave all of my gold for…’

  The strange tone in his voice gave her pause, then the truth slapped her in the face. He’d spent his money to buy her.

  Shame writhed in her stomach. She took a deep breath. What was done was over. ‘We have to eat something.’

  ‘Not until we reach Calais and I can pawn my watch.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest we do now?’

  ‘We will look for a barn, some sort of shelter, where we can spend the night.’

  She stared into the dusk. ‘A barn will mean a farmhouse.’ Saliva filled her mouth. ‘And hens, and eggs.’

  Christopher shook his head. ‘I told you, I don’t have any money. And besides, I am hoping for something unoccupied.’

  A growl rumbled in her stomach. There was more than one way to relieve a farmer of his produce, only Christopher Evernden wouldn’t know about that. He had never starved in his life.

  ‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘Let’s find this barn of yours.’

  ‘I think I saw smoke up ahead,’ he said, keeping pace at her side, a large comforting presence in the dusk.

  Less than a mile later, lights flickered ahead of them. Its round oasthouse like a church spire, a stone farmhouse sat at the end of a dirt track. A wall enclosed the single-storey building and the barn.

  ‘Devil take it,’ Christopher murmured. ‘The barn is too close to the farmhouse. We’ll have to move on.’

  Not when she could smell cooking. She picked up her skirts and began to run.

  Christopher grabbed her arm. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the farm. They will have food.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t have any money.’

  She grinned. ‘I hadn’t planned to pay for it.’

  A heavy silence greeted her words. His expression turned frosty.

  She pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Whether you come with me or not, I am going to get something to eat.’ She tugged her arm from his hand and trotted towards the twinkling yellow lights. His heavy breathing and booted steps followed her.

  A cockerel crowed and dogs barked as they neared the farmyard. Close up, the high stone walls made the farm look impregnable. A wooden gate gave access to the courtyard.

  ‘You go to the front door and keep them talking, while I go around the back to the kitchen. Act like a stupid Englishman, speak dreadful French and ask for directions,’ she whispered.

  ‘I won’t let you do this.’ His voice cut through the night in a low rumble.

  Carefully, she eased off her shoes with her toes. ‘I cannot walk to Calais on an empty stomach.’

  ‘I do not want to finish my days in a French prison.’

  She grinned, snatched up her shoes and darted away. ‘Then you had better hurry up and knock on the door or they’ll catch me and I’ll tell them you put me up to it.’

  He groaned. ‘You little w
itch.’

  The stones and dirt, cold and rough under her feet, reminded her of her childhood. She’d often gone barefoot in the cobbled Paris streets, wandering the markets looking for scraps. Ordure had trickled along the kennels in the centre of the medieval alleys. They built to foul torrents whenever it rained. Soldiers and revolutionaries had loitered on every street corner on the look-out for aristos. She’d been full of bravado in those days, a skilful shadow, and she’d fed them all when business was bad, her and Mother and Jeannie. Anything, her mother had said, was better than Sylvia working on her back.

  Dropping her shoes by the gate, she inhaled the scent of hay and manure and musty earth, wholesome country smells. Whatever she risked, she would never go back to that old sordid life.

  The gate opened without protest. Squares of warm light from a ground-floor window revealed a well-swept dirt yard. No sign of the dog. Carefully feeling ahead with her bare toes before trusting her weight on her foot, she eased along the wall in the murky shadows. Her heart thundered in her ears. It was a long time since she’d felt such a nervous thrill. She reached the window and risked a peek through the open casement.

  An apple-cheeked woman picked up a ladle from the heavy plank table running the length of the room. She bustled to the hearth and lifted the lid of a black cauldron suspended over the fire. A wonderful aroma floated out of the window. Rabbit stew. Sylvia swallowed her saliva.

  The dog barked frantically. But at the front, not the back.

  ‘Who is it?’ the farmer’s wife shouted above the yelps.

  A sigh of relief escaped Sylvia. Christopher had followed her instructions.

  A man shouted something from beyond the kitchen.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ the woman called back and slammed the lid down on the hearth. ‘Men,’ she muttered. ‘Can never do anything.’ She stomped out of the kitchen.

  Her breath held, Sylvia tiptoed to the back door and lifted the latch. It opened without a sound. She crept inside and left it ajar.

  ‘Oui, monsieur,’ the woman said in the distance. ‘Yes. À droite. To the right.’

  Christopher’s deep voice said something indistinct.

  ‘Non,’ the woman shouted, as if at a deaf person. ‘À droite. That way.’