Prelude to Love (14 page)

She was nearly as angry as she was frightened, but with a sudden, vivid memory of Harvey's bloody face and bruised body and his ominous warning of what fate Kiley might visit on a woman, fear soon overtook all other emotions. She thought her heart would stop, as she stood, locked against him. There was not a sound in the room but his rapid breathing and her own, till a particularly loud snore erupted through Elleri's adjoining door, to tell her how much help her aunt was likely to be in her hour of dire need.

"Don't make a sound. I have a gun," Kiley said softly in her ear. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want the letter. Where is it?"

No answer was possible, with his fingers crushing her lips. He removed them, no more than an inch, ready to clamp back in place if she started to scream. She was too dazed, too frightened, to do so. She gulped the air, trembling.

"Light a candle," he ordered, still holding her against him. "We'll walk to your bed table. You light it. You'll feel my gun in your back, in case you get any unladylike ideas."

She did exactly as he commanded, still too frightened to make any rational plan, but a rag of hope at least fluttered. He didn't have the letter! He hadn't found it, though he had been standing right beside it. Her shaking fingers fumbled in the darkness, taking a long time to strike the flint and get a faint, flickering light. She was so shaken, she sat on the side of the bed to look at the enemy. Menacing shadows danced over his face, while his black eyes examined her. In his right hand, a lethal pistol pointed at her heart. Behind him on the wall, his shadow rose up to the ceiling, as menacing as all the rest.

"Sorry if I frightened you," he said, "but this is too serious a matter to allow sentiment to intrude. I want the letter. I will have it before I leave this room. Many lives are at stake. It is amply clear to me by now that you will not succeed in delivering it safely. Your friend Carlisle has called in reinforcements. I was attacked on the road coming from Maldon, barely escaping with my life. The same carriage arrived at the stables here not an hour ago. Whatever his personal feelings, he won't go on treating you with kid gloves once his cohorts get to persuading him."

She continued looking at him, mute. She could not have spoken if she wanted to. She was paralyzed with fear and shock.

"Come, now, you have nothing to fear. When I go and you remain, they'll know I have it, and be chasing off after me. I am better able to handle their sort. Two ladies have no chance against them. Where is it?"

She licked her lips. "I don't have it," she said, her voice a mere whisper.

"I repeat, where is it?" he asked, his voice becoming harsher.

"I gave it to Carlisle."

He shook his head. "Try again. I went through his room and case with a fine tooth comb. I fancy you played him the same stunt you played me. I assume you had one of your blank calling cards pasted under the lining of your valise. He would not still be hanging around if it had been the real letter. You've still got it." His eyes made a tour of the room, then settled on her body, appraising it as he had when first they met. "I believe on your person is the likeliest place."

"Did you see it when you watched me undress?"

"No," he answered quietly, with a little flush. "Your back was to me the whole time. I didn't see anything ... I mean ..." He quickly caught himself up, becoming hard, insistent again. "Hand it over, or I will be forced to take it. If I have to strip you naked, Miss Bradford, I will do it. Make no mistake about that."

"Please, I don't have it."

"Take off your dress," he said in a completely impersonal but very firm tone.

She looked, clutching at her bosom. She slowly arose and began backing away, toward her aunt's door, hoping against hope to arouse her. He raised the gun, cocked it, the metallic click sounding like thunder in the closed room. "Back this way, to the bed—away from the door," he ordered. When she remained motionless, he took her arm and pulled her back roughly.

"I don't like this any more than you do. A great deal of unpleasantness and time can be spared if you'll just hand it over. I will deliver it for you. For God's sake, give it to me, Vanessa!" he said, his voice rising louder than before. "I don't want to do anything we'll both regret."

She swallowed convulsively, and inched back. His hand flew out and grabbed her, pushing her against the wall.

"You bring it on yourself," he charged angrily, then reached out and grabbed the top of her gown, gave a wrench that ripped it open to the waist, revealing her camisole. With only a second's hesitation, his fingers closed over the top of this. A ring on his second finger scratched against her soft flesh, while every finger pressed hard against her bosom.

"Sure you don't want to change your mind?" he asked, examining her closely. His eyes slid from her face down to her half-exposed breasts, which rose and fell from her turbulent breathing. His own breaths were quick and shallow. There was a nervous, febrile quality in him that had not been there before. Without any experience in such matters, she knew it was caused by those fingers, twitching against her white breasts. He seemed fascinated by them, making it easy to believe Harvey's warning of the revenge awaiting a woman at this man's hands. "Well?" he asked, tightening his hold, ready to rip away the last covering.

"Wait. I'll get it," she said.

"Good girl." A smile flickered quickly over his features. He looked for a moment, then his head swept down and he kissed her—only a fleeting kiss, but full on the lips. He lifted his head reluctantly. "Danger is the greatest aphrodisiac in the world. Did you know that?" he asked.

"What?"

"And you, undressed, run it a very close second."

She held her breath while he slowly uncurled his fingers from her camisole, to let them slide over her breasts, taking more time than was necessary to do it. At last he took a step backward, no longer touching her with anything but his eyes.

She looked around the room, searching for a weapon. She had left her poker in Harvey's room. Nothing else looked large enough or strong enough to disable him, even temporarily. Then she saw Elleri's traveling clock, its brass frame holding the glass that protected the works within. Its sharp corners were suitable for her purpose. She took a quick step past him; he was after her, reaching for her arm.

"It's there, in the clock," she said. He came along with her, still holding onto her, still with the pistol in his left hand, but hanging down by his side now. She reached for the clock—he held her hand away from it, with a look more arch than anything else.

"You wouldn't fool a fellow, would you? Funny the clock is still running," he mentioned, looking at her suspiciously.

"I folded the letter up tight. It's behind the brass backing. It will have to be unscrewed. Do you have anything ..."

"My clasp knife should do it," he said. He let go of her for a moment while he reached into his inner jacket pocket, having a little difficulty to extract the knife with one hand. She picked the clock up, not swiftly, to reveal her plan, but in a casual way that did not alarm him. Then, while his head was turned down toward the pocket, she swiftly raised the clock and brought its square corner down hard against his temple. He fell to the floor with a little groan. She didn't know whether she had killed or only wounded him, and didn't care much at that instant. At least he was immobile. She ran to the curtain, extracted the letter, threw on her bonnet and pelisse to cover her rent gown, picked up her reticule and dashed out the door, without telling her aunt or anyone. She wanted only to escape, to run while she had the chance, to take the letter and not stop running till it was safely delivered. There was no time for a masculine disguise, or a groom to protect her. There was only the blind panic that said "escape."

She went downstairs to the lobby, where the staff was just beginning preparations for the morning. In the short interval she had been with Kiley, the sun had risen. "When does the first coach leave?" she asked the clerk.

"At six-thirty, ma'am. You have plenty of time. You can grab a bite of breakfast first, if you like. The coffee will be ready presently."

"Thank you. I can't wait." She ran out the door into the street. It was cool in the first light of morning, and practically deserted. There was a man driving a milk cart toward the inn, and a man going into a shop, stopping to unlock the door, obviously the proprietor. She had not thought to ask the clerk which direction the coach stop lay.

She ran across the street to enquire this information of the shopkeeper. As she hastened along, she caught the loose toe of her shoe on a cobblestone, pulling it loose, right back to the heel. It flapped, hampering her progress, lending a grotesque air to her fleeing steps.

"Can you direct me to the coach stop?" she asked.

He looked at her pale, harried young face and took pity on her. "Yes, miss, it's two blocks down the street, on your right. Are you in some trouble?"

"No, just in a hurry," she answered.

"There's no rush. You've three-quarters of an hour yet."

"Thank you." She glanced up to see what manner of a shop he had, wondering if it were not safer than a coaching house. When Kiley came to and found her gone, he would check first the stable at the inn, then the coaching stop.

"Would you like to come in and wait?" he offered. It was a drapery shop. "I usually make myself a pot of tea before the customers come in."

The shop was across from the inn, giving her a good view of comings and goings there. She could see if Kiley came out, without being seen by him. A drapery shop too would have needle and thread to repair her torn gown. "Thank you," she said, and took a step toward him. He noticed her shuffling walk, and soon saw its cause.

"I can fix that for you. I have a hammer and some tacks out back. I use them for small repairs about the shop. It will take care of you till you can get to a proper cobbler. I don't have a last, but we'll stick a bit of metal into the shoe. I hope the tacks don't go through the insole to pierce your toes. You can always put some cardboard inside your shoe if the tacks come through."

He chattered on in this amiable fashion while they went inside. Although it was quite dark, he did not light candles. In fact, he bolted the door behind them, explaining that he was not actually open for business yet. This gave her some feeling of security.

"Thank you. You are very helpful," she said.

"I'll just light my little fire and set the water boiling for tea. Then I'll fix your shoe for you."

She thought for a moment, then said, "Why don't you bring me the hammer and tacks, and I'll tack it while you start the fire?"

"Do you know how to use a hammer?" he asked, laughing. He seemed a nice fatherly gentleman.

"I'll manage. What am I to use for a last?"

He poked around behind his counters and came up with a flat piece of sheet metal, which he inserted for her. It was not the right shape, but was better than nothing. He heard the slow, tentative tapping while he made his fire, smiled to himself at the unlikely picture of an elegant young lady turning cobbler. He also wondered what scrape she had fallen into, but in the end decided it was none of his business. If he started asking questions, he would only end up having to give her money. Poverty did not appear to be her problem, though.

Vanessa stationed herself at the counter for her chore, with a clear view of the inn. There was a little traffic, but neither Kiley, Carlisle nor her aunt came out. The kettle was humming by the time she finished her job. There was no time to find needle and thread; already the cups were rattling. She hastily grabbed up a few loose pins from the counter and pinned her torn gown, in a temporary way, then pulled her pelisse over her shoulders, to conceal the rough job.

The draper smiled at the mess she had done of repairing her shoe—it looked lumpy, amateurish. She had got the sole pulled crooked, poor thing. They drank their tea while she quizzed him about coaches, and especially their destinations.

"The first to leave is the day stage to London. It's slow—the public stage, stops everywhere. It would get you in around four this afternoon. Is it London you're off to?"

"Yes," she answered, sticking to her decision to follow that route, in hopes of fooling Kiley.

She checked out the window, across the road to the inn, before leaving the drapery shop. "It's a bit early yet," the man pointed out.

"I want to be sure to get a seat. Thank you so very much."

"You're entirely welcome, my dear."

He shook his head, to see her pelt down the street as if the hounds of hell were after. Running away, he figured, and no more able to take care of herself than a baby. But what she lacked in experience she made up in determination. She would have a seat on that stage if she had to sit on the box with the driver, wearing a man's drab coat and hat.

The situation was not quite so desperate. There was a seat inside. She read the posted schedule, disliking that it was such a slow stage, stopping at every hamlet. So much chance for mischief, for being overtaken. The mail coach would be definitely better, faster, but unfortunately it did not arrive for some hours, and her first priority was to get away from Colchester.

While she stood worrying, an elegant old dame strode up beside her and stopped, arms akimbo as she looked all around. She had gray hair, a good but ancient black outfit and a hatchet nose that lent an air of breeding to her.

"Where
is
that wretched boy?" the dame asked, of no one in particular. "I shall never take my grandson up in my carriage again." She turned to Vanessa, to have someone to complain to. "He must be forever running off to the stables to talk to the grooms. I declare we shan't be to London before noon."

As she spoke, an elegant black carriage harnessed up to a team of four was led out. "Only look at the wretched job horses they have saddled me with," the woman jawed, but the team were deep-chested bays, capable of a good speed. Vanessa glanced over to the day stage, to compare. But there was no comparison; even without all the necessary stops, the stage could never keep pace with this rig. Besides the groom, there was a man mounted behind for protection. A little boy of six or seven came darting up to the woman.