Sattler, Veronica (3 page)

Then
she had spied a fifth youth, as ill-kempt and ragged as the rest, endeavoring
to loop a length of rope over the support for a rainspout several feet above
his head. She had just seen him accomplish this end when her eyes had caught
sight of a similar rope hanging from the side of the opposite building that
abutted the alleyway. And, there, dangling from the end of it, its poor neck
broken, hung one of the stray cats she'd intended the pan of milk for!

Fighting
the raw bile that rose in her throat at the ghastly sight, Ashleigh had forced
herself to take a few more tentative steps forward when she heard the boy with
the rope snigger and say to the others, "Truss 'im up neatly, blokes.
'E'll swing a might better'n 'at scruffy cat!" It was then that she had
seen what the dark form lying on the ground was. As the four accomplices
stepped away from it, apparently satisfied they'd accomplished their task, she
had made out the shape of a bony, wet and miserably bedraggled pup, its feet
and muzzle securely bound with additional pieces of rope. It lay in a puddle of
water at their feet, abject in its misery, helplessly writhing against its
bonds. Then, as she'd heard a pathetic, muffled whimper from its throat,
Ashleigh had known what she must do.

Throwing
caution to the wind, she reached into the deep pocket of her serving apron
where she'd stashed the kitchen knife she'd been using prior to escaping to the
alleyway with her gift of milk. Thrusting it out before her as a weapon, just as
Megan had taught her, she advanced upon the young hangmen with a dangerous
gleam in her blue eyes. "The first one to lay a hand on that pup is
dead!" she'd heard herself say. Five pairs of surprised eyes had suddenly
focused on her as she advanced in their direction with all the fury of an
avenging angel.

Spying
the glint of metal in her hand and the professional manner in which she wielded
the knife, slowly arcing it before her in a no-nonsense fashion, three of the
youths had begun to back away from the object of their cruelty, but a fourth
had apparently decided to stand his ground, while the one with the rope gave
her a menacing sneer. "Blimey, an' wot 'ave we 'ere? It's a meddlin'
kitchen wench fancies 'erself a reg'lar member o' the King's Guard, she
does!" Suddenly he'd reached forward and given a shove to the shoulder of
the youth who remained near the pup, a mean-faced beggar of about twelve or
thirteen, with dirty red hair. "Take care of 'er, Jake!"

A
sinister smile had crossed the redhead's face, and he'd taken a bold stride in
Ashleigh's direction. Assessing the situation in a split second, Ashleigh had
become aware of several things at once. The three who seemed to be less bold,
had retreated to a spot a good dozen feet from the others and had seemed
content to wait to see what might happen; the one with the rope had bent over
the dog and begun fashioning a noose about its neck; and the one named Jake was
advancing toward her with a confident swagger. Remembering Megan's admonitions
to try to remain on the offensive, even in self-defense, and realizing she had
not a moment to waste, Ashleigh had concentrated on the plight of the poor
animal lying in the puddle nearby, using the image as a rallying point to
summon all her fury and its attendant courage. Suddenly she'd felt an enormous
surge of strength flow through her slender form, and with it, the conviction
that she was invincible. With a feline snarl, she'd lunged at the redhead, her
knife a blur of movement in the shadows. The small weapon made contact with the
youth's hand, which had been extended, apparently with the intent of disarming
her, and Ashleigh had seen a look of surprise cross his features before he'd
snatched his bleeding appendage toward his chest and given forth with a howl of
pain.

But
Ashleigh hadn't stopped at that. Capitalizing on her advantage, she'd wielded
her blade a second time, bringing it perilously close to Jake's face. It was
enough for the boy; pivoting on his heel, he had stumbled and then begun to run
toward the cronies who had backed away, muttering a series of choice expletives
as he ran.

Then
Ashleigh had whirled to face the youth with the rope. Seeing he still held onto
the noose, which was now around the unfortunate dog's neck, she had lunged
forward with the idea of severing the rope before it could do its dirty work.
But the young tough, believing she meant to slice the hands that held it, had
dropped the rope instantly, a disbelieving look on his face. "Bloody
'ell!" he'd exclaimed as he'd felt the blade stirring the air when it
passed close to his hand. Then, leaping away from both dog and furious female
with a fearful look, he'd turned toward his fellows and bolted, shouting,
"Run for it, blokes! She's a bloodthirsty bitch, she is, an' balmy as
Bedlam, too!"

But
his comrades were already out of sight by then, and in seconds, Ashleigh had
seen the last of him as well. She saw to the poor creature on the ground,
untying its bonds, running her fingers carefully over its emaciated frame to
ascertain whether it had suffered further harm and, finding none, gently
scooped it up into her arms, all the while crooning to the pup in soothing
tones to assure it of her kind intentions.

Later,
when she'd carried him inside to be warmed and fed by the fire, Dorcas, the
cook, had admonished her, saying, "Ye foolish gel, did ye not consider yer
own welfare? An injured 'r frightened beast could've turned on ye out o' sheer
terror o' bein' hurt further. 'Tis a wonder the poor thing did ye no
harm!"

But
Ashleigh had merely smiled, remembering Finn's intelligent, soulful eyes on her
as she'd released his bonds and carried him inside, wrapped in her apron. If
gratitude and instantaneous love had a name, it would be Finn, from the moment
his eyes had met hers out there in that alley.

Now,
as all these things ran through her head, she gazed lovingly at her canine
friend while giving the shaggy head a few strokes. The dog hardly resembled the
starved and frightened pup she'd rescued last spring. Well fed from all the
scraps that found their way through Dorcas's kitchen, and tall—over thirty
inches at the shoulder—he had a clean, healthy coat and an air of robust power
about him, always carrying himself like some proud king of Ireland. In fact,
Megan had suggested she name him Cormac, after a particular favorite of hers
from history, an Irish king from the fourth century, but when Megan had told
Ashleigh some of the tales of early Celtic literature in which Cormac figured,
it was always the parts about Cormac's legendary master of hounds, Finn, that
had captured her imagination.

Suddenly
a noise at the doorway drew Ashleigh's attention back to the present. She
looked up to see Monica standing there in her night rail, an angry, accusing
expression on her face. At the same moment she felt the hackles rise on Finn's
coat, a low, warning growl rumbling from his throat.

"So,
you've brought that disgusting creature into the house again!" Monica
hissed. "You wretched, ungrateful child! How dare you disobey Madame's
orders!"

Ashleigh
straightened, clutching her fingers about Finn's collar as she watched the tall
blonde approach. "I—I didn't disobey, Monica," she attempted.
"Finn just followed—"

"Shut
up, you little beggar!" the blond woman snapped. Then, as if the sound of
her own voice were too much to bear, she stopped and brought both hands to her
temples. "Oh, now look what you've gone and done!
Oh,
my
head!"

Seizing
her opportunity, Ashleigh released her hold on Finn's collar and silently
signaled him back to the kitchen. The dog looked for a split second as if he
were about to resist, but then quickly obeyed his mistress, albeit not without
a low, parting growl for Monica's benefit.

"Now,
Monica," said Ashleigh quickly, "why don't you let me fetch you
something for that headache? Dorcas was just telling me she received a packet
of some new type of powder that works wonders in no time at all—got it from
that seaman friend of hers when he came calling last week." She reached
out and placed a comforting hand on Monica's arm, steering her out of the
chamber.

"Hmm,
yes, that does sound promising," said the tall woman, much soothed by the
prospect of being rid of the hammering in her head. "Perhaps I shall
try—"

Just
then, Monica chanced to look down at Ashleigh as they walked toward the door,
and she suddenly spied the sooty imprint of the younger woman's hand on the
snowy white cambric sleeve of her best night rail. "Oh! Look what you've
done to my new— Oh, you clumsy bitch!" And with an angry shriek, she
raised her arm and struck Ashleigh smartly across the face.

Ashleigh
reeled from the unexpected blow, although later she was to tell herself that
she had been careless not to anticipate something of the sort from the blonde.
Monica's behavior, especially when she had one of her headaches, was at best
unpredictable, but beyond this, Madame's most popular whore, queen bee of the
fashionable stable on St. James's, had always been less than kindly toward
Ashleigh. Recently, she had been positively hostile, although Ashleigh was at a
loss to figure out why. Even now, as she felt the sting of tears assault her
eyes and bit her lip to keep from crying, she asked herself what she had ever
done to earn the beautiful courtesan's enmity. What she could not know was
that, like all persons who measure their entire personal worth by their looks,
Monica felt deeply threatened by those around her who might provide competition
in that arena, and she regarded Ashleigh as just such a threat.

It
hadn't mattered that, at the time they'd met, some three-and-a-half years ago,
Ashleigh had been a stick-thin, underdeveloped fifteen-year-old kitchen menial
who worked solely below stairs to earn her keep. Even then, the fragile, almost
ethereal beauty of the youngster's heart-shaped face had been apparent. With
its perfect, exquisitely proportioned features, porcelain-smooth creamy
complexion (the tiny mole high on her right cheek in no way marring it), and a
pair of huge sapphire-blue eyes, clear and wide set, framed by the thickest of
long, silky jet lashes that matched a natural abundance of shiny black hair, it
was a face that caused anyone to look twice, and then again, in total wonder at
its perfection.

And
now, with the advent of womanhood providing a softly curving, blossoming body,
evident even beneath the dowdy servant's clothes the girl wore, she was
becoming a more formidable threat every day in the blond woman's eyes.
Moreover, Madame had not allowed these changes in Ashleigh's appearance to
escape her watchful eye. Monica had overheard her commenting on the girl's
growing potential to Drake, her sometime butler, sometime procurer, just the
other day. And it did not signify that Dorcas, when she had been informed by
Drake of Madame's interest, had hotly defended her young charge's right to
remain an innocent and angrily sent the man from her kitchen with a fiercely
wielded rolling pin. Monica knew Madame well; when she set her sights on the
acquisition of something that would increase her profits, nothing could stand
in her way. It was only a matter of time, she knew, before Ashleigh Sinclair
would find herself working
above stairs
at the brothel—on her back!

Ashleigh
entered the kitchen a couple of steps ahead of Monica. She was grateful to find
no sign of Finn there, and seeing Dorcas busily involved with extracting
something from the bake oven that was built into the side of the huge cooking
hearth, she assumed the cook had sent him outside. Grateful that the old
woman's face was averted, Ashleigh did her best to arrange a bland expression
on her features, for it would not do to let Dorcas know she was upset over
Monica's treatment of her. Dorcas, old dear that she was, would once again storm
upstairs to Madame's chambers and complain in outraged fashion over the
incident (as only Dorcas might—Madame's almost obsessive desire for
well-prepared food and her inordinate pride in the skills of her cook of some
twenty years made her forgive Dorcas anything, so long as it did not interfere
with the delights that consistently graced Madame's table). But Ashleigh knew
that once Dorcas had spoken to Madame, and Madame had reprimanded Monica
(though never in words harsh enough to satisfy Dorcas), Monica would then
proceed to do everything in her power to make life miserable for Ashleigh in
the ensuing days and weeks. Like the time she'd "accidentally" bumped
into Ashleigh on the stairs, sending her and the full chamber pot she was
carrying careening backward in an unbelievable melange of filth and
confusion—not to mention a wrenched ankle that had Ashleigh hobbling about for
weeks afterward. Or the time she'd forced Ashleigh to come upstairs to her
chamber and help her out of her gown while Monica's "gentleman" of
the evening stood by and
watched....
No, it would not help matters at
all to let Dorcas know anything of what had transpired a few moments ago.

"I
believe we put the new powder over here, Monica," Ashleigh said as she
walked toward a narrow, step-back cupboard displaying a number of various-sized
apothecary jars.

"Ashleigh,
lass, I've been wonderin' where ye've been!" exclaimed the cook as she
turned around with a pan of steaming muffins in her hand. "The great
beastie wanted out, so I—Oh, hello, Monica." Dorcas's usually cheery voice
had suddenly lost some of its exuberance. "Tis a mite early t'be seein'
ye
about. Another headache, I suppose," added Dorcas, a sly look on her
normally open, cherubic features.