Surrender The Night (14 page)

She took a deep breath. He tensed. His hand went still as his eyes rose to meet hers. His instinct proved true, for her words did indeed have import for their future.

‘ ‘And if I admit that I . . . yearn for you? What then?’ ’

‘ ‘Why, then we shall know as much happiness as mortals can.”

“Here? In this house?”

“Where else?”

“I, as your . . . mistress.”

“You, as my . . .” But his voice trailed away before he said “love,” for her face changed again.

Her eyes had hardened to cold blue steel. He felt stabbed to the heart when she spat, “Then you’ll pay richly for your pleasure. These”—she touched the jewels disdainfully—“are not enough. I want the full parure, if you have to search the world over. And this”—she flung the cape off—“is only the first of many. I’ll have fur trimming my chemises before I’m done.”

Devon literally staggered back as if she’d wounded him. She turned to meet his staring eyes. Her mouth trembled, but she firmed it. “I have met your price. If you would keep me, you must meet mine. Else now you’ve given me a taste for such things, I’ll find someone else who values my true worth.”

Dazed brown eyes blinked at her. Devon longed to put his hands over his ears to stifle the ugly words. No, not her, too. Bri
efly, he was too stunned to realize she was trying to wound him. She didn’t mean it . . . she couldn’t. She
was
different. Then he got a grip on himself and leaped over the short distance between them. He lifted her chin and stared into her white face.

“Why do you say these things? You know you don’t mean them.”

Her eyes glittered with a chill icier than the diamonds. “Oh no? Every time you bed me, you must give me a present. Tomorrow I fancy emeralds, I think.”

For long minutes they stared at one another. He searched for some hint of softening, some regard that would give him hope. He saw only hatred. It was true, then. She was as avaricious as the
rest. Devon’s pain was all the fiercer for his earlier brief happiness. He swallowed the words he longed to spew at her and traced a desultory finger over the skin beneath the necklace. When she flinched, he bared a predatory smile.

Casually he lifted her and flung her to the bed. “By your own terms, madame, you owe me. Pay me for the cape—” His words ended in a stormy kiss. The taking was quick, efficient, and unsatisfying. When he was done, he flicked his fingers contemptuously at the cape pooled on the floor.

“’Tis a sorry return for such an investment,” he goaded. She turned her cheek into the pillow, but not before he saw her quivering lip. He clenched his hands on the need to comfort her and forced himself to seek the other side of the bed. She had him twisted into knots. He didn’t understand her, or himself. Why the hell didn’t he just send her away? His overwrought emotions had worn him out, but sleep wouldn’t come. His hand snuck across the gap between them to catch a tendril of her long hair. Only then did he drift away—just as the clock struck midnight.

Katrina stared dry-eyed into the darkness and listened to the chimes. Her time of trial was over. That she’d failed miserably was no one’s fault but her own. She was weak. Never more so than tonight, when she should have been strong, if not for her own sake, then for the sake of the child. But Devon’s lovemaking, more emotive and sensual than ever before, had caught her at a vulnerable moment. She’d not wanted to leave him, despite everything. The knowledge that this was their last time together had defeated the pride that had sustained her for twenty-one years.

She stuffed her hand into her mouth to stifle a sob. Then, slowly, she moved. She realized Devon had caught her hair and held her breath as she untangled his fingers. She clutched his hand, unable to resist the urge to touch him one last time. She forced herself to put his hand down. She dared not chance waking him.

She rose. She twisted, she tugged, she worked. Finally the stubborn hasp gave. She flung the necklace onto the settee and quickly dressed. At this moment she didn’t care if she starved. She’d not take a ha’penny of his money. The act of defiance was pitiful, perhaps one she’d soon regret, but the little self-respect he’d left her clamored louder than reason.

She resolutely refused to look at the bed. She hated him, she told herself. He’d kidnapped her, deflowered her, tried to bribe her, seduced her, stomped her beliefs and pride into the ground, then expected her to gladly become his whore. She was glad she’d hurt him. She hoped when he found her gone, he’d curse her name, as she did his. If he thought her as worthless as all his other whores, well, he must blame himself. How could she be bound by the honor he’d stolen?

She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to deny that she wanted him to remember her fondly. How foolish. She didn’t care a jot what he thought of her. She fumbled for hairpins and pinned her hair up as tidily as she could in the dark. She fetched her valises and stuffed the clothes she could find into them. Then she opened and closed the door and tiptoed onto the landing, setting her bags and reticule down. Billy was at his usual post. She nibbled her lip, then she walked down the stairs without subterfuge. At the sound of her steps Billy rubbed his eyes and looked up.

“Where ye goin’, missy’?” he grumbled.

“I can’t sleep and merely seek a book,” she answered, walking
past him into the salon. He’d already tipped his hat back over his head when she came back out carrying the poker, but he looked up at her under the brim when she stood over him. He brought his arm up, too late. She hit him solidly on his pate. He toppled onto the floor, the hat squashed on the back of his head.

Her heart pounding, she felt under the hat that had cushioned the blow. She’d not add murder to her sins. Her fingers came away with only a few dots of blood. She listened to his slow but steady breathing and decided he’d be all right. She fetched her bags, then slipped down the stairs and out the door. Briskly, not allowing herself the luxury of looking back, she walked down the dark street lit only occasionally by guttering lanterns. If tears blurred her eyes and made her stumble, she was glad no one was there to see them. . . .

Across the street a grubby urchin straightened against the lamppost. He wiped his yawn away, leaped on a spavined nag, and shadowed her as she hailed a hansom and went to a respectable hostelry. The fee for one night was a tenth of her meager little hoard, the only money she’d managed to save, but she needed somewhere safe to hide while she decided what to do.

Decision, usually so easy for her, was beyond her then. This bleak night was unrelieved by a ray of
light. No one saw, no one cared, as the tears burst past the gates of her control. Oh God, why? she cried. Why give me a glimpse of how happy I could be with him, then torment me with the impossibility? What kind of life can I grant this legacy I bear? And why, oh why, even when I know I’m right to leave, do I feel so hopeless?

She stared into the darkness, picturing Devon’s beautiful features, and knew that whether hatred or love dwelled in her heart with that image, she’d never forget him. She wondered dully if he’d remember her beyond a twelvemonth. Probably not. Yet loneliness was a brutal leveler, as she was already discovering. Different as they were, disparate as their stations in life were, they could have meant the world to each other, had fate not decreed otherwise.

However, acceptance was a learned lesson, and her heart had had all the teaching it could stand. When sleep at last claimed her, she curled her arms about the pillow and whispered his name.

She was so exhausted that she was being carried out the window of her ground-floor room before she realized what was happening. By the time she drew breath to scream, she was hooded and secreted in a coach. The drive was brief, and ended where putrid water lapped nearby, fouling the air.

Disquieting memories were called up by that smell, but this time she was taken into a building noisy even in these wee hours. She felt herself being carried upstairs, then the softness of a mattress beneath her back. She didn’t struggle as her hood was tugged off. She opened her eyes slowly, dreading what she would see.

Blue eyes she’d once thought so genial met hers. “How charming you look, even in your dishabille,” Sutterfield jeered. “He must have used you well this night. Doubtless you’ll find my attentions more pleasurable.”

Katrina sank back on the bed, too weary even to respond to the gibe. Tears burned her throat, but she swallowed them. Her bruised and battered pride rallied. Slowly, she sat up and put her feet on the floor. She scanned the room for a weapon.

Chapter Four

“Viscount Sutterfield, why
do you bring me here?” Katrina asked steadily, her eyes still scanning the room. Nothing. No poker, no heavy lamps or clocks. He’d prepared well, it seemed. Fury was almost powerful enough to overcome fear—almost.

“I’d think it’s obvious. This is your new abode. It’s a charming place called Madame Lusette’s.” When she whit
ened, he smiled cruelly. “Ah, I see you recall the name. I’m sure Cavanaugh has taught you more than enough to make you a fitting occupant.” He peeled off his belt, then his shirt. “She’ll pay me well and help me stave off my more insistent creditors. But first I’ve a score to settle.” Shirtless, breeches bulging, he rushed at her.

A knock stayed him as he reached the bed. He scowled. “What is it?”

A tall, buxom woman with badly powdered garish blond hair entered the room. “Let me see the chit.” She strode to the bed and lifted Katrina’s chin to turn her face from side to side. “She’s a right un, sure enough, Sutty.”

Katrina’s face had gone greenish. The woman looked at her sharply. She stepped back, waving at Sutterfield to do the same, but they were both too late. Heaving, Katrina spewed the contents of her stomach all over them.

Cursing, they each backed away. Sutterfield snatched up his shirt and wiped at the mess.

Madame Lusette swiped at her silk gown festooned with full-blown roses, but it was ruined. She threw her soiled handkerchief to the floor in disgust and eyed Katrina, who was reclining inert on the bed. She scanned Katrina’s curves, lingering on the slight swell of her abdomen. With a gimlet
eyed glare at Sutterfield, she went to the door and bellowed, “Marty!” Slamming the door shut again, she approached the bed.

Katrina brushed weakly at the hands that forced her gown above her waist, but they gave her no peace, stripping her stockings away, forcing her legs apart.

Sutterfield’s laugh was coarse. “Hell, Lussie, if you wanted to share, why didn’t you just say so?” When the madam didn’t reply, Sutterfield frowned and opened his mouth, but a brisk knock interrupted. “Damme, this place has gone to seed. A man can’t even have a quiet lay,” he muttered.

“Enter!” Madame Lusette threw over her shoulder. When a big barrel of a woman complied, she flung her chin at Katrina. “Examine her.” Then she straightened and turned on Sutter
field. “You fool! I ought to keep the chit and not give you a ha’penny.”

“I say, Lussie, that’s—”

“It will be weeks before she can work now.” When Sutterfield still looked confused, Madame Lusette snorted and threw a half-hopeful, half-resigned look-at Marty. “Well, Marty?”

“Yes’m.” The gray-haired wom
an answered, her big, work- roughened hands still pressing on Katrina’s stomach. “She’s early on, but caught fer sure.”

Sutterfield froze as he met Lussie’s cold gray eyes. He looked at Katrina’s still form. She was deathly pale, one arm flung over her head as if to block out the world. He approached the bed and jerked Katrina’s arm down to stick his face into hers. Her eyes fluttered open.

“He must have used you well this past month. Tell me, how was it?” She blinked, then half sat up, forcing him to back away.

Never had her gaze been clearer or more direct. “It was wonderful, but then, Devon never had need to ask—unlike some men.” Her gaze raked him up and down.

Sutterfield’s slap rocked her head back on her shoulders. “You bitch!” He waved the other two women away. “Leave us!” He began working at his breeches. Her cheek was red where he’d hit her, but she met him glare for glare.

Madame Lusette quirked a brow in reluctant admiration.

“Ye’ll need that spirit, gal, so ye’d best not waste it.” To the viscount she snapped, “ ’Tis ye who must leave. We’ve work to do.”

“Now see here—”

“No, me fine viscount, ye see here. Why should I reward ye and let ye lie with the chit when ye’ve sold me a pig in a poke? The sooner she’s free, the sooner she can get to work. Marty, see him out, then get yer potion.”

“Yes’m,” Marty said, ushering the protesting viscount out with a brutal grip on his arm.

Katrina’s eyes followed Marty’s progress to the door. “What potion? What am I to be free of?” The madam’s hard gray eyes impassively met hers. Katrina’s returning color faded, leaving her as pale as the sheet on which she lay. ‘ ‘No,’ ’ she whispered over her returning nausea. She had only the haziest notion of what they could do, but instinct as primitive as self-preservation warned her child was in danger. She swung her legs around to put her feet on the floor.

But when she tried to rise, the madam pushed her back down. “Ye’d best make this as easy on yerself as possible, gal.
  don’t want to drug ye, but I will.  It’s easiest on ye if we do this now.”

Katrina barely heard her through her panic. She slapped at the woman’s hands. Sighing, the madam went to the door and yelled, “Ferdie, I need ye!”

Katrina leaped off the bed while the woman’s back was turned and snatched up the viscount’s discarded belt. She brandished it over her head and backed away from the vacant-eyed but brawny man who entered.

Looking grim, Madame Lusette ordered, “Hold ’er still, Ferdie. Get ’er back on the bed.”

Ferdie lumbered over to Katrina, his unnaturally long arms poised to close about her. Without a moment’s hesitation Katrina whacked at one bare forearm, then the other.

Howling, Ferdie dropped his arms and rubbed his hands over their reddened surfaces.

“Ye’d best use sense and drop the belt, gal. Ferdie’s a mean one in a temper,” the madam warned.

Katrina kept her eyes steady on Ferdie. He feinted one way, but she wasn’t fooled and whacked his arm again when he tried to dodge the other way. His face grew red, and the vacant expression in his eyes hardened to fury. Growling, he reached out to punch her, ignoring the lash of the belt. Katrina dodged this time, and his fist struck the wall. He roared like a wounded bear, cradling his hand. Before Katrina realized what he was going to do, he drew back a hobnailed boot and kicked her full in the stomach.

Searing pain exploded through Katrina. She fell to her knees under the impact and wasn’t even aware that Ferdie had jerked the belt from her grasp and was using it to beat her about the head and body. She crumpled to the floor, her hands over her cramping stomach, but Ferdie landed another brutal kick in her side as she weakly tried to turn away.

Through a black well of pain Katrina heard the madam screech, “That’s enough, you fool! You’ll kill her.” A sharp slap echoed through the room.

Blubbering, Ferdie whined, ‘ ‘But she hurt me bad. She bad woman.” His footsteps dragged to the door.

Just before the tearing pain became more than she could bear, Katrina heard the madam say, “Help me get ’er to the bed, Marty. I don’t think we’ll need the potion now. Throw that idiot out in the alley. If
’e’s ruined this gal I’ll beat ’im myself.”

When they picked her up, one on each side, Katrina’s body bowed as another vicious cramp twisted her into knots. She screamed, once, twice, and cried, “Nooo!” The long wail reverberated in the small room, then died to a pitiful echo. She went limp as they set her on the bed and pulled her clothes away to examine her. Katrina, her face an alabaster death mask, was unconscious, unaware.

But from the apex of her legs gushed blood. . . .

For several days Katrina drifted in and out of consciousness. The first time her memory returned, she curled into a ball and cupped her hands protectively over her stomach.

Too late. Far too late. “Poor wee one,” she whispered, “to be scorned by your father. Unwanted by your mother. It’s my fault, my fault. But I want you now. Please, God, take my babe to your bosom and give it my love. Please.” Her whisper was choked off by the sobs that shook her aching body. Darkness gave her surcease.

Each waking was more painful than the last, for guilt was a sorer trial to her spirit than infection. She welcomed the fever, hoping vaguely that it would consume her and release her from this terrible remorse. If she hadn’t been so weak to the wiles of the flesh; if she hadn’t succumbed to her silly romantic dreams; if she’d hadn’t been too proud to take his money.

If, if, if. And the biggest if: If she’d wanted this innocent life sooner, perhaps God would have spared her babe. Her child would not have joined those poor, hollow-eyed urchins starv
ing in the streets, even if she’d had to prostitute herself.

An ugly, choking sound escaped her, but it was the closest to a laugh she could manage. Whoring had brought her to this end; Devon had been the means thereto. He was as much to blame—nay, more to blame. He had held her prisoner if not against her will, against her morals. Morality was not an idle word to her, and she ha
d abandoned it for the transitory delights of the flesh. She paid for those fleeting moments now, and would do so for the rest of her life. Every time she saw a child, she’d wonder—would her babe have grown up as sturdy and lively? Would it have been a rowdy boy or a winsome little lass? And would her mother’s love have been strong enough to compensate for an uncaring father?

She bit down so hard on her lip that she drew blood. “Devon Alexander Tyrone Cavanaugh,” she croaked, “I hate you. Revel in your triumph over me, for it will be your defeat in the end. You’re poor, poor in all your vast estates and manors. One day, I hope, you’ll see too late what you gave up when you lost me and your child.” Her heart throbbed so hard that she felt light-headed, tom between remorse, regret, and rancor. Finally her mental and physical agony became too great. And as the darkness took her she embraced it.

She didn’t feel the gentle hands ministering to her. They stanched her blood. They kept her bandages clean. They bathed her, bringing down her fever. They forced tiny sips of broth between her chapped lips. And slowly, much against her will, they pulled Katrina back to the life she scorned because of the life she’d lost.

When, four days later, she clearly saw that face, it was night and a candlelight nimbus surrounded the fair head. His features were exquisitely formed, almost dainty. “Gabriel? Will you take me to my babe?’ ’ she begged.

A gentle, musical laugh answered her. “’Tis the first time I’ve been confused with an angel,” a pleasant, slightly accented voice replied. ‘ ‘My patients tend more to liken me to a denizen of the nether regions.”

Katrina looked about the room. Her eyes were lucid again when she wearily closed them. Fiercely she tried to will herself back to that comforting void. A pinch stung her arm. Her eyes flicked open and blinked indignantly. Her brain cleared under the stimulant of anger at someone rather than herself.

‘ ‘What type of doctor are you to deliberately inflict pain on your patients?’ ’

“One who prefers a live patient over a dead one
,” came the dry reply. “Besides, your fever has subsided, and you’ll only weaken yourself to no purpose if you don’t sit up and eat.” The tall, slim man fluffed her pillows up behind her back and set a tray holding vegetable soup, soft bread, and cheese upon her lap.

“Eat,” ,A long, authoritative finger pointed at the tray.

Katrina glared at him, but she nibbled on a morsel of bread. “I suppose if I don’t, you’ll likely force feed me like a goose.”

“Likely so.”

The first bite tasted surprisingly good, so she took another. “Doubtless your intentions are as ill as everyone else’s. What use do I have to you? Will you fatten my liver and sell it for that disgusting French pate?”

“I’ve a fondness for gizzards, myself.” When she threw him a shaming look, a lazy smile turned up one side of that mobile mouth. ‘ ‘You don’t have a gizzard, child, so you needn’t cut up at me so.”

That word drained all pleasure in their gentle sparring, in the food, in the life he’d forced her back to. She flung the tray away, curled her arms about herself, and wept.

A pithy curse sounded, then wiry arms gently took her to a slim but strong chest. “Forgive my clumsiness, Katrina. I’m not used to dealing with such cases. . . .’’He trailed off and patted her shoulder, cradling her against his chest.

When her sobs had subsided to sniffles, he drew away and offered her a clean handkerchief. She took it and blew her nose fiercely, then slumped back on her pillows. “You don’t usually physic at bawdy houses, then, doctor . . . ?”

“Will Farrow. And no, not often, but their regular, er, doctor, was, uh, under the weather—”

“Drunk, was he?”

The young physician shrugged gracefully. “So they said. They came to my school, where I’d just completed training, and asked for help.”

“So I guess I should be grateful that you agreed to lower yourself to save a whore.” She didn’t sound grateful. She flung an arm over her face and muttered, “Well, you’ve done your Hippocratic duty, so leave me in peace.” When she didn’t hear him leave, she lowered her arm enough to glare at him.

Kindly eyes a deeper blue than her own stared back. ‘ ‘These feelings are natural, lass, but no amount of remorse will bring your babe back. Would you really want to raise a child in such a place as this, anyway?”

Her mouth curled down at the comers. ‘ ‘How comforting that I even look the part now.”