The Bargain (3 page)

Brain swimming in sea of choice brandy, Gareth Conroy, Lord Welling, held the thief in place. How dare the wench take his bottle and taunt him with it? He searched a little more, here and there, until his fingers claimed the dimpled glass from her fidgeting hands. "There, now I've found it."
 

He released his grip, and the mouse scampered away. Must be the effects of the drink, but did the girl look scared? She couldn't have thought to keep it all herself. He sloshed the bottle. Amber honey flooded to one side then the other. There was enough to share.

Bosom heaving, she moved out his reach and trembled by the fire. "I need my papers." Her voice almost sounded as if she were choking.

With a grunt, he pivoted and put his full concentration on liberating the stopper. Another second or two of quick jabs popped the top, flinging it with a thud to scamper across the waxed sideboard. His vision made it split into two, so he let it be and poured a glass. "The morning papers have upset me of the riots, but they are nothing to be frightened of. We are safe here."

Before he could fix his lips to the wiggling goblet of needed joy, the mouse came closer again. Her roasted-almond complexion bore hints of red along her cheeks. And, upon further inspection, he realized her curves held a sizeable endowment, not at all the scrawny thing that accompanied his wife from the Carolinas. "Miss Eliza gave me my freedom. Would you ignore her dyin' request, too?"

He swallowed a gulp of fire, but his nerves felt doused with kerosene. His temper, which had deflated in his game of find the bottle, now raged anew. The maid's word
too
held accusation. And it made the cold stuff in his veins burn. "Be careful, madam. I'm indulging this interruption to my privacy, but even amusements have their limits."

The censure in his voice did the trick. The pert Jewell lowered her chin as she clasped a wavering hand.

It must be the brandy, for something in him suddenly saddened at the loss of her fire. He lifted the glass again to his lips but stopped. Perhaps if he kept from further soaking his brain, he could figure out why the mouse ran in here. Was she dashing for a clock? He put down the liquor. "You were very dear to my wife. I'd find you in each other's confidence. I watch you sometimes with Jonas. Same love."

Jewell's countenance lifted, full lips parted, and a resilient voice sounded. "Was always the way with us, since I could remember. That's why she freed me. You must make it right."

Now the mouse gave orders? The blend of audacity and humble pie tweaked his humor and his pride. "Lady Welling didn't have the power to free you. Let me acquaint you to English law. Once a woman marries, all her money, possessions, even her rights become her husband's. So how could my wife give what she didn't have?"

Thunder boomed, and the girl's chestnut eyes widened so much that flecks of emerald and gold showed, just like Eliza's. He reached for the girl to catch a part of his late wife, but Jewell ran.
 

She passed through the patio doors, the one leading to the smallish garden and then to alley. From the popped opening, the wind hissed and spit into his study.

The fool girl left him for the rain and the evils of dark London streets. He wobbled to the glass panes and leaned against it, staring at the sea of blackness, but couldn't find her. The buckets of water dumping from above hid her. Yes, God was good at taking things away from Gareth.
 

A jolt went through him as he turned and witnessed his Eliza's painting bearing down on him, judging him for things out of his control.
 

Gut burning, he put his sore palm to his head and tried to block the disappointment his love had had in him and his own noisy conscience.
 

The cackle of taunting thunder forced him to swivel back to window. How could he let Jewell go and take the last traces of Eliza, too?

   
T
he rain soaked through Precious's blouse down to her corset, icing her skin. The harshness of the cold water couldn't chill the fright pushing in her lungs, unable to break free. And though Lord Welling didn't mean no harm, his grip on her waist intensified the fear trapped in her flesh. Would the nightmares ever go away?

Her slippers slapped at the sidewalk, and she slowed her steps. Lord Welling weren't a brute. Eliza would've said something. Maybe.

No, he was just a thief who stole her hopes. Her heart slowed as she stopped running. Nobody chased her yet.
 

Bending over to catch a breath, her mobcap flew with the wretched wind. Everything in her head ached, down to her eye sockets. It was cruel to hope and to have kept freedom pent up in her skull. She should've asked before now and not believed for two years she was free.
 

Turning her face to the dark night sky, she let the pounding rain drench her cheeks. The sloppy drops spit at her, but something needed to remove the tracks of salt.
 

Maybe the God Eliza swore was real would do that one thing now; use His rain to cleanse her of hope and despair.
 

Yet, how could there be a God, and a good one? He let Eliza die. He let a whole world of people be set in chains. "Not fair. When will it be fair?"

The sound of horses' hooves pounded behind her. Her heart slammed against her chest. Lord Welling had sent men to retrieve his property. What punishment would he give his runaway slave?
 

But where else would she go? The coins sewn into her apron were still at Firelynn, wrapped about the baron's hand. Precious had nothing.
 

Empty, she turned to surrender, but the carriage passed her by. A sigh of relief escaped her mouth. She was safe for another few minutes, but the dark streets of London weren’t good for black or white, servant or free.
 

Out of options, she listened to the pain in her temples and plodded back to Firelynn. If she humbled herself, Lord Welling might make her punishment light. He'd already given her the worst blow. What damage could a caning on the backside do now?
 

Still not free.
 

Her heart wept on the inside, shuddering her chest. All the plans, the dreams, gone with his words. No, Lord Welling couldn't do more harm.
 

Brushing at her chin, her fingers caught in soggy flopping hair. Her thick curls spun tighter about her thumb, drawing up and unraveling from the weight of the rain. Goodness, she must look like a wet mop, with her soggy braids slapping at her jaw. What a sad lump she was.

Hunching her shoulders, she walked a little faster. Such a cold she could catch being waterlogged. A shadow moved between houses. She bit at her lip to keep from uttering a shriek. Chiding herself, she pressed forward. Counting at least as many birthdays as Eliza, all eighteen or twenty of them, Precious was too big to be seeing ghosts.

Yet, the thing moved again. The beast or man came out of the dark, his twisted jowls highlighted by a flash of thunder made her arms pimple.
 

Tugging at the tucker bibbing her neck, she tried to ignore it and hurry past.

"Blackamoor." The voice sounded loud and cutting. A man followed. His boots knocked a steady gait behind her. "Come here, you."

What was she thinking or not thinking, wandering the streets of London at night?

Swoop. He jumped in front of her, blocking her way. His eyes held flames. The devil was in him, she was sure of it. "Why not stay and play with Old Jack?"

She shook her head and backed up. "I must be heading to my master at Firelynn."
 

"Black-a-more, I'll be your master tonight."
 

Spinning, she dashed to his right. Crunching down, she sprinted and sped as if she were back in the woods in old Charleston, chasing rabbit.

Blam, blam blam. His heels knocked against the cobblestones lining the ground. He reached and clawed at her sleeve. "Wench, I called you!"

There was evil in his voice. It didn't sound human; how could anybody bent on destruction sound otherwise? This attack would be her fault. She'd asked danger to kiss her, to tear at her clothes and make her vulnerable.
 

She balled her fist about her collar and ran faster. Her skirts were heavy with water, but there was a light ahead. Maybe a groom or stable boy could be alerted in the mews. Yet would anybody care a whit about a runaway?

The sky moaned but the rain settled into a drizzle. A light fog swallowed the earth, but the beast kept chasin'. From the cut of the buildings, Firelynn was only three blocks now. Surely, the library door was still open.

"Black Harriot. Give us a taste of your finery!”

She wasn’t a prostitute. Her ears and her heart burned. Hadn’t she vowed that no one would make her feel that low again?

The man's shadow overtook hers. The stench of gin and sweat caught her as he got a firm grasp of her shoulder.

She struggled and swung with her arms, but her slippers tangled in her wet skirts and she tumbled. Smack, she landed so hard onto the cobbles her stomach deflated like a ripped sack of corn, dribbling pops of air from her lips and nose. Her cheek met a loosed stone and stung. Flat upon the soggy ground, she was helpless and ashamed.

"Blackamoor. Jack will be good to you if you give me a show." The beast grabbed her by the braids and hauled her up, but she managed to scoop up a rock from the ground. "You'd make a nice one to bed tonight. More than old Jack could hope for."

He twisted her hair and jerked her to him. This couldn't be the first woman he'd treated like a whore, but it would be one he'd never forget. Balling her hand about the stone, she punched him in his breeches. As he stumbled backward, she slung the cobble at his head.

The thud of the hit deafened. The rock surely crunched his jaw, breaking bone. "Augh! You hellcat. You'll pay for that."

In the moonlight, the shine of his blade blinded. He meant to kill her. Her heart pounded as she hefted her skirts and tried again to outrun him. If only she hadn't fled from Lord Welling.

An arm grabbed about her middle. Fingers gripped her throat. A last breath whizzed from her lips. She fought the blackness and clenched to absorb the sting of the knife.
Lord, let death be quick.
There had to be freedom in that.

"Release her!" The deep voice penetrated her nightmare. She blinked and caught sight of a sharp metal point coming full bore at her.

Somehow, the pressure along her windpipe disappeared, and she fell onto the street. Freed, she took a full breath and peered up.
 

Lord Welling stood there, wonderful and strong, with a gleaming rapier. The long, thin sword pressed at her attacker's Adam's apple. "Why should I let you live?"

"She broke my… She hit me with a rock. I'm entitled to something for the damages!"

A guttural noise flung from Welling's lips, and he pounded forward. His dark cape fluttered, shrouding half his body. He looked more the villain than a hero, but part of her needed a villain, someone to steal away all the evil that had ever touched her.

From the howling squeal of the man who'd tried to humble her, her master's change of stance must've inflicted pain. Good. Had he made his rapier draw blood for her or for the sake of his property?
 

"Sir, don't force me to pay her debt. You won't like how I settle scores."

Lord Welling glanced in her direction. Even in the low light of the moon, she could see fury burning in his eyes. His attention swiveled back to the fiend. "There's a bruise to her cheek. Maybe I should take an ear for payment. That would do nicely and give my hounds a treat to eat."

"I ain't done nothin'. Tell him, witch!"

Precious didn't say a word, just pulled her arms about her knees.
 

"Tell him, please." The beast’s voice cracked.
 

Good. Maybe he knew her terror. Oh, very good.

"She's your blackamoor, Welling. I ain't touched her. Keep her locked up 'fore something bad happens to her. And you shouldn't be so greedy. Give up your English Black since you'll be king of a whole city of them in Africa." The man backed off, turning toward the alley. "Well, I'll keep tabs on your piece while you're away. Next time, love."

Next time? Everyone knew the baron was leaving. Her stomach sickened and a silent tear dripped down her sore cheek. No papers, and now a fool wanted vengeance. Maybe it would be best to be sent back to Charleston. Those men weren't any better than these, and there she wouldn't fill her head with dreams.

Welling's boots appeared when her tears cleared. "Come along, Miss Jewell."
 

The tall man bent with arm extended, stooping low to help her from the street. "Sure you're not hurt?" His sweet blue eyes seemed large and full of concern, a little too much for just checking property.

Avoiding his hand, she nodded and slowly stood. At full height, dizziness claimed her, but she couldn't let the baron know. She'd already caused enough problems.

"Very well, mouse; back to Firelynn."

After a block or two of walking, she lifted her gaze to the baron. Her conscience couldn't take more silence. "Thank you."
 

One of his missing dimples popped as he slid his rapier under the crook of his arm. "I would have gotten here sooner, but it took a moment to find my cloak. And even more so to sober up." He began to laugh, a hearty bellow. "Choose another night to frighten me out of my wits."

Something needed to fill up the stillness of the night, but all she could think of was Old Jack. He'd be back and, without the protection of her master, he'd get what he wanted. With trembling fingers, she clutched at her blouse.
 

Her soggy slippers slapped at the stone steps as he guided her back the way she had escaped. "I didn't mean to make trouble."

He closed the patio door and pointed to a chair by his sideboard. "Warm yourself by the fire."

She nodded and sank by the hearth. The heat felt good, taking away the cold eating at her fingertips.