Angel in Scarlet (3 page)

“Stay!” a voice roared.

The three greyhounds promptly sat back on their haunches and looked as innocent and harmless as lambs, wagging their stumps of tails playfully. I saw a man approaching—dirty black boots, soiled black breeches that clung to his long legs like a second skin, a coarse white cotton shirt with full bell sleeves gathered at the wrist, opened at the throat and all stained with sweat. I saw the dark, unruly hair on top of his head, and then he looked up and I saw his face and gulped, knowing I was
really
a goner this time. The Bastard scowled, staring up at me with savage eyes so dark a brown they seemed almost black. The dogs were whining and thumping their tails, waiting for instructions. I knew he was going to feed me to 'em, me just twelve with my whole life ahead of me.

“Come down out of that tree!” he ordered.

“Not on your life,” I told him. My voice was surprisingly firm.

“Come down this instant!”

“Up your arse, you bleedin' sod!”

That incensed him. He balled his hands into fists, scowling even more. I was still paralyzed with fright, but there was a curious excitement as well now, a bold, jaunty feeling inside that was almost pleasant, strange as that might be. He glared at me. I stuck my tongue out at him. I would have given him the finger, too, something I rarely did, but I was afraid to let go of my grip. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, angry as a bear, and here I was up in the tree, out of his reach, looking directly into those angry eyes. Eppie wouldn't believe a word of it.

“Little girl—” he began.

“I'm just four years younger than you, you sod. You ain't so bleedin' old yourself, so don't try patronizin' me.”

“You got a tongue on you, don't you?”

“I ain't—aren't—I'm not afraid of
you
, that's for bloody sure.”

I was lying, of course. I was scared spitless, but at the same time I was actually enjoying myself. Didn't make sense, I know, but that tingling excitement grew and grew until it was almost as strong as the fear. I suppose I was feeling what soldiers are said to feel when they are in the thick of battle and bullets are flyin' all around 'em, a curious elation in the face of mortal danger.

“I want you to come down,” he said.

“So you can hang me by the thumbs? So you can put me on the rack? So you can feed me to the greyhounds? Fat bloody chance.”

“I won't hurt you,” he promised.

“Expect me to believe that? I know all about you. I know what you do to poor, innocent mites who fall into your clutches—” I was going good now, really beginning to get into it. “You take 'em to the stables and tie 'em up and stuff a gag into their mouths and get out the hot pincers and thumbscrews and laugh maniacally as you torture 'em for hours on end.”

I thought I saw him smile. I couldn't be sure. He was as tall as Clinton Meredith and much leaner. Looked like a beanpole, he did, with his thin, foxlike face and wide, cruel mouth and those sleek black eyebrows that slanted up from the bridge of his nose and then arched and swept back down.
He
wasn't no beauty, that was for sure. His face was deeply tanned, and I could smell sweat and manure all the way up here.

“Will you come down if I send the dogs away?” he asked.

“I might,” I said.

“Get!” he yelled.

He clapped his hands together smartly and the greyhounds yelped and scampered away. He stood there beneath the tree, ever so casual, waiting for me to swing down, but I wasn't about to be taken in by his tricks. He was a sly one, sure, thought he could sweet-talk me into lettin' my guard down. I was enjoying myself immensely now, not at all scared since the dogs had gone. I knew he didn't
really
torture poor mites, but it was fun to pretend he did. Gave me a cozy thrill.

“Are you coming down?” he asked. His voice was testy.

“What'll you do to me if I
do
?”

“I'll lead you around to the back gate and see you safely off the property.”

“No thumbscrews? No hot pincers?”

“If you don't come down
this minute
I'm liable to choke you to death with my bare hands!”

“Go grab yourself,” I taunted.

And then his dark eyes glittered and his wide mouth curled up at one corner and he jumped up and caught hold of a low-hanging branch and began to pull it savagely and the limb began to shake violently and it was like I was riding a bucking horse. I flopped and flipped, hanging on for dear life, my body banging against the rough bark, and then suddenly I was tumbling through space and a pair of strong arms caught me and both of us crashed to the ground as he lost his balance. The Bastard grunted loudly and blinked, stunned by the impact, and I tore free from his arms and leaped to my feet and he grabbed my ankle and gave it a jerk and I fell back down—splat!—landing flat on my chest.

I was dazed and dizzy and beginning to see black clouds all around, and then steely fingers clamped around my wrist and I felt myself being hauled to my feet. The clouds evaporated and I knew real terror when I saw the look in his eyes and knew the stories about him were probably
true
, and I balled up my hand into a tight fist and slammed it into his jaw and kicked his shin with my bare feet and tried my best to knee him in the groin, but he merely scooped me up under his arm and hauled me over to the marble bench and sat down on it and pulled me across his knees.

I screamed. He clamped a brutal hand over my mouth. He whipped up what was left of my skirt and whipped up my cotton petticoat and I squirmed furiously as I felt the cool air on my bare bottom, for I was wearing no underpants. He slammed his palm down and there was a loud popping noise like a gunshot and a hot stinging pain that made me jerk and squirm all the more. He spanked me thoroughly, viciously, all the while smothering my screams with his other hand, and while the pain was awful it wasn't nearly as bad as the humiliation. When he finally stopped, when he finally moved his hand from my mouth, I scrambled up and adjusted my clothing and looked at him through a silvery blur of tears I couldn't control.

He didn't say anything. He looked perfectly calm now, sitting there on the marble bench.

“I hate you!” I cried.

“I'm not surprised,” he replied. “Most people do.”

I rubbed my bottom and glared at him through the tears. They were spilling over my lashes now and streaming down my cheeks. Hugh Bradford was totally unmoved—for that was his name, Hugh Bradford. They weren't likely to call him Hugh
Meredith
, were they? My bottom was smarting something terrible, but it wasn't hurt nearly as much as my pride. No one had ever spanked me before, and I felt curiously weak and vulnerable, not myself at all.

“Come,” he said, getting to his feet. “I'll take you to the back gate. Why aren't you wearing shoes?”

“I never wear shoes. I hate 'em.”

“Don't wear underpants, either, do you?”

“You're a brute!”

Hugh Bradford grinned to himself. I flushed.

He took hold of my wrist and started walking through the gardens, tugging me along beside him. He was awfully tall—I barely came up to his chest—and he was as lean as a whip. You wouldn't think anyone so thin could be so tough and powerful. One thick black V-shaped wave slanted across his brow, the point just above his right eyebrow. I'd never seen anyone with such a dark tan, such wicked eyebrows. His nose was long and thin, his mouth much too wide, the lower lip full and curving. He wasn't no beauty, true, but that foxlike face was striking. You weren't likely to forget it.

“What were you doing up in that tree?” he inquired.

“Spyin',” I said, “and I saw plenty, too—I can tell you for sure.”

“It's not nice to spy on people.”

“Who said I was nice? Ask anyone you know about Angie Howard and they'll tell you I'm a terror. I got—have—a dreadful reputation for gettin' into mischief, gettin' into scrapes. I'm as tough as any boy,” I added.

“I don't doubt it,” The Bastard replied.

He sounded bored, and that aggravated me. Even though he was a mere four years older than me, I could see he considered himself an adult, considered me a child, unworthy of serious notice, and for some reason I wanted to look important in his eyes. I wanted him to see me as something more than a pesky brat. Even though he had spanked me—hard, too—and even though his fingers were digging into my wrist and he was jerking me along beside him not at all gently, I wasn't angry with him anymore. Maybe it was because, when they weren't smoldering with anger, those dark brown eyes of his looked so sad and … resigned. Couldn't be much fun bein' a bastard, havin' everyone know it.

“Howard,” he said. “Any kin to Solonge Howard?”

“She's my stepsister. You
know
her?”

“I've met her,” he said dryly.

Now
that
was interesting. Solonge had come home one day a few months ago and said she'd seen him walking down the lane and said he was utterly
uncouth
, but she hadn't said she'd
met
him. Solonge looked like a vision and acted ever so refined, just like Janine. She was always bringing home stockings and ribbons and perfume and such. How she came by 'em was a mystery indeed.

“Solonge is a beauty,” I said. “So is Janine. I'm the plain one in the family.”

He didn't disagree, and that riled me a bit. He could have at least said I had nice eyes. Solonge was right. He
was
uncouth, a skinny, gawky lout who smelled of sweat and manure and be
longed
in the stables. I stubbed my toe and stumbled. He gave my arm a rough jerk, almost pullin' it out of its socket. I cried out in protest, but he kept right on walking, tugging me along like I was some kind of unwanted baggage.

“I may not be a beauty,” I said tartly, “but I'm smarter'n either one of 'em. Read all the time, I do. When I'm not doin' chores or climbin' trees or gatherin' mushrooms in the woods, I'm always readin' books—grownup books, too. I ain't—I'm not interested in ribbons and laces and attractin' a rich man like those two. I'm gonna
do
things with my life.”

“Shouldn't wonder if you did,” he replied, voice dry as dust. “You're Stephen Howard's daughter.”

That startled me. What did
he
know about my father? His face was as cool and bored as ever, and he gave my arm another jerk as he led me through the back gardens. The greyhounds came leaping out again, prancing all about us as friendly as pups, and Hugh Bradford spoke to them sharply and they looked woeful and disappointed and loped away. From the distance came the merry, tinkling noises of the garden party.

“I wanted to see the swells,” I said suddenly. “That's why I climbed over the wall and up in the tree. I saw 'em passin' through the village in their fancy carriages and—and I wanted to get a better look at 'em.”

“And did you see them?” he inquired.

“I—I saw two of 'em,” I replied, thinking it best not to identify them. “They were dressed ever so grandly—velvet and satin and laces. Me, I'd love to wear velvet and satin. I'd love to be beautiful.”

My voice was wistful, rather sad, not like me at all. Why was I telling these things to him? Why did I feel so … well,
close
to him? Didn't make a bloody bit of sense. He was as ugly as sin and mean as hell and my bottom still stung and I had every reason to
hate
him, but instead I felt this curious sympathy and kinship like him and me—he and I—were somehow two of a kind, like neither of us belonged. Get hold of yourself, Angie, I scolded. That fall must've addled your brains.

There were a lot of big, thick shrubs in back of the gardens, all green and overgrown, and The Bastard led me through them and to a rusted iron gate in the back wall. He opened it and spread his right palm against the small of my back and gave me a brutal shove. I pitched forward and stumbled through the gate and almost fell down. I whirled around and glared at him with angry defiance, and Hugh Bradford gazed back at me with bored indifference as though I were a worrisome but harmless gnat. Stood there like a gawky scarecrow, he did, tall as a beanpole, thin as a whip, boots muddy and breeches too tight, loose white shirt sweaty and soiled, that dark wave dipping across his brow like a lopsided V. I gave him the finger. His wide mouth curled slightly at one corner in what might have been another grin.

“Don't ever let me catch you around here again,” he told me. “Next time I just might
use
the thumbscrews.”

“Sod you,” I said hotly.

The Bastard
did
grin then, no mistake, and I glared at him for another moment or so and then tilted my chin and marched haughtily away. I heard a clang as he closed the gate, heard leaves rustling as he moved back through the thick shrubbery, and then there was just the sound of the breeze rustling the grass and making the daisies dance. I went back around the wall and retrieved the basket of eggs and started home, dawdling, lost in thought. I decided I wouldn't say a word to Eppie Dawson. Something
strange
had happened to me there in that garden. Silly goose like her wouldn't understand at all. I wasn't sure I understood it myself.

Chapter Two

As I sauntered down the lane with elm trees making shadowy patterns on the sunny road, my bottom still throbbed, still felt warm and prickly, but the sensation wasn't at all unpleasant. My knees were scratched and my face was probably dirty, but that didn't concern me. I was worried about my torn skirt which, I knew, would give Marie conniptions. Marie wasn't cruel, just bitterly disappointed with her lot, buried alive in a rustic backwash, she felt, but her sarcasm could be devastating. Shrewd, shrewish, she faced life with a tight mouth and glittering yellow-green eyes that missed nothing. My ruined skirt would be just another example of the sad lot she had to bear.