Jo Goodman (7 page)

Colin didn't open the door. Rather he called through it. "Who's there?"

It was the innkeeper's raspy, guttural voice that responded. He made no attempt to hide his impatience. "The wench is back to see you, guvnor. Told her if she was thrown out once ye weren't interested in a—" He stopped as the door was opened.

"Molly?" asked Colin before he got a clear look.

The innkeeper's large hand was placed firmly around the neck of the intruder. The hood of her cloak was all that kept her from being bruised by his grip. As before, her face was shadowed and her figure shrouded by the dark and damp cape. "Not Molly, guv," the innkeeper said, though it was clear to him now that Colin recognized the troublesome visitor.

"You can let her go," Colin said.

The innkeeper dropped his hand. The directive that he do so was delivered almost carelessly, as if it were a matter of indifference. It was what the innkeeper glimpsed in Colin Thorne's black eyes that prompted his quick response. "Now see here," the innkeeper blustered momentarily. "She can't come an' go as she pleases all night. There's other guests to think of."

"I'll settle with you in the morning," he said. The way he said it closed the subject. Reaching out with his left hand, Colin drew Mercedes into the room and closed the door on the innkeeper. Mercedes began to speak but Colin backed her against the door and placed his hand over her mouth. He felt her panic in the stiff, unyielding length of her body, and saw it in her widened eyes, but he made no explanation and no move to release her until the innkeeper's footsteps had receded in the hallway.

Colin placed his knife on the scarred dresser top before he let his other hand fall away. He didn't step back. "The innkeeper doesn't know who you are, does he?"

Mercedes was crowded by his presence. It was difficult to draw an even breath. "No," she said. "I've never been here before."

"That's not quite true."

"You know what I mean. Except for tonight I've never—"

"I knew what you meant."

"Then you shouldn't pretend to be obtuse."

A single eyebrow lifted archly. "Are you taking me to task?"

Mercedes could detect no humor in his tone yet there was the faintest suggestion of a smile lifting one corner of his mouth. "I... I suppose I—"

Continuing to watch her closely, Colin finally moved away.

"What are you doing back here? Is your uncle waiting somewhere nearby, hoping to catch us out?"

She didn't answer, but leaned weakly against the door and drew in a slow, deep breath. As if she had been deprived of air for hours, it shuddered through her.

His eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with you?" he asked.

There was no concern in his voice, only that detached curiosity that maddened her. "Nothing," she said.

Plainly it was a lie and Colin had no patience for them, at least when they were being told to him. He closed the space that separated them and yanked on her hood. Strands of dark, damp hair were matted to her cheeks and temples. The weave of her thick plait was loose now and it hung over her shoulder, her hair barely contained in the braid. Her pale skin had taken on a grayish cast and there were the first faint markings of a bruise along her jaw.

Colin raised his hand. With his forefinger he traced the line of the discolored area without really touching it. Still, her head jerked back against the door as if he had slapped her. "What happened?" he asked.

When Mercedes didn't answer Colin opened her cloak and drew it off. Belatedly she made a grab for it. It was out of her reach and on the floor behind Colin before her arm was fully extended. Her arm fell uselessly to her side and she averted her head as he assessed the damage.

Other than to note the expensive cut and color of her gown, Colin had not given much attention to what she was wearing when he first met her. Now the finest details were observed because of what had happened to them.

The rich emerald silk was mottled by dirt and water. One of the tight-fitting sleeves was ripped at the seam, exposing the skin of her shoulder. The neckline was also torn and two smudged fingerprints were visible at the base of her throat. There was a small, right angle tear near her hip. The material was rent at her waist and at the hem a tattered flounce from one of several petticoats peeped out like a white flag of surrender.

Without asking her permission, Colin raised the hem of her gown enough to see that her black kid slippers and stockings were wetter and muddier than on his first encounter with them.

He let the gown fall back in place and straightened. He said nothing, merely looked at her and waited for an explanation.

Mercedes's heart hammered against her breast. Whalebone stays were the only thing holding her in and holding her up. She didn't dare look at him. "I never made it back to Weybourne Park," she said quietly. "I can't go back like this... my uncle... he'll..." She bit her lower lip briefly, then said in a rush, "I didn't know where else to go. I thought you might—"

He swore softly. Colin hooked his forefinger under her chin and forced her to look at him now. "You thought I might what? Sweet Jesus, woman! What am
I
supposed to do with you? Like as not I'll be the one strung up for accosting you!"

"No! I wouldn't let anyone say that!"

Colin didn't give any indication if he believed her one way or the other. He gave her another hard look as he weighed his options. Finally he stepped aside. "Go sit down on the bed. I'll heat more water. It won't be fresh since I've already had my bath, but it'll do."

"Oh, no," she said quickly. "I don't want—"

He didn't say anything this time to interrupt her. It was his narrowed black glance, the vaguely menacing way his body shifted, that made her reconsider reckless words.

She dropped to the edge of the bed.

Colin rapped out orders in short bursts. "Shoes. Stockings. The gown, too." He tossed her a brush. "Do something about your hair." He didn't give her any more overt attention while he heated water. Without seeming to, he watched her stiff, almost dazed compliance to his commands. Her movements were mechanical and detached, as if she were undressing someone other than herself. After she had removed her shoes and stockings and pulled the brush through her tangled hair a few times, Mercedes stood with her back to Colin and began to unfasten her gown. She stopped when she was only half done. Her arms fell and her hands clenched at her sides.

"I can't," she whispered. Then even more softly, "I won't."

Colin was of no mind to debate the issue. He came up behind her and made short work of it. He felt her resistance when he began to pull the material over her shoulders and down her arms. "If you fight me, you'll tear it beyond my ability to make it right. Now, step out of it."

She had little choice. The emerald bodice and sleeves were already hanging at the level of her waist. An odd thought occurred to her: he was considerably talented at getting a woman out of her clothes. She placed a hand over her mouth to quell her nervous laughter.

"Are you going to be sick?"

Mercedes noted that the question was asked with genuine curiosity this time. Perhaps he was human after all. "No," she said. "At least not—"

"Sit back down then," he said, the last vestige of feeling gone from his voice. Colin snatched up the torn and muddied gown, the shoes and stockings, and began rooting through his valise at the foot of the bed. He came up with a small cedar box. "I'll repair these things downstairs while you bathe," he told her.

Her eyes widened.

Colin ignored the look. Her surprise was hardly flattering. "Finish undressing and get in the tub. When you're ready to go I'll see what Molly or her sister might have to cover that bruise." It was only at the point of leaving that he paused again. "Were you raped?"

Mercedes blanched under the hard, penetrating look he gave her. "No," she said. "It didn't come to that." If anything, Colin's expression seemed to search her more deeply.

"I wonder why."

He was gone before she could tell him her invented story that she had fought off her attackers. Perhaps, given his cynicism and scrutiny, she'd better amend her attackers to the singular. He might believe she had fended off one drunk, but never two.

Mercedes realized she hadn't given enough consideration to her tale or Colin's reaction. On the way back to the inn from Weybourne Park, her mind had mostly been numb. Her promise to deal with Colin Thorne hadn't been enough to stop her uncle from going to Brendan's room. There was no better way for the earl to ensure her cooperation. It was not surprising that Britton had been there too, sleeping soundly beside his twin in the large four-poster. It may have been the door flying open or Mercedes's own cry of alarm that alerted the boys, but they were roused to attention immediately, darting to opposite sides of the bed in a strategy of flanking the enemy that they had perfected as small children.

But for the fact that Britton tripped on the long tails of his nightshirt, they might both have escaped. As it happened, the young boy's stumble sent him directly into his lordship's hands. Britton took a fist so solidly in his gut that it drove the air from his lungs. He went down on his knees and curled fetally, the protective posture part instinctual and part practiced. The boot that kicked out at him only glanced off his shoulder.

Mercedes put herself between Brendan and the earl as that boy tried to save his brother. Her interference gave Lord Leyden an excuse to touch her. He seized the neckline of her gown, tearing it as he removed her from the fight. She stumbled back but still managed to catch and hold Brendan. Mercedes knew better than to let him join the fray. It would be the same beating for both of them. Now she only had to concern herself with nursing one.

Chloe and Sylvia heard the muffled screams and came rushing from their rooms to Britton's. They stood on the threshold and watched the last blows of Britton's beating. When it was over, when their fear subsided, they looked to Mercedes for direction. They stepped aside until their father strode out of the room, then ran in to care for their fallen brother.

Mercedes forced the scene from her mind as she lifted the kettle. Water splashed the hot hearth bricks and sizzled. Embers hissed. She poured the warm water into the bath, replaced the kettle, then knelt beside the tub. She washed quickly, never removing her undergarments. Bits of dirt and humus that she had so carefully placed on her person were now wiped away. She scrubbed her face and arms and let water sluice her throat and run between her breasts. The edge of her bodice became wet.

Looking down at herself, Mercedes could see the hilt of the dagger riding above the edge of her corset. She got up and walked to the window where she was reflected in the dark glass. This view assured her that the dagger was hidden by her camisole. She dipped three fingers below the laced edge of the camisole and between her breasts. The hilt was easy to grasp. She raised the dagger a few inches, accustoming herself to the movement, then slid it back in place.

Behind her she caught sight of the headboard. Mercedes turned and saw clearly that Colin had removed his knife. Was he carrying it on him? She glanced around the room and spied it on the dresser. Her first thought was to hide it from him. Her second thought was to think better of her first. If he saw it was gone then he would naturally assume she took it. Mercedes didn't doubt he would search her and that would reveal her own dagger. Her ill-conceived plan would be aborted then and there.

She let his weapon lie.

Her gaze turned from the dresser to the nightstand. The bottle of whisky was still there and beside it, the glass tumbler. It didn't look as if it had been touched. Perhaps Colin Thorne didn't drink, or at least not to excess. The novelty of it intrigued Mercedes. Her knowledge of her uncle's habits and her acquaintance with those he considered friends prepared her to believe that sobriety was the exception, not the rule. It was another way in which Captain Thorne stood well outside her experience.

The valise at the foot of the bed became another point of interest. Mercedes wondered if she dared. Then she wondered how she dared not.

Setting the case on the bed, Mercedes opened it. Her first observation was that he was meticulous about his packing. Nothing was simply thrown in. She sifted carefully through the shirts and stockings. Pressing down a pair of trousers was a book. She lifted it and read,
The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
His tastes in literature raised more questions than answers. She wouldn't have anticipated he would be drawn to something widely acknowledged to be so romantic. Perhaps he was only using it to press his trousers after all.

Mercedes set the book aside and delved deeper. At the bottom of the valise she found a black lacquered box, large enough to take up the entire base of the bag. The enameled wood was smooth to the touch and when she had completely removed it, her reflection was somewhat hazily visible on the surface. She sat down, placed it on her lap, and opened the lid slowly.

Because of the weight of the box she had suspected what the contents would be. She was only left to be surprised by the beauty of the weapons.

Like exquisite stones, the pistols lay in a bed of dark red velvet. Mercedes had no doubt the setting was deliberate. It was the proper background to display weapons that ended life in a pool of blood.