Ram; being the tale of one Ramillies Anstruther, 1704-55 .. (42 page)

"You said something, sefior?" The query brought him back to the present.

"You are very lovely, senorita." Was this the right approach? "But it is futile for me to say so. Many others must have told you that."

Blushing prettily, she turned her head aside. One of her hands lay close to his. He touched it. She started, but didn't pull away.

"Erinne!" His voice was thick. Ecod, she was lovely!

She turned slowly until her eyes looked full into his. Her breasts rose and fell tremulously. "Sefiorl Don Juan!" She seemed almost to weep. As he slid an arm around her waist and drew her close, her lips parted.

He kissed her.

He tried to remain calm, to do this with hate and contempt, but passion swept him up and communicated itself to her. Once she moaned, "No! No!" and tried to fend him off, but both had passed beyond control. Then she cried out in pain.

Afterward, as they lay close, she seemed dazed. Tears welled from under her closed lids. "Juan!" she whispered. "Mf corazon, yo te amor

"I love you too, dear heart," he lied, stroking her cheek. A fish rose, making a widening circle of rings. Across near Kew, a barge was about to land. But here, shaded by the bushes, they were two in a world of their own.

Later, when once again he took her in his arms, she gave herself with utter passion, clinging to him, murmuring soft words in Spanish.

The sun was low when he helped her to rise. Slipping on his coat,

he took her arm, pressing it close against his side as they started back to the coach.

I've won! Damn you, del Lago, now you'll fight! Virgin she is no more!

Dona Dorotea still snored. The wheel was "repaired," Young Joe reported, smirking. Ram scowled. The young rogue knew too much, damme! They hoisted the duenna inside and propped her up with cushions. Ram and Erinne sat facing her. Dusk had already fallen as they started back.

He felt strangely empty. Though he'd played the lecher, he had no sense of triumph. Small fingers groped for his and he thought, God, she loves me! Better she hated me, for then, when he returns, she'd tell him.

"Juan—John!" she whispered. "You are very beautiful."

Suddenly he wanted to jump out and flee. Other girls had loved him, but none had given him their first love. Contritely he slid his arm around her and drew her to him. Sighing, she rested her head against his shoulder. Dorotea still snored.

When the coach stopped outside the walled garden, he removed his lips from hers regretfully. How tenderly responsive she was!

"You must help me," she whispered. "She is a pig to drink so."

"And if she hadn't?" he challenged.

A low sob escaped her. "I don't know! I don't know—John!" But she stepped out lightly and unlocked the wall door, while he and Young Joe lifted out the duenna who mumbled unintelligibly.

"Make no noise," Erinne warned. "Pepe and Ema must not know she is—drunk. Leave her on the bench. When she recovers I will take her in."

Sending Joe back to the coach. Ram caught her to him. "Dearest one!" he murmured, and her arms went around his neck passionately.

"Love me, John, love me always!" Her eyes were wet. "Oh, my soul, come to me soon, very soon!"

Outside, he dismissed the coach and walked slowly to his lodgings. No, he mustn't see her soon. He'd wait for her to confess to her father. But suppose she didn't? Women were secretive, he'd found. Better see her at least once more. Besides, perhaps the first time might not count. He laughed harshly. A bastard! Will you claim diplomatic immunity then, del Lago?

When he did meet them again in chapel. Dona Dorotea admitted

contritely she had made her confession for gluttony. These Papists! Had the girl also run to the priest? It might be awkward so soon; though later, if she dared not tell her father, perhaps the priest would. But when he caught her eye, she looked nervous, but shook her head slightly.

Late that afternoon he visited the garden. Dorotea stumbled tediously over English, but at last tapping on some window sent her inside to attend the baroness.

"Poor, poor Mother," Erinne sighed. "She was so beautiful, and now she has become hideous, even to herself. The surgeons can do nothing but tap the water from her. Oh, my John, why must humans suffer so?"

"Do you suffer?" he asked gently.

"Not for myself. Oh, yes, I have sinned; yet it did not seem wrong, only wonderful." She touched his hand timidly. "You, too, are happy?"

He glanced up at the windows and, understanding, she smiled daringly. "Pepe and Ema never come to this side, save to call Dorotea or me."

Their kiss was brief, but he knew that, for her, it was a confirmation. "If only we could go into the country again!" he suggested.

"Dorotea would never again drink like that," she sighed. "The priest gave her a penance." Her voice was almost inaudible. "I— I can get a key to the door."

"Tonight?" His own eagerness surprised him.

She blushed. "Ah, no. But next week."

In the ensuing days he became nervously impatient and found an outlet only in playing for high stakes. One night, at Will's Coffee House, he was introduced to a shifty-eyed ensign named Cromley, who said, surprised: "Another Captain Anstruther? I met your brother in a gaming house only tonight."

"I have no brother," Ram retorted coldly. "Perhaps he's one of my Scots kinsmen. There are some, I think, in Anstruther's Foot."

"This one's no Scot. But he's a devilish fine fellow, for I won fifty guineas from him."

Shrugging, Ram left him, wondering if Rob had come secretly to town and was passing as a captain. But, no, for he'd written only

last week saying they'd found a coal seam almost next to one of the lead mines and money was needed to sink a shaft into it.

When he met Erinne and Dona Dorotea again, the latter felt it quite proper to invite him into the garden for some wine. Hardly had she gone inside to fetch it when the giri pressed a key into his hand,

"But very late," she murmured, her eyes lowered. "She often comes to read holy books to me before she retires."

It was moonlight when he entered the garden and climbed to the balcony. He scratched on the darkened panes and at once the doors opened and a hand drew him inside.

"We must be very quiet," came a whisper. "Oh, my John, how I prayed for this! Now we can tell each other about ourselves."

They did; she ingenuously about nothing, he lying and hating himself for it. Yes, he was a gentleman, though not noble. Good families in England often entered trade. Why let only clerks and artisans become great merchants? One day he, too, would have wealth.

Had he brothers, sisters; where was he born? She wanted to know everything. For she'd only have thoughts of him to hug to her heart until they could persuade her father that all the English were not mere heretic brutes.

Uneasily, he told her of his fictitious family, thinking: Damme, she truly expects marriage! Bah, it was a bastard he hoped to give to del Lago's daughter!

Soon her timid pliancy grew into a fervid passion that met his own. Later, as he walked through the silent streets to his lodgings, he felt the lash of self-loathing. Poor lass! When he'd said that business must take him away for several days she had wept, but silently and without complaint. Perhaps it would be best if he saw her no more.

He really did leave town, for Holton invited him and others down to his estate, where they rode, shot and gamed for two weeks.

Back in London, he pondered what to do. The new season was starting, yet the prospect failed to stir him. If only del Lago would come! This reminded him that "John Ro)lston" still kept his lodgings. Young Joe must pay the landlady and bring away his things.

This he did, and also brought a letter. "Mrs. Sparling says a young female kept calling to ask when ye'd be back. She left this."

The note was written in Spanish. Erinne revealed stark fear. Surely her Juan had now returned? She had prayed day and night for his safety. When could he come? He still had the key.

Good! It sounded as if she were caught. Now, del Lago!

But remembrance of her loveliness assailed him with an almost physical pain. What need to torture her? It would be kinder to see her just once more.

It was a raw November night as he let himself into the garden and gained the balcony. Upon his tapping, she flung open the windows and drew him within, clinging to him with an abandon of joy. "Ah, dear love!"

This time there was no pretense of talk. She wanted the comfort of his arms, to lie beside him, to stroke his hair. Dawn was near when he stole away, after promising to come again very soon. Her father's last letter had come from Rome, and he would not return for some while. Too, there was something she must tell her John—though not now.

So she was with child!

CHAPTER 14

THE FLEET PRISON

1732

He was awakened by sunlight streaming through a chink in his bed curtains. His head throbbed and he had a cursedly dry mouth. Groaning, he pulled the bell rope, gradually remembering the night's events. It had been long past midnight when he'd fallen into bed, not a little drunk, but pleased because, for the first time in months, he'd left the table a winner. Yes, he distinctly remembered sweeping a pile of gold into his pockets. Good, his luck must be changing.

Young Joe was slow this morning. Morning? Damme, the sun's too high. He groped for his watch. Past four! Where was the rascal? He pulled the rope again. At last there was a knock and one of the maids entered with a tray. "Where's Young Joe?" he demanded irritably.

"Please, sir, I don't know. 'E ain't bin in all night, Mr. Bland says. 'Ere's 'ot choc'ht, sir, and will ye be wantin' anything else?"

"No," he said fretfully and, when she had gone, he got out of the bed. Curse the lad. Out wenching, sure. He needs a touch of my cane, damme!

He shaved and washed. His head felt no better. Air! Perhaps a stroll in the park. . . .

Mrs. Bland met him when he went downstairs. "Oh, Captain, I'm sure I don't know what to say about Young Joe. The Sergeant's looking for him. I'm so afeered—cutthroats, the press-gang—anything!"

"He'll be back," he reassured her. "Now about tonight. There'll be ten. Tell Joseph to decant enough wine. I'll return anon."

Outside, Peg-Leg saluted. "Two men was demanding to see ye. Captain, names of Colton and Squilp. But they looked beggarly rogues, so I said ye was gone."

"I don't know 'em." Turning south out of the square. Ram crossed Pall Mall and entered St. James's Park, to which the spring air had brought many other strollers. My head bursts! he winced, walking toward the Horse Guards Parade.

"Cap'n Ramillies Anstruther, sir?" demanded a burly man in a riding cloak, whose bulbous nose separated two unblinking little eyes. He carried a heavy cudgel and was accompanied by a sallow fellow in black.

"Yes. What do you want?"

"For you to pay me what ye owe!" The sallow man stepped forward.

"What do I owe? I don't know you."

"Ye knew me well enough to buy my goods to the value of a hundred and thirty guineas odd and give a draft for 'em your bankers have dishonored."

"Impossible."

"Ye won't deny this draft of yours?" The man thrust a paper under Ram's nose. Though the writing danced before his burning eyes, he saw it was in his own hand and signed by him, ordering Hoare & Co.

to pay to the order of Henry Colton, tailor, the sum of £136.15.0. Across it another hand had written: Refer to Drawer.

Damme, this was some ramp! Drunk or sober, he'd never patronize so seedy a tailor as this fellow. "I've no memory of this," he frowned. "But if I owe you for goods, I've ample funds to pay for them."

"Do ye disown the draft then?"

"But it's a mistake."

"Then I demand full payment now."

Ram drew out a handful of guineas—bringing an avaricious gleam from the bulky man—but they were well short of the amount. "Return witli me to my house, sirs, and I'll pay you. Or if I haven't enough there, I'll send to my bankers."

Colton looked bleak. "I presented the draft to Mr. Hoare himself. He said several more of vours was being protested. Pav up now— in full!"

"I've not enough on me!" Ram flared. A crowd was gathering and three hard-faced men got out of a halted coach.

"Then, Cap'n, you must come with me." The cloaked man forced a document on him. "There, I've served ye legal. You're me prisoner, sir."

"Wliat?" Ram sprang back, hand on sword.

Equally swift, the other drew and cocked a pistol, while the trio from the coach closed in. "Now, now, me fine cocksparrer, I warn ye not to resist a bailiff in the execution of 'is bounden duty. Name's Jonathan Squilp, Cap'n, at yer service, and no 'ard feelings if ye come peaceable."

"Very well." \Vliat sense to spill blood over some stupid mistake? It wasn't possible a draft of his could be protested. "Must I go to prison?"

"Oh, no, Cap'n," Squilp grinned. "I'll lodge ye in me own 'ouse in the Liberty of the Fleet, as comf'table as yer own fine mansion. When ye pay up, out ye goes again, free as air." He raised a finger and the coach door was opened. "Mr. Colton, servant, sir. . . . Jump in, Cap'n."

Ram did and the vehicle started. "I'll 'ave to 'ave your sword, Cap'n," Squilp said. "Not as 'ow I don't trust ye, mind. But rules, sir, rules. Pay the bill and I return yer sword wivout a blemish."

Disdainfully Ram unbuckled the weapon and handed it over. This

was too fantastic! What had that tailoring rogue said about other drafts being dishonored? If—incredibly—he had run short of funds, he'd but to send to Uncle Will for more. Meanwhile, Kelton would attend to the matter.

The coach rattled under Temple Bar and into Fleet Street. It crossed the bridge and turned north toward Fleet Prison. Briefly he thought he'd been duped and was really being taken to the jail, but then it halted outside a house with barred windows and an iron-studded door.

"Step down, Cap'n, and honor me 'umble 'ome. Liberty 'All—for them wot's the right sort, sir. This way." Squilp rapped, and the door was opened by a misshapen dwarf with a straggly beard. They entered and the grotesque one closed and locked the door behind them.