Rescuing Mr. Gracey (15 page)

Meanwhile, the field would make him sweat and toil…a just punishment for his deceit.

As for her, she intended to bathe in the lake and then leisurely wash the clothes. She might even deliver them before supper.

Either way, today will definitely be the very last day I’ll have anything to do with that man.

One last look about the lake confirmed Mr. Jordan had not followed her. Nodding to herself, she stripped off her filthy work dress.
I’ll focus on plans to marry Mr. Dennison
.

Stepping into the refreshing water startled the hot, sticky skin under her chemise. Mary released a triumphant shout, then plunged deeper, her interior temperature cooling immediately.

Closing her eyes, she floated on her back, inhaling calm, exhaling tension as she washed herself with the rose-scented soap. The light breeze whispered across her sun-kissed face, and the scent of wildflowers drifted through the air and dispersed worries…

Snap.

The sound, invasive, frightening, slashed through her peace. Splashing up, she wobbled to a clumsy stand. “Who’s there?”

~ 10 ~

“Until two priests came up to us,

 
and to Mr. Speers did say…”

“I’ll be askin’ the questions, lass.” A man crashed from the thicket of trees, his unwashed stench assaulting her from across the lake. “Dis land belongs to da earl…”

Mary slumped into the water. “I…I will be gone if you allow me a moment.”

His chest heaved in an effort to breathe. “Can’t do it, lass. The mister says I’m needin’ ta throw ya t’ prison for trespassin’.” He weaved unsteadily as he pointed a dirty finger. “Dat’s me orders. Throw ya t’ prison.”

The earl’s man?
But this fellow was filthy, obviously drunk, and sickly—his thin bones protruded everywhere.

Her heart pounded, yet an odd confidence that he was not who he claimed gave her a tiny shard of courage. Besides, judging from his unsteady appearance, she believed she might outrun the man. She just needed to get closer to shore.

“I need a moment to dress,” she said, edging across the lake.

She realized too late her mistake in pointing out her state of undress. His narrowed eyes skimmed her face, then slipped downward. A yellow-fanged smile, predatory, terrifying, crawled across his face. “I’m tinkin’ I’ve no wish to see a good wee Catholic lass like yarself rottin’ in prison, just fer doin’ her laundry and bathin’. So, I’m a-willin’ ta make a bargain, missy.” He kicked an oversized boot free from his sockless foot.

Tremors raced chaotically, but somehow her voice remained strong. “I demand you turn about and allow me a private moment.”

He laughed. “Do ya now?” He kicked off the other boot. “I likes yar spirit, but I’s planning me own private moment.” Eyes locked on her, he unbuttoned his blood-stained shirt. “It don’ have t’ be rough. We could go easy like. Then I could say ya escaped.”

“I’d rather die.” Still facing him, she side-stepped gingerly, trying to ease her way to the shore without alerting him of her actions.

As he swiped blood from his chin with a dirt-crusted hand, the ragged shirt slithered off and revealed saggy flesh, sharp ribs. “I ain’t no murderer, but if’n ya fight me, ya’ll be gettin’ a little bruised a’fore ya land in prison.”

A violent shudder possessed him. His thin frame folded into a strangled, foamy, bloody cough. “Don’t move,” he growled as she tried to slide closer to the shore.

A cough seized him again, bright red blood oozing from his mouth.

His insane laughter pierced the air. “I ain’t got nothin’ ta lose, missy. I’m dead soon anyway and already heading to hell.”

Mary surged forward, the heavy weight of water fighting against her effort. Screaming, screaming, praying, she knew there was little hope of a rescuer, but it helped her build her courage to fight.

Her feet were sinking into the bottom of the lake, but he moved toward her across the sandy shore with relative ease. As soon as he was abreast of her, he plunged into the water. Knotted with horror at the approaching nearness of the attacker, she panted out another scream, piercing trees and rocks and the vacant valley. She turned, stumbling, but her feet became tangled in a bed of reeds. Wrapped around her ankles, they imprisoned her, and by the time she’d wriggled free, her attacker was right behind her.

His clawlike nails scraped across her neck, down her back. Bolting forward, Mary stumbled, stood, stumbled. One last attempt to scream sounded like a breathy gasp.

“Shut yar mouth,” he growled.

He was short on air too. She could hear him wheezing, puffing.
Keep going, Mary. Wear him out.
The thought came too late.

He’d snagged her hair. With a jolt, her body was flung backward, her desperate hands stretched forward. “Help… Help me, someone…” she wailed. Though she swung her arms and legs wildly, her effort only managed to land slaps on him here and there.

Smack. Her head whipped to the side. The collision of his fist to her face numbed her movement. Now his eager hands, offensive, roaming, claimed full ownership. She was being hauled to shore.

“Stay away,” she screamed, scratching his hands. “Ya filthy animal. Stay away.” She kicked and wiggled like a trapped fish inside a net.

Wiry dirt-encrusted arms squeezed her lungs. Foul breath gagged her. Disgusting guttural sounds and metallic breath together reminded her of a savage wild boar feasting upon dinner.

No. Please, God, no.
The animal carried his trapped prey to shore, but even as she bucked, twisted, her mind rejecting her capture, her stomach heaving with fear, she knew she had little strength to fight off his attack.
Lord save me.

In a final rage-filled moment, she angled her elbow and connected with his eye. He howled like a stuck pig as blood spurted from his nose and splashed her face.

A meaty fist plowed into her temple; her vision faded, and the noise of a thousand wasps rhythmically deafened her. Limp, helpless as a cloth doll, Mary allowed hope to die as she departed toward black fog where ugly creatures could not harm her.

Down, down, she whirled into a dark abyss. But then her lungs screamed for air. Her mouth opened, but only water clogged her throat. She opened her eyes to a hazy white-and-blue blanket and she believed he was suffocating her.

Her heart banged against her throat as instinct reoriented the dizzying world. She was beneath the water, and her lungs searched for air.
He’s drownin’ ya, Mary Smyth.

Then, suddenly, his hands were gone. With a great gasp, coughing, wobbling, she emerged from the watery depths. Her world pitched and rocked, her ears whined, her feet faltered, slipped, provided only unstable balance.

Squinting, she saw two men. One, her attacker, was airborne. He splatted upon the beach, then crawled forward. The other man dragged him up, then tossed him farther away from the lake.

“Get out of here now…filthy…pig… Now.” Her attacker’s boots sailed through the air, into the trees, and from the shouts, Mary gathered he was being instructed to follow. The man on the ground heaved, rose, staggered, stumbled, and disappeared into the forest.

Mary closed her eyes, her legs heavy, trembling. Incomplete words warbled between whooshes. Her body quaked like a small leaf in a fierce storm, and she was too dizzy to stand. And cold. She was so icy cold and tired.

She looked at the water, wondering how she might just curl up and sleep.

“Miss Smyth…”

She lifted her gaze.
Mr. Jordan?
How was he here, standing hesitantly on the beach, rambling nonsense that echoed, stuttered, could not be understood?

A sharp sting at her neck drew her attention. After touching the injury, her fingers moved to her throbbing temple, then her swollen cheek. Blood was running down her chemise.
I’ll never get the stain out.

“Miss Smyth,” he said again. She observed him slip from his shirt. The movement frightened her. Trembling hands protected her chest. She weaved backward.
No. No…

“No one will hurt you. Let me help,” she heard him say. He had come closer. She shook her head, but then the most blissful warmth came over her icy shoulders. “You are safe,” he whispered.

Desperately clutching at his bare arm, she allowed her heavy head to fall against a wide, warm chest.
No danger. No danger.
Lifted, cradled, she surrendered.
No danger. No danger.

She blinked. Time was lost. The lake’s shore now lapped in front of her. The bright sun soothed and warmed her shivers. Squinting, Mary let her gaze wander around the scene. Somehow, she had been brought to the grassy area. She was sitting. Long, masculine legs cocooned around her from her hips all the way to her toes. His bare chest braced her back; her head rested against one shoulder; his arms covered her chills. Even his feet were curled over her icy toes, protectively warming.

She closed her eyes and wondered why she did not feel trepidation or awkwardness. “I don’t know what…would have happened.”

His chin rested atop her head. “Please,” he whispered. A heavy rumble, a sort of groan, expanded his chest. “I am grateful I heard your scream.”

His words brought forth the violent memory. Her stomach clenched; her mouth went dry. “Do ya think he’ll be back? He said he’s from the earl. And he knew I was trespassing, and I’m Catholic, and a laundress. Perhaps the earl will hunt me down.”

Her question went unanswered, until he said, “That drunk is not from the earl. Your cart of laundry was by the shore, and so he guessed your employment. Most laundresses are poor Catholic girls. He doesn’t know who you are. You have nothing to fear.”

One of his arms lifted while the other held on tighter. In a moment, a cup appeared in front of her. “Drink. It will help warm you.”

Mary grasped the tin cup and took two soothing sips of ale. She reclined against his back. Rubbing her throbbing head, she tried to put the puzzle together, but the pieces were confused and messy.
How did he know the man did not work for the earl?
She jerked away from his embrace.

“Rest a minute longer,” he pleaded.

“I need to dress, just over there.” Clutching his large shirt around her shoulders, she wobbled to the grove of trees she used for a dressing area. Leaning against the rough bark of the oak tree, she stroked his shirt.
What if he had not been here? What if…

Large, silent tears brimmed, then plopped to the ground.
He simply must not be a spy.
Shaking her head, she straightened and jutted her chin.
Don’t think of it now.

Methodically, she dropped his shirt across a large, fallen limb, then stripped off the torn, bloodied chemise. Carefully, she lifted a dry, clean chemise and a faded dress that was two inches too short over her head and pushed her arms through. Each movement was automatic, and she managed to keep a brewing panic from approaching.

But then the cloth scraped against a wound, a painful reminder of the drunk’s assault.

Shivers overtook her, and nausea cramped her stomach. Covering her mouth, she gagged with images that, like a broken mirror reflecting a nightmare, shattered her fragile strength. She heard an ancient wail, the sound so foreign she did not understand it came from her.

How dare that vulgar man think I could be treated like this?
Mary curled into a tight ball, rocking, rocking, pounding the grass, snarling with disgust.

Strong arms once more surrounded her and carried her into the sun.

A linen kerchief gently wiped her face. “I am deeply sorry,” Mr. Jordan whispered. “So deeply sorry. I should have been here sooner.”

Through the blur of her tears, she saw his tortured expression. “I don’t even know how…I needed…that you…you knew.”

He exhaled. “Your mother said you went to the lake. I thought you may be bathing and so…” he said, his voice wobbling with emotion. “I delayed to give you privacy. My terrible mistake.”

Mary bit her lip and pushed her hair back from her face.

His gasp drew her attention to him again. His troubled gaze had found the ragged scrape across her neck and down her shoulder. Gently, so tenderly, his fingers explored for further injuries, tracing her face, surveying the scratches. However, when he discovered the bruising above her temple, he cursed. “Did he do that?”

Remembering the blow to her face, Mary touched the area and nodded.

“The devil.” A furious tic pulsed at his jaw. “This is my fault.”

Mary brushed tears away. She shook her head. “No. You’ve been kind and generous. How can you be faulted for what happened today?”

He pointed to his chest, fuming with self-recrimination. “I fault myself for what happened today. I knew ’twas not safe.”

Unsettled by the statement, she studied him. “How could you know? You are newly arrived.” At his silence, suspicions flooded her again. Tilting her chin, she said, “You have no obligation to me, sir. I’m not your concern. Go back to your safe world and leave me be.”

“I can’t,” he growled. Whipping his shirt from the sand, he replaced it over his head, then paced toward the lake. “Not yet.” He stood facing the edge of water, his posture stiff and unforgiving. Then he began to pace, restless as a trapped animal, circling a small area, his head bent downward, his arms locked behind his back.