Ryan's Bride (4 page)

She imagined she felt something crawling up her legs, then realized it was needles of stiffness creeping along her flesh. First, her feet, then her calves. Her fingers felt numb. Her wrists began to twitch. Lord, if only she could bend her knees, lift her head.

With the numbness of her flesh came panic to her soul, which made her gasp. Then she realized that if she were to get sufficient air, she had to take small, shallow breaths.

Her heart beat like steady thunder, and she imagined she could feel her heaving chest brushing the coffin lid.

Sleep,
she commanded herself. Sleep away the misery and terror. And when Leon came back in a few hours, he would see that she was not like the others. She would not be hysterical. She could take whatever hell they put her in, damn them. And he would tell Captain Duclos, who would realize he had a strong woman on his hands and give up. She’d be taken back to her cell, and sooner or later they would have to let her go.

Wouldn’t they?

They couldn’t just let her die there…
could they?

It was all just a big bluff…
wasn’t it?

Despite all resolve, a tear slipped from the corner of her eye. It trickled down her cheek and into her ear. Reminding herself of the vow she’d made to survive, she tried to concentrate on blotting everything out of her mind so sleep would come.

But the effort failed. She was far too terrified to relax. Time dragged by in the black stillness. She estimated an hour. Maybe two. There was no way of knowing. Her throat was parched and dry, and she longed for water. She would need to relieve herself soon. What then? Was she to be further tormented by having to lie in her own waste? But what did it matter? They expected her to die.

When she first heard the sound, she thought it must be a rat, scraping along the corridor. Then, with a rush of hope, the realized it was someone walking toward her.

“Leon…” Her dry lips seemed to crack with the effort to speak.

The lid was yanked away.

It was him. He stared down at her, hands on his hips, his evil face spread in a wide grin.

“You’re still alive. Figured you would be. It’s only been six hours.”

Six hours.
And it had seemed like no more than two, at the most. Was that what it was like to be buried alive? she wondered in a panic. To think days passed when actually it was weeks? Or maybe she would not die. Maybe they would give her just enough nourishment to keep her alive for years while she begged and pleaded to end her tortured life.

“I guess you can’t get out by yourself. None of them ever can.” He stooped to lift her by her shoulders.

She swayed, legs weak and numb, but he held her up and began to guide her slowly toward the steps. Her knees buckled, but he put a beefy arm around her waist for support.

“He’s come to see you. It’s bad you’re looking like you are, but that’s your fault. He might take one look at you and decide you’re too scruffy. Then it’s back to The Grave for you till the commandant decides what to do with you.”

Right then, Angele had only one thing on her mind. “Water. Give me water, please.”

Leon liked to think he was not truly a bad person. Sure, he was a guard. A tough one, too. But it was just a job. He was paid to be cruel, if need be. So he paused by her cell and helped her inside to drink from her bucket. “It might help if you washed your face.” He was glad the commandant couldn’t hear him. He’d accuse him of weakening and maybe see that he lost his job.

She drank slowly. She didn’t care how she looked.

Did not care what the man waiting for her thought, because she had no intention of signing the paper and going with him.

Leon prodded her with his baton. “Come on. I’m going to be in trouble if I don’t get you up there.”

They continued on. As they approached the commandant’s office, Angele wondered how long she could delay going back. If she could keep the man who wanted to take her at bay, make him think she would eventually sign and cooperate, she could buy a little more time. Pretend to give in. Make it seem she had learned her lesson and would do anything to get out of jail, and—

She froze.

Leon had opened the door and shoved her inside.

And Angele suddenly found herself face-to-face with the meddling stranger.

Chapter Three

The trip to Touraine had turned out to be a waste of time, because Ryan could not concentrate on buying horses for thinking about the girl.

Corbett had accused him of pining for Denise. Ryan let him think that, not about to confide the truth.

When they had returned to Paris, he had gone to the city jail and was surprised to learn there was no record of anyone being arrested on the date he asked about. Not for stealing outside the Abbaye Val-de-Grâce or anywhere else in Paris. It had been a very quiet day, and the desk clerk Ryan spoke with said he had been working then and remembered.

Ryan almost gave up. The girl had probably succeeded in persuading the officer into letting her go as she had tried to do with him. And many times since, he wished he had. But, being desperate, she would go back to stealing and eventually be caught again.

Asking around, he learned that authorities were trying to rid the streets of the dart-and-run thieves, pickpockets, and the like. Those caught were being given unusually harsh sentences, and it bothered him deeply to imagine someone so young being imprisoned because hunger had driven her to steal.

And something else besides compassion began to needle as he thought about how it had aroused him to hold her in his arms as she wrestled to free herself. Beneath the bulky clothing, he had discovered a luscious body. Also, if she were cleaned up, dressed up, he knew she’d be quite fetching. So for her to wind up in prison was a waste in more ways than one.

He wasn’t sure exactly when the idea took hold. Maybe it had been there all along. But one day, while he walked the tree-lined streets of Paris, drinking the perfume of the spring air, it dawned that all his troubles would be over if he married the girl. She was French, and though she was not cultured and refined, he was confident she could be taught everything she needed to know—just like a wild colt.

As for Denise, he felt no guilt. She had refused him. Maybe she had been playing a coquettish little game like Corbett said. It made no difference. Ryan didn’t like women who used guile to get what they wanted, regardless of how it was disguised.

As for Corbett and Clarice being disappointed, he figured it was none of their business. And all his father cared about was having him take a French wife. Besides, he’d never know the circumstances of how they’d met.

His mind made up, Ryan set out to find the young thief. First, he went to the catacombs. He questioned derelicts and drunks, but if they knew anything about a young boy living among them—and Ryan assumed she would go back to pretending to be a boy—they weren’t telling. He even tried bribery, but they were a loyal bunch and would not divulge anything.

Next, he went to the Abbaye Val-de-Grâce and asked each and every old woman he saw if they knew the names of the gendarmes in the area. If he could find the one who had made the arrest, then he might be able to learn something that would lead him to the girl.

Finally, thanks to the very woman whose purse had been snatched that day, Ryan tracked down Officer Jon LaPrade.

At first, he was defensive and denied remembering anything. But Ryan persisted by bluffing that he knew important people in Paris. He said he hated to go so far and cause the man trouble but would do so if necessary.

As Ryan had hoped, the threat brought LaPrade’s memory back like a boomerang. He said he had taken the girl to an overflow jail, because regular facilities were full. Ryan knew that was not likely from what the officer at the city jail had told him.

Impatient, Ryan had whipped the soft roll from his pocket and peeled off several thousand francs. He told LaPrade he was in a hurry and wanted to be taken to the so-called overflow jail, promising not to mention he had steered him there.

LaPrade’s eyes had widened to see so much money, and he quickly agreed to cooperate. He even confided to Ryan that the overflow facility was also a place where men could buy young, homeless girls and train them to work in bordellos. The best thing for Ryan to do, LaPrade suggested, was to go there and pretend to be a buyer and ask for a prisoner named Angele Benet. He could say that he had been trying to persuade her to work for him before she got arrested. That way, the commandant would not become suspicious that he knew the truth.

And it had worked. Ryan had told the commandant his story and offered to pay any amount to claim her.

So now Angele Benet stood before Ryan but was anything but glad to see him.

“You!” She spat the word in French like a bitter pill. “What do you want?”

The commandant had left earlier, warning Ryan she was stubborn and might refuse to sign an agreement to be released to his custody. By then, Ryan well understood the situation. If authorities ever did investigate how things were run, the commandant could say he had released first-time prisoners to people agreeing to take responsibility for them and have signed documents to prove the women had gone willingly.

But there was also the matter of a so-called fine to be paid that would not be recorded. It would cost Ryan twenty-five thousand francs if Angele agreed to be released to him, and he knew every bit of it would go in the commandant’s pocket. However, at the moment, she didn’t look as though she wanted to do anything except claw his eyes out.

“I came to get you out of here.” He again was thankful for his ability to communicate with her in French, obviously her native language, and the only one she spoke.

She gave her hair the proud toss that he’d found so delightfully spirited. “Did you now? To work in your bordello, I suppose.”

“I don’t have a bordello.”

“Then what do you want of me?”

He decided to get right to the point to keep her from jumping to a lot of conclusions and wasting time. “Actually, I’ve come to ask you to be my wife.”

Angele’s hand flew to her throat, then anger overcame surprise. “What kind of fool do you take me for? Do you honestly think you can trick me into being your whore? That is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard of, and—”

“I mean it.” He took a step toward her but paused when she held up her hands to fend him off. “If you’ll just hear me out—”

“No. You’re wasting your breath. The commandant said you’d be here, and I told him then as I tell you now—I will never sign to be released to you.”

“He couldn’t have known I was coming. I didn’t know it myself. I had to track down the officer who arrested you that day, and that’s when I found out about this place. I had to pay him to tell me and show me the way. They had no record of you at the city jail, and…” He shook his head. “Look, we’re not getting anywhere. I’m sincere when I say I want you to marry me.”

“And I say you think me a fool.”

Actually, he found her to be quite the opposite and was curious as to how she had wound up in poverty on the streets. But there would be time for that later—to learn everything about the woman he wanted for his wife, the mother of his children. Right then, however, he wanted her out of that wretched place. She looked worse than the last time he had seen her. And
filthy
. Good God, she looked like she’d been wallowing in dirt.

He started toward her again.

She had pressed back against the desk and was suddenly afraid of him. No matter that he was elegantly dressed in a fashionable carrick—a double pleat-folded cape that fell to his knees, tight, elasticized breeches of buff-colored wool, and fine leather pointed-toe boots. He had to be mad, trifling with her, and any moment he might attack, and—

He paused within an arm’s reach. “I’ll bargain with you. If you hear me out and then want to refuse me, I promise I will pay your fine and then set you free.”

She regarded him warily. “How do I know I can believe you?”

“You’ll have to trust me.”

She raised her chin. “I trust no man.”

“I think you should ask yourself what you’ve got to lose by listening to what I have to say.”

She supposed that much was true. She also recalled her plan to stall. A few more minutes out of The Grave to breathe and stand and stretch her limbs was ambrosia for the spirit. But she was confused. He said the commandant had not been expecting him, and he sounded as though he was telling the truth. Maybe, by listening, she could figure out exactly what was going on. “Go ahead. Let’s hear your lies.”

“My name is Ryan Tremayne. I live in America on my family’s estate. It’s called a plantation. We grow crops there—cotton, tobacco. And we raise horses. That’s why I came to France—to buy horses.”

She could not resist sarcasm. “And instead you want to buy a wife.”

“That was not my intention. I came to buy horses, like I said, but then I met you and decided you’d make the perfect wife.” He then went on to explain about his father’s edict that the woman he married be French. “And if she isn’t, or if I don’t get married by the time he dies, then he’ll disinherit me. I’ll lose my birthright.”

Angele mused how he actually sounded as though he were telling the truth. Besides, she reasoned, what other motive would he have to propose to someone like her? “I’m almost tempted to believe you.”