Tender the Storm (6 page)

Zoë, much to her relief, was to go with the deputy.

He led the way into the inn and found a place for her beside the hearth.
A welcoming
warmth enveloped her.

"Stay," he ordered, as if she were his pet dog.

Irritation moved through Zoë, but she merely nodded her acquiescence. Should the inn come under cannon fire, she resolved that she would not move a muscle. She had learned a humiliating lesson she had no wish to repeat.

Satisfied by her response, Rolfe stalked off to find the landlord to make arrangements for their sleeping quarters.

Only then did Zoë lift her eyes to examine what manner of place and people she was among.
Crude
was the word which sprang to her mind. The stench of unwashed bodies, fried fish, and tobacco smoke permeated to every corner. The din rose and fell with the rhythm of breakers beating against the shore. Words she had never before heard, but which she knew intuitively were obscene, were bandied about without raising an eyebrow. And the lewd, suggestive remarks and gestures which were addressed by the male patrons to the few females who were present were accepted as if they were the highest tribute. Zoë had occasion, in happier days, to put up at various inns when traveling with her family. Those exalted hostelries bore no resemblance to the madhouse which the deputy had chosen for their night's lodging.

From the corner of her eye, through the haze of smoke, she remarked that she had become an object of interest to two disreputable-looking gentlemen, one of whom was old enough to be her father. The younger man winked at her and Zoë immediately averted her head.

Claire had been very explicit in her advice before they had parted company. Until she was among friends, Zoë's whole demeanor was to be one of submission. On no account must she gaze directly into the eyes of any male past the age of thirteen summers. To do so was to invite liberties which she must find distressing, to say the least.

At the time, Zoë had accepted her sister's advice without demur, though she deemed it superfluous. In the first place, she was, quite genuinely, terrified into
submission and feared to look her own reflection in the eye let alone look directly at some predatory male. In the second place, Claire had spoken from personal experience. In Zoë's whole life, no gentleman had ever exceeded the bounds of propriety. Dressed as she was, she was sure she must repel any advances. She was coming to recognize the error of her logic.

With studied naturalness, trembling, she untied the strings of her bonnet. It was in her mind that one glimpse of her long, little girl's tresses would correct any misapprehensions which may have arisen respecting her age and station. With eyes downcast, she set her bonnet on her lap and lifted the weight of her hair to lie forward, concealing her bound bosom. For something to do, she stretched her hands out to the blaze and pretended an involvement in this simple act which she was far from feeling.

There was no way she could have heard the men approaching. The level of noise was rising steadily as the consumption of the local brew increased. But Zoë
did
hear them. And the soft tread of their boots, to her ears, was the most sinister threat she had suffered in many a long day. Her first instinct was to take to her heels. "Stay!" he had ordered, and only some act of Providence dare take precedence over what the deputy commanded.

She turned slightly, presenting her back to the men who stalked her. Quelling her rapid breathing by sheer force of will, she flexed her fingers and rubbed her hands together to conceal their shaking. When a man's hand stole around her ankle and caressed her calf, she let out a scream.

"There, there, little girl.
Don't be afraid. We won't hurt you.
Me
and my mate just want to make sure
that you're warm. Ain't that right, Lou?" A grotesque smile accompanied the suggestive remarks, as the hand on her calf slipped higher.

The younger man kneeled at Zoë's feet, ostensibly to stir up the fire with the poker. The other was bent over her, pressing a cup of some foul-smelling liquid to her lips. Zoë's heart began to gallop, forcing blood to thunder at every pulse point in her body. She looked around wildly, seeking help from some sympathetic spectator. Her plight, though not unnoticed, caused little comment
save
of the unsavory kind. And then she saw it —the red cap atop the blond hair, and moving in her direction. Her heart gave a great leap of gladness.

She scarcely recognized the deputy's voice when he spoke. She was used to hearing more strident tones. A whisper of sound, low and infinitely menacing, hissed from between his clenched teeth. Child molesters, he called them, and a few other choice epithets. Though the words were new to Zoë, she had no trouble catching his drift. Neither did her
accosters
. They straightened slowly and turned to face the deputy, surveying him impassively. Apparently, the red cap held no intimidation for these rough men.

The younger man moved like lightning. Rolfe was faster. He darted away from the descending poker. It sliced into a long trestle table. In one deft move, Rolfe grabbed his attacker's arm, twisted it behind his back and hurled him against the wall. He sank to the floor like a scuttled warship. His friend let out a roar, but before he could charge, Rolfe had unsheathed his short sword, and the point of it was pressed to the man's throat.

"Out!" said Rolfe, gesturing with his head to Zoë. "Wait for me at the door."

Zoë did not delay for a second telling. Head downcast, she elbowed her way through the silent crush of people. Nor did she turn to survey the scene when an unholy yell split the air, followed by the sound of splintering furniture. There was a moment's unbroken silence and then conversation and catcalls resumed in every quarter as if there had been no interruption.

Moments later, when the deputy strode through the taproom door, her elbow was taken in a bruising grasp. Zoë had to run to keep up with him.

"Where are you taking me?" she
panted,
her gratitude for his timely rescue instantly replaced by a fresh wave of panic.

He stopped in his tracks and gave her a rough shake. "Don't you have enough sense to run for cover when you are being hunted? God, even a dumb animal has more brains than you."

His grasp on her arm did not slacken as he dragged her up the narrow stairs and along a lighted hallway. For the first time since she'd entered the inn, her fear abated to be replaced by a more violent emotion.

Taking umbrage more at the slight to her intelligence than his rough tone and manhandling, she pointed out tersely, "You told me to stay where I was."

Cool gray eyes raked over her. "You removed your bonnet," answered the deputy cryptically.

"My bonnet?"

They came to a door. Rolfe pushed through, dragging Zoë behind him. A lantern was lit and set on a small table beside the bed. When he released her to lock and bar the door, Zoë took a few steps into the room and whirled to face him. Her emotions were too involved to give more than a passing thought to the peril of her situation.

"Why am I to blame when others attack me?" she demanded. "You are the one who is to blame for leaving me alone in that den of iniquity in the first place. And as for my bonnet . . ." Her voice trailed to a halt as she became aware of the deputy's lingering appraisal.

Rolfe's eyes slowly roved over the challenging posture of the child before him. Her figure was childish, as yet undeveloped, though, when he had administered the spanking she had deserved, he had detected the suggestion of womanly softness beneath her garments. She was small boned and dainty. Her profile was sculpted in delicate lines; her mouth was full, with the promise of something—the word
sensuality
came to mind and was instantly rejected. Her chin was square. Far from detracting from the oval perfection of her face, this irregularity merely added piquancy. But it was those huge eyes of hers, dark, veiled, and hinting of feminine secrets which, he was persuaded, made men make fools of themselves. Or perhaps it was that dark skein of shimmering hair which tempted a man to test the feel of it between his fingers.

Shaking his head, frowning, he asked, "How old are you?"

"Fourteen," she answered at once. Guilty color swept across her cheekbones, riveting the deputy's alert gaze. "More or less," she added in a husky, self-conscious undertone.

Wearily, Rolfe covered his eyes with one hand. "Thirteen! Good God! You're just a babe!" He raised his head and surveyed her through half-closed lids. This time, he observed the short, frilled frock beneath the opening of her threadbare cloak. He noted the wilted ribbon on her mane of hair. She was all legs and arms, he decided then, like a skittish colt. He could not say why, but he was suddenly swept by a feeling of self-disgust mingled with unbridled rage at his own sex in general.

"You look older," he said, his voice verging on the accusatory.

"Thank you," said Zoë, and dropped her eyes.

Rolfe laughed and pinched her cheek in an avuncular fashion. 'You won't always thank a gentleman for saying that you look older. Why is it, I wonder, that children are always wishing their lives away?" The question was rhetorical and Zoë made no attempt to answer it. Releasing her, he moved to the grate and used the bellows to fan the embers of the fire. A moment later, it blazed to life.

Zoë watched him in considering silence. She scarcely knew what to make of his playful manner. When a knock came at the door, it barely registered.

"I ordered food," said Rolfe. "Are you hungry?"

Was she hungry? She did not think so. "Ravenous," she answered, hoping to please him, and was rewarded with a smile of such singular sweetness that she was instantly overcome with confusion. Happily, the deputy did not remark on her bemused state.

What they dined on, Zoë could never afterwards remember. Her thoughts, already chaotic because of the deputy's softened manner, jostled each other even more frantically when he removed the red cap and combed his fingers through his hair.

Throughout their meal, she was aware that in a veiled fashion, he was giving her a list of safeguards she must employ if she wished to avoid attracting unnecessary, masculine attention. There was nothing
new in this.
Maman
or her sister Claire had already voiced some of the same advice. Zoë nodded her agreement from time to time as if hanging on his every word, but behind her carefully bored expression, she studied her companion as if she had discovered a new and interesting specimen of fauna.

He was younger than she had at first surmised, and just the right age for a lady of her years. Devoid of the odious red cap, he looked less menacing. His hair was blond, but not without color. It was rich and warm looking, reminding her of her mother's yellow
salle
in the house in St. Germain when the sun came streaming through the west windows. His eyes were gray, with a trace of blue, not the expected green. And that crooked, half smile which he doled out as if it had been as scarce as black bread did something decidedly odd to the regularity of her breathing.