The Winds of Fate (2 page)

D
evon Blackmon’s cell was not a cheerful place. Moisture dripped down gray stone walls blackened with splotches of mold. The odor of dampness mingled with a stink, rivaling the worst of London’s sewers. The furnishings lay sparse−a chamberpot and filthy straw strewn in the corner for a pallet to sleep. One small barred window yielded a view of the prison-yard, where Devon observed a drunken banquet to celebrate his departure into the unknown. Since dawn the street had been packed with people hoping to catch a glimpse of the damned. Unable to see their quarry, they were content to enjoy a vicarious thrill from the snatches of song and squeals of happy laughter that rose over the dreary walls.

His eyes roved over a sheet dividing his cell placed by orders of the master gaoler. Weighted down by additional chains, he squinted through swollen eyelids. Mr. Goad had arrived accompanied by two guards to hold Devon down. They claimed he needed a lesson in manners for a visitor. For their effort, one guard had received a broken nose, and the other, a pair of cracked ribs. If Devon’s stomach had been properly filled, the damage to them would have been worse. Chained to the wall with little room to maneuver, he slid down on his pallet and resumed his pastime of late, picking lice.

Under sentence of death, there were no advantages, Devon reflected wryly. No last meal or priest to comfort him. He was dressed in the clothes he’d been arrested in six months before, torn from the beatings he received from his captors. The lack of water to wash and shave created dismal grime far from the cleanliness to which he was accustomed. For the past three days he’d dined on nothing but a moldy slice
of bread. God, he was hungry. Unable to stop himself from dreaming, he pictured a fat roasted goose baked crisp with all the trimmings: gravy, potatoes, and fresh baked bread with butter.… He dropped his head to his knees, feeling nauseous. His stomach, so empty, he could feel its sides clamping together, gave a harsh growl followed by a dry heave. He forced his mind away from the treacherous subject of food.

He sat huddled on the rough stone floor, arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees for warmth. His added chains clinked. One of the new indignities he received from the grinning guards who savored to beat and taunt him. The words, degrading and dehumanizing, were something he preferred not to think about, reminding him of the starved, half-crazed, filthy wretch he’d become. Oh, well, he thought with an attempt at black humor, he wouldn’t have long to worry about his misfortunes. His time was near.

What did keep his mind alive were contemplations entertained on wonderful bits of vengeance on King James and England’s aristocracy− for he was an innocent man.

Devon raised his head. His eyes drifted over the sheet, dividing his cell. He wondered what new humiliation the guards contemplated. They mentioned a visitor. All his relatives were dead. He’d join them soon enough. He bowed his head.

“Stand clear,” Mr. Goad shouted. The door swung open. The sun had set, and in the darkness the Master Gaoler hooked a lantern on the ceiling, light flowing into the shadows. Goad’s florid face appeared around the sheet. Cautious, until he saw how far Devon’s chains stretched, or rather, if Devon could get his hands upon him, he nodded, apparently satisfied his men had cinched him tight enough to the wall.

“Take heed,” said Devon. “It’s my rest you’re disturbing.”

Mr. Goad stood not amused. “Odds blood! Ye think I’m to bow to the likes of you rebels? There’s gallows awaiting you at Tyburn Tree with an audience to give their approval.”

“Faith, you mean it’s not time for my bath and bread-pudding?”

Mr. Goad considered him with a kindling eye then cocked his head, listening to the clangor of church bells. “I’ll not cater to the
likes of you, you haughty traitor. Hear them bells? The bellman of St. Sepulchre’s never fails to sound the bells on the eve of execution day.”

“If your wit were as big as your voice, it’s the fine man you’d be.” Devon sneered, his fury dissolving into grim resignation.

Claire saw Mr. Goad’s jaw work up and down, listening to his dispute with the prisoner. She had waited hours with Lily in the prison office. Mr. Goad’s way of letting her know who remained in charge. Her nerves raw, she had been led down a maze of dark, clammy corridors. The rotting smells were so horrible she clamped a perfumed handkerchief to her nose. Almost worse than the smells were the sounds−heart wrenching moans of pain joined sobbing cries of misery. Her throat closed up, and her heart despaired for the humanity locked with these walls. Thank goodness she had left Lily in Goad’s office and spared her this ordeal.

“You may find me fine enough to hang you myself.” Goad’s scowl deepened. “It would be a great pleasure to stretch yer bloody neck.”

Something scurried over Claire’s foot. She squelched a scream and stepped into the cell. Was it a rat? She wished Goad and the prisoner would stop their bickering. She desired to marry the condemned man and leave.

“Certainly you have the manners and appearance of a hangman,” said the prisoner to Goad. “None but a fool or a savage would merit such an occupation.”

Despite the prisoner’s reckless defiance, a subtlety of intelligence lay defined in his tone and speech. Irish wasn’t it? With all the ferocity of a winter squall, he dared to quarrel with the Master Gaoler. Claire reversed her initial opinion. The prisoner was either insane or half-witted.

Her head jerked up at the sound of something hard hitting flesh. The Master Gaoler’s cruelty had struck her like a physical blow, forceful enough to rattle her bones.

“Enough of your bluster. Keep your bloody mouth shut,” Goad ordered.

“Stop.” Claire’s voice broke. She could not bear the thought of any man beaten. “Leave us, Mr. Goad.”

“I’ll not leave. Not ‘til this animal learns who his betters is.”

Mr. Goad’s obstinance rang eloquent. Claire took the hint, opened her purse and produced another coin. “Do not make me speak again.”

Mr. Goad wavered between his petty revenge and the coin dangled in front of him. The gaoler’s greed won out. He snatched her last precious coin like a cock at a worm, slammed the door and locked it. “It’s your neck, milady.” Goad pressed his face against the bars and laughed. “Don’t beg for me when ‘e gets his hands on you. I’ll pretend not to hear what he does to you.”

A cold knot formed in her stomach. Mr. Goad’s fear of the prisoner, and the fact that it had taken twelve of the King’s good men to hold him down caused her to rethink what she had just done. She glanced at the locked door then stared at the thin sheet between them. She had asked for the sheet because she did not want to see the prisoner’s face. She wanted no memories of him or his horrible demise to burden her future.

As Goad’s footsteps echoed down the hall, Claire bit her lip. Would the chains secured around the prisoner be enough? She hoped the bonds would not be tested. To invite the gaoler to return would result in unwanted intrusion. She desperately needed to talk to this man alone.

Beyond the sheet the prisoner rested, cast in stygian darkness. Did he think the arrangement strange? He did not indicate his thoughts. Claire closed her eyes to fight her panic. Her fears came in an onslaught of images. Visions of the terrors of her childhood caused her sides to trickle with perspiration, the tragic death of her parents, her near demise in St. Giles.

The image of a new hell awaiting her emerged. She laid in a bed, naked, the duke’s cold bony hands pawing at her breasts. The rumors surrounding the duke’s former young wives and their mysterious deaths plagued her.

Marriage to the felon was her only way out. Society would scorn her. She didn’t care for there remained no other avenue of escape.
Summoning the strength and resolve of her will to survive, Claire opened her eyes.

“May I ask you your name, sir,” Claire began then twisted her fingers, upset with such a mundane question. “Mr. Goad did not inform me of your name.”

“When up against overwhelming odds, use your strengths to exploit your enemy’s weakness.” His voice boomed like a clap of thunder in the darkness.

Claire gaped. She listened to the clink of his chains. “Why-why do you say that?”

“Obvious deduction. You wouldn’t be here unless necessary. I sense a battle ahead.”

Claire was not prepared for this. Despite the fact he was to be hanged, he had the wherewithal to challenge her. Why should she be surprised? Did he not provoke Mr. Goad?

Claire swallowed, fighting the urge to call out for a guard and flee from Newgate. She drowned in doubt, swirling in uncharted territory.
Was she mad?
She steeled her determination. Now wasn’t the time to lose her nerve. She reminded herself of what she must accomplish this night. And what she intended to ask, God forgive her, was a lot. Gathering her courage, damning her unease, Claire moved to the sheet. “I request a favor.”

“It is the day for favors.” He laughed. His chains clinked again as he moved about.

Claire bit her lip, again. This was her only chance. Her whole future hinged on this one man. There was no time and no one to whom she could plead her case. “Will you marry me?” she blurted out. She heard his quick intake of breath and could sense his astonishment through the sheet. His silence gnawed away at her confidence.

“Ah, marry you. That’s the way of it. Marriage to the condemned can amend many a sin.”

She felt her face flush hot to the roots of her hair. “I have none of the sins you imply!”

“My, what a vinegary disposition. With what few remaining hours I have, why would I desire a shrewish wife?”

Claire had a basket of foods and a bottle of wine for him delivered to Mr. Goad’s office. “I could ease your burden in your last hours.”

“That’s quite a bold venture,” he grunted his approval. “My pallet is but filthy straw, not much to entertain a lady of quality.”

“How dare you even suggest−” Was he laughing at her expense? If he wanted a challenge, she would give it to him. The experience of her youth had taught her to confront all obstacles. She refused to be bullied by a condemned prisoner, to sink to his lewdness.

“The endeavor could be enlightening.” His voice dropped lower, aloof and confident.

Claire shivered at the rich, masculine tones of his wicked offering. The suggestion swept over her like a caress. Ridiculous. “There are some things best not learned.”

“Forgive me Madam, for taking up so much of your time.”

“Are you dismissing me?” This was maddening. “You can’t. I have to be married today!”

“Are you perchance in the family way?” He snorted.

Her toes curled in her slippers. “How dare you−”

“I just want to know who I am putting my good name to.” He laughed, and she could hear him settle down into a spirit of scorn.

Devon leaned farther. He had been studying her for some time through a hole in the threadbare sheet. Venus rising from the ocean had come to his filthy cell. Bright as the first light of creation she lit his dreary existence. Tall with a generous mouth and her hair, a coronet, shone like summer twilight. The sight of her well-shaped breasts and cinched-in waist had roused the heat in his loins and fried his wits along with it. Bloody Hell, of course he dared. She was the brightest spot of his ill-fated past, the hope of what was left of his ill-fated future. God, he could tear down the sheet and devour her in seconds.

“I dare,” Devon rasped. “If you desire a husband−then it is my name to give. Nothing more. Nothing less.” He hedged a bit, toying with her timing and her desperation. How far would she go? Unraveling inside him was the hard-edged part of his character, the one born on the
roughest roads of life. By the quality of her dress and cultured speech he knew her to be a member of the aristocracy he hated.

“Impossible−” she faltered.

He felt her innocence in those words. “Impossible for you to be a woman?”

He stood then. As close to the sheet as possible. As far as his chains would allow.

He smelled her. He sensed her heat. He raised his hand, letting his fingers trail down the center of the flimsy material dividing them. He imagined running them over her sweetly curved breasts, rising and falling with each splendid breath. Devon wanted to cup each breast and to tease his tongue over each nipple−until it grew hard, to taste the salt of her skin. He laughed at the decay of his thoughts. Of the animal he’d become. He sank on his pallet. “Why is the sheet between us? So as not to remember the visage of your husband when he hangs. I suppose the experience would not be a romantic memory.” She cleared her throat, but before she attempted to say anything, he answered for her. “No apologies necessary. I guessed as much. And have you any curiosity about me?”

“I’m afraid I do.” Her voice pitched for a second, too complex to attribute to one single emotion. Guilt? Desperation? Fear? But why?

“I am not expected to explain the entirety of it to you?” he said, his own tone must have betrayed his reluctance to do so.

“My time is limited, but if you would supply me−” Her voice drifted off.

“You mean am I a murderer or some other vile character you’d attach yourself to? The answer is no. You are safe.” He leaned over, thanking providence for that hole. She stood in light. He sat in darkness. He watched her exhale. The tops of her breasts glowing in the light. Her scent heady to his senses. He sat torn between laughter, lust, and despair.