Page 5 of Never a Bride
With a deep breath—and a cough into her handkerchief at the smell of rotting garbage and who knew what else—she looked up into Humphrey’s worried face.
“I’ll be out shortly.” She gave him a confident smile.
“Wait, wait,” the old man said, struggling up from the seat. “I’ll be goin’ with ye, milady.”
She knew how his bones stiffened in this cold spring wind, and it made her feel guilty. “No, please sit, dear Humphrey,” she said, reaching into the coach for a blanket and handing it up to him. “I will be quick, and if I am not, I give you permission to come after me. But give me some time to know this gentleman, to see what sort of man he is.”
Humphrey eyed the dilapidated building behind her, with its faded sign of a rooster, and windows shuttered against the cold. “Milady,” he began again, but Emmeline settled her hood over her head, pulled the cloak tight about her, and set foot on the doorstep.
She pushed the old wooden door open, and it was as if another world greeted her. She smelled tobacco smoke and body odors, and perfumes of the sort she’d never encountered before. The gloominess of late afternoon was barely penetrated by wax-dipped rushes, which smoked as they gave off their meager light. Both men and women clustered at the bar or lounged at cracked wooden tables, leaning desultorily into the shadows together. No one noticed her in her plain dark cloak, except a grinning old man with no teeth, who reached out to feel her skirts. She rapped his knuckles smartly with her purse and sailed past him, stepping in something slimy, and was thankful for her raised soles.
As she walked forward, turning sideways so that her wide skirts fit between the crowded benches about the long tables, she saw Sir Alexander.
He sat alone, a tankard in his hand, a gleaming white smile on his face as he watched the rest of the men toasting the foundering of the Spanish fleet off the Irish coast. A serving girl poured him the last of her pitcher of ale, then freely kissed his cheek before sauntering away. Emmeline was mildly offended, and her ire deepened as she saw his big hands tossing a pair of dice, as if he merely awaited his next game.
Was this why he rented lodgings above a tavern? Was it too difficult to find pleasure in his games from his family estate on the Strand? She knew he was a younger son, but surely his brother would not deny him a home.
She studied him again, trying to see what her sister saw. His doublet was thrown open, revealing a clean white shirt with a narrow collar. His face was darkened even further by a day’s growth of beard, and that, plus their surroundings, made him seem dangerous. Emmeline almost began to regret coming.
No.She lifted her chin and eyed the man coldly. She had promised to deliver the letter, and by God above, she would understand what drove him.
She stopped at his table. He slowly lifted his head and looked up at her with eyes as dark as the secretive corners of this bawdy place. A strange feeling crept over her, heating her skin. It wasn’t nervousness, and he certainly did not intimidate her. Then why was she suddenly embarrassed, as if what she felt was somehow—sinful?
Sir Alexander leisurely tipped his head, trying to see beneath her hood. “A good afternoon to you, mistress,” he said, his voice coming so slow as to make her believe he was already in his cups.
She wet her lips. “Good day, Sir Alexander. I need a moment of your time.”
He shook his head. “You know my name, and have yet to reveal yours.”
His gaze followed the line of her cloak as if he could see beneath it.
“Or much of anything else,” he added.
Suddenly overwarm, she took a deep, angry breath, ready to put the insufferable man in his place.
Suddenly his eyes widened. “I’ll be just a moment, mistress.”
He grabbed her about the waist. With a startled gasp, Emmeline fell against him and pushed at his broad shoulders. How dare he handle her so roughly!
But he wasn’t even looking at her. She stilled at the sound of swords being drawn from their scabbards behind her.
“Gentlemen,” Sir Alexander said in the same easy voice he’d used with her.
But she felt the tension in every line of his body, in the hand that moved toward his own sword as he turned her about to perch on his knee. She caught her hood about her throat and looked up at two plainly dressed young men, holding their weapons far too close to her.
Sir Alexander slowly moved the knee she sat on away from them, and he dropped his arm loosely about her shoulders. She longed to push him away, but she also wished to leave this horrid place in one piece.
“You are spoiling a man’s fun,” he said softly. “I hope you have good reason for it.”
“We’ll choose what you should know,” said one of the men. They raised their swords and came forward together.
Sir Alexander put his big palm on the back of Emmeline’s head and forced her under the table, where she landed on her hands and knees on the foul, sticky floorboards. In dismay, she tried to sit back on her heels, but she bumped her head on the table. With a soft groan, she stayed in the ridiculous pose and watched the frantic legs of the men as they fought above her. She heard the clash of swords, the encouragement of the crowd, and even a call for bets.
At last the tavern’s occupants gave a rousing cheer, and the sound of running feet faded away. She saw only one man’s long, booted legs on the other side of the table. She had no doubt of his identity, nor of her own displeasure. When his boots retreated from her line of sight, she tried to back out from beneath the table.
From behind, someone caught her hips and tugged, and she let out a startled shriek as she was lifted high into the air and flung over a strong shoulder. Her breath left her body with a grunt, and her face was pressed into the fine fabric of Sir Alexander’s doublet.
“Fresh from my triumph,” he called in a loud voice, to the laughter and cheers of his cohorts, “I be about my pleasure now. A good day to all!”
