Page 4 of The King's Man
‘Come on, lass, he fetched you a mighty wallop. You weren't much to look at before. I doubt your appearance has been much improved by his handiwork.’
She screwed her eyes tightly shut as he pried her hands away from her face and gave a low whistle. With surprising gentleness, his fingers probed along her right cheekbone. She flinched.
‘You've the makings of a truly spectacular black eye but I don't think anything's broken. Now, open your eyes and look at me! I'm not going to hurt you.’
With a supreme effort, she obeyed. Her saviour had crouched in front of her and surveyed her with his grey-green eyes. Nice eyes, she thought, with the lines of humour crinkling at the corners. But she saw no humour in them now, only pity, and pity was the last thing on Earth she wanted.
The shame overwhelmed her and the last of her rigid self-control evaporated. She lowered her head to her knees and began to weep, slow, silent sobs that wracked her thin body.
He made no move towards her; just let her cry until there was no more misery to expend. With a supreme effort, she choked back her misery, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her dress and forcing herself to look at the man who still crouched before her.
He had a sharp, clever face dominated by a nose that was slightly too long and a mouth that curled as if about to break into a smile.
His hat had fallen to the ground during the scuffle with the bearded man and a cowlick of dark hair fell over his eyes. He pushed it back and reached out a finger, curling a lock of her hair in a gesture that was more paternal than sexual.
He shook his head. ‘You'll be dead by week's end if you persist in this chosen vocation,’ he said. ‘Whoever you are, you're no whore by nature or, I warrant, necessity.’
‘You're wrong. I've no choice,’ she mumbled.
She wiped the back of her hand across lips that felt bruised and swollen. The vile taste of the man who had violated her rose in her mouth. She leaned away and retched onto the revolting cobbles.
Her rescuer picked up his hat and stood up, fastidiously brushing the mud from the brim. She expected to see him walk away but he remained standing, looking down at her.
‘Go away,’ she said.
She lowered her head, her hands hanging limply between her knees. She could debase herself no further.
‘When did you last eat?’
She looked up at him. ‘Yesterday.’
‘Come.’ He held out a hand to her. ‘At least permit me to buy you a decent meal. Take a moment to tidy yourself.’
With an effort she pulled herself to her feet, declining his proffered hand. He strolled to the end of the lane and stood with his back turned as she re-laced her bodice and straightened her skirt, grateful for the time to collect her scattered thoughts. Her head still rang from the blow and she put her fingers to her face, tentatively exploring the bruising.
Taking a deep breath, she addressed his back in a stiff, formal voice. ‘I thank you for your assistance, sir, but I beg you, leave me. I’m not fit company for you.’
He turned to face her. ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ A slow, sardonic smile crossed his face. ‘It may be that I’m not fit company for you.’
She regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Who are you? How do you come to be here? Were you following me?’ The questions rushed out.
‘As to the first, my name is Christopher Lovell, although my friends call me Kit.’ He swept her a bow. ‘Your servant, ma’am.As to the second and third questions … yes, I admit I was following you.’
‘Why?’
‘I was concerned for you.’
‘Concerned for me?’
He cocked his head to one side. ‘Are you so far lost that you don’t recognise genuine concern when you see it?’
It had been so long since anyone showed her any kindness that she viewed it with suspicion.
‘You don’t know me, sir. You know nothing about me.’ She brought her chin up and met his gaze.
‘True, but I’ve seen your like before. Unless I’m gravely mistaken, you are like me, the flotsam of war, one of the survivors. We’re what is left when our friends and our family have nobly sacrificed their fortunes and their lives for a lost cause. I am right, am I not, Mistress … ?’
‘Granville,’ Thamsine said, too tired to lie. ‘Thamsine Granville.’
