AT FIRST SIGHT: A Novella(20)
“And next, if I recall correctly, you announced that by the time William returned with his warrant, we will ‘have done with our pleasuring tonight?” She grabbed at the bed’s lumpy pillow and hurled it at him.
With a grin, he moved his shoulder only slightly to dodge the pillow but kept his eye trained below.
“If that is what you are planning,” she gritted, “then you might as well couple with a corpse, for that is all the response you will get from me.”
At this, he shifted his gaze from whatever was outside that elicited his interest to her. His eyes were intent with the same concentration he might use when focusing solely on his fencing foe. “I am tempted to challenge your assertion. However, we have only a few hours left here, and anything trifling or casual would be a waste after what we had Christmas Eve. So, cease your fretting. We have far more important matters to address.”
Her heart stumbled. Had she been wrong? What had happened between them that night, what she had experienced – that intensity and intimacy, relieved by a nigh euphoric feeling of . . . of being where she felt she belonged; of feeling safe, at last; of verging on discovering something vital to one’s well-being . . . had he felt it, as well?
If she was honest with herself, she would have to admit that had it been Peter or William to whom she had lost in that chess game at the Virgin Mary Tavern, she would not have felt obligated to give herself in repayment for the second chance, which Adam had given her.
A queer eager expectancy swept over her when he was near. She had fallen hard for him, mayhap from that first moment she had set eyes on him, when she had opened the Virgin Queen’s door to admit him, but most certainly at that tender moment he had cradled Robbie in his arms.
“This land purchase you have undertaken for that religious, sadistic bigot Cromwell,” she asked, “can it be worth so much that you would risk thwarting Craven, even risk losing your life?”
He did not look at her again, only continued to watch the street below, but the rich timbre of his voice betrayed the gravity of his intent. “To regain Sutcliff Manor and my family’s estates and all the vital memories bound up with them is life itself to me.”
“That I can understand,” she murmured. “To have my home once again with its many precious memories of my father and brother . . . rather than being estranged in this God forsaken wilderness . . . ”
At that thought she paused and looked up at him. “What happened to your family estates?”
“They were confiscated after King Charles had ordered my father’s execution – and I, I was bound for Barbados.”
That close, she noted the burn’s ruddy blister on his cheek had healed to a mere pinkish speck. “So, we have that in common. The loss of a father due to an execution. Except the executioner’s orders were issued from opposing regimes.”
“We have nothing in common.” He closed the shutters and headed for the door, pausing to look over his shoulder at her. He grinned affably, but faint lines of fatigue bracketed the outer corners of his eyes and mouth. “I will return shortly. I know plotting a flight is on that clever mind of yours. But William has posted musketeers from his Regiment of Foot below.”
Eyes narrowed, she watched as he closed the door behind him. Then, it was as if the whole room lit up with phosphorus. She saw with horrible clarity that her quick thinking, on which she prided herself, had lagged behind his.
He cared not for her, nor was he greatly interested in bedding her; no, he was not even interested in the paltry 100 guilders William would pay for her deliverance. Paltry in comparison with what Adam stood to gain in the long term. He still needed her to complete the land purchase to seal his position with Cromwell and regain his family’s estates.
Damn to hell Adam’s charming soul and damn her susceptibility to that charm.
*
The innkeeper, busy with late-night revelers, managed only a nod at Adam as he exited the Cock and Bull a quarter of an hour after leaving Evangeline – and after taking an exploratory stroll throughout the tavern.
Outside, pot-helmeted pikemen were posted at either side of the tavern door. Immediately barring his path, their crossed muskets clanked warningly.
This he had anticipated. Watching from the upstairs window, he had observed the guards, their breastplates and helmets glinting in the moonlight, and had timed their patrol around the tavern’s perimeter – rather lax and occurring, the best he could determine, erratically.
“God’s bones, Browning – Wilkes,” he scolded the two young men, his palms brushing aside their barring musket barrels, “surely, you two sods could be sarding willing wenches on St. Knut’s night instead of freezing your arses off here.”
“General-at-Sea’s orders,” Wilkes grumbled, his breath frosting the midnight air. “You and the lady are not to leave the tavern tonight.”
“Well, if I am to sard the lady, she demands sheets. Nothing less than Fine Holland sheets, either. Uppity, she is. But to squirrel her hole, I’ll buy the sheets even at 50 shillings per pair. Either of you want to accompany me to the trading post?”
“Pardon me, my Lord Lieutenant,” Browning piped up in a youth’s high-pitched voice “but the trading post is closed at this hour of night.”
“Well, by God, it’ll open for me – backed by your two muskets.” He strode past the two. “Come along, my young friends.” He paused and looked back at them. “Or would you prefer to pump the whores inside Cock and Bull?”