if hes wicked (39 page)

It would have sent them fleeing from the room. Despite al she had seen and experienced over the years the sight of the lovely young woman, her white

gown soaked in blood, sent a chil down her spine. Penelope wondered why the more gruesome apparitions were almost always the clearest.

The door opened and, before Penelope turned to look, she saw an expression upon the ghost’s face that nearly made
her
want to flee the room.

Fury and utter loathing twisted the spirit’s lovely face until it looked almost demonic. Penelope looked at the ones now entering the room. Tom had

returned with a middle-aged woman and two young, scantily clad females. Penelope looked right at the ghost and noticed that al that rage and hate was

aimed straight at the middle-aged woman.

Beware.

Penelope almost cursed as the word echoed in her mind. Why did the spirits always whisper such ominous words to her without adding any

pertinent information, such as what she should
beware
of, or whom? It was also a very poor time for this sort of distraction. She was a prisoner trapped in a house of il -repute and was facing either death or what many euphemistical y cal ed a fate worse than death. She had no time to deal with blood-soaked

specters whispering dire but unspecified warnings. If nothing else, she needed al her wits and strength to keep the hysteria writhing deep inside her

tightly caged.

“This is going to cause you a great deal of trouble,” Penelope told the older woman, not real y surprised when everyone ignored her.

“There she be,” said Jud. “Now, give us our money.”

“The lady has your money,” said the older woman.

“It ain’t wise to try and cheat me, Cratchitt. The lady told us you would have it. Now, if the lady ain’t paid you that be your problem, not mine. I did as I was ordered and did it quick and right. Get the wench, bring her here, and then col ect my pay from you. Done and done. So, hand it over.”

Cratchitt did so with an il grace. Penelope watched Jud careful y count his money. The man had obviously taught himself enough to make sure that

he was not cheated. After one long, puzzled look at her, he pocketed his money and then frowned at the woman he cal ed Cratchitt.

“She be al yours now,” Jud said, “though I ain’t sure what ye be wanting her for. T’ain’t much to her.”

Penelope was growing very weary of being disparaged by this lice-ridden ruffian. “So speaks the great beau of the walk,” she muttered and met

his glare with a faint smile.

“She is clean and fresh,” said Cratchitt, ignoring that byplay and fixing her cold stare on Penelope. “I have many a gent wil ing to pay a goodly fee

for that alone. There be one man waiting especial y for this one, but he wil not arrive until the morrow. I have other plans for her tonight. Some very rich gentlemen have arrived and are looking for something special. Unique, they said. They have a friend about to step into the parson’s mousetrap and wish

to give him a final bachelor treat. She wil do nicely for that.”

“But don’t that other fel er want her untouched?”

“As far as he wil ever know, she wil be. Now, get out. Me and the girls need to wrap this little gift.”

The moment Jud and his men were gone, Penelope said, “Do you have any idea of who I am?” She was very proud of the haughty tone she had

achieved but it did not impress Mrs. Cratchitt at al .

“Someone who made a rich lady very angry,” replied Cratchitt.

“I am Lady Penelope—”

She never finished for Mrs. Cratchitt grasped her by the jaw in a painful y tight hold, forced her mouth open, and started to pour something from a

remarkably fine silver flask down her throat. The two younger women held her head steady so that Penelope could not turn away or thrash her head. She

knew she did not want this drink inside her but was unable to do anything but helplessly swal ow as it was forced into her.

While she was stil coughing and gagging from that abuse, the women untied her. Penelope struggled as best as she could but the women were

strong and alarmingly skil ed at undressing someone who did not wish to be undressed. As if she did not have trouble enough to deal with, the ghost was

drowning her in feelings of fear, despair, and helpless fury. Penelope knew she was swiftly becoming hysterical but could not grasp one single, thin thread of control. That only added to her terror.

Then, slowly, that suffocating panic began to ease. Despite the fact that the women continued their work, stripping her naked, giving her a quick

wash with scented water, and dressing her in a lacey, diaphanous gown that should have shocked her right down to her toes, Penelope felt calmer with

every breath she took. The potion they had forced her to drink had been some sort of drug. That was the only rational explanation for why she was now

lying there actual y smiling as these three harpies prepared her for the sacrifice of her virginity.

“There, al sweets and honey now, ain’t you, dearie,” muttered Cratchitt as she began to let down Penelope’s hair.

“You are such an evil bitch,” Penelope said pleasantly and smiled. One of the younger women giggled and Cratchitt slapped her hard. “Bul y.

When my family discovers what you have done to me, you wil pay more dearly than even your tiny, nasty mind could ever comprehend.”

“Hah! It was your own family what sold you to me, you stupid girl.”

“Not that family, you cow. My true parents’ family. In fact, I would not be at al surprised if they are already suspicious, sensing my troubles upon the

wind.”

“You are talking utter nonsense.”

Why does everyone say that? Penelope wondered. Enough wit and sense of self-preservation remained in her clouded mind to make her realize

that it might not be wise to start talking about al the blood there was on the woman’s hands. Even if the woman did not believe Penelope could know

anything for a fact, she suspected Mrs. Cratchitt would permanently silence her simply to be on the safe side of the matter. With the drug holding her

captive as wel as any chain could, Penelope knew she was in no condition to even try to save herself.

When Cratchitt and her minions were finished, she stood back and looked Penelope over very careful y. “Wel , wel , wel . I begin to understand.”

“Understand what, you bride of Beelzebub?” asked Penelope and could tel by the way the woman clenched and unclenched her hands that Mrs.

Cratchitt desperately wanted to beat her.

“Why the fine lady wants you gone. And, you wil pay dearly for your insults, my girl. Very soon.” Mrs. Cratchitt col ected four bright silk scarves from

the large carpetbag she had brought in with her and handed them to the younger women. “Tie her to the bed,” she ordered them.

“Your customer may find that a little suspicious,” said Penelope as she fruitlessly tried to stop the women from binding her limbs to the four posts

of the bed.

“You
are
an innocent, aren’t you.” Mrs. Cratchitt shook her head and laughed. “No, my customer wil only see this as a very special delight indeed.

Come along, girls. You have work to do and we best get that man up here to enjoy his gift before that potion begins to wear off.”

Penelope stared at the closed door for several moments after everyone had left. Everyone except the ghost, she mused, and final y turned her

attention back to the specter now shimmering at the foot of the bed. The young woman looked so sad, so utterly defeated, that Penelope decided the

poor ghost had probably just realized the ful limitations of being a spirit. Although the memories locked into the bed had told Penelope how the woman

had died, it did not tel her when. However, she began to suspect it had been not al that long ago.

“I would like to help you,” she said, “but I cannot, not right now. You must see that. If I can get free, I swear I wil work hard to give you some peace.

Who are you?” she asked, although she knew it was often impossible to get proper, sensible answers from a spirit. “I know how you died. The bed stil

holds those dark memories and I saw it.”

I am Faith and my life was stolen.

The voice was clear and sweet, but weighted with an intense grief, and Penelope was not completely certain if she was hearing it in her head or if

the ghost was actual y speaking to her. “What is your ful name, Faith?”

My name is Faith and I was taken, as you have been. My life was stolen. My love is lost. I was torn from heaven and plunged into hell. Now I lie

below.

“Below? Below what? Where?”

Below. I am covered in sin. But, I am not alone.

Penelope cursed when Faith disappeared. She could not help the spirit now but dealing with Faith’s spirit had provided her with a much needed

diversion. It had helped her concentrate and fight the power of the drug she had been given. Now she was alone with her thoughts and they were

becoming increasingly strange. Worse, al of her protections were slowly crumbling away. If she did not find something to fix her mind on soon she would

be wide open to every thought, every feeling, and every spirit lurking within the house. Considering what went on in this house that could easily prove a

torture beyond bearing.

She did not know whether to laugh or to cry. She was strapped to a bed awaiting some stranger who would use her helpless body to satisfy his

manly needs. The potion Mrs. Cratchitt had forced down her throat was rapidly depleting her strength and al her ability to shut out the cacophony of the

world, the world of the living as wel as that of the dead. Even now she could feel the growing weight of unwelcome emotions, the increasing whispers so

few others could hear. The spirits in the house were stirring, sensing the presence of one who could help them touch the world of the living. It was probably not worth worrying about, she decided. Penelope did not know if anything could be worse than what she was already suffering and what was yet to come.

Suddenly the door opened and one of Mrs. Cratchitt’s earlier companions led a man into the room. He was blindfolded and dressed as an ancient

Roman. Penelope stared at him in shock as he was led up to her bedside, and then she inwardly groaned. She had no trouble recognizing the man

despite the blindfold and the costume. Penelope was not at al pleased to discover that things could quite definitely get worse—a great deal worse.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hannah Howell is an award-winning author who lives with her family in Massachusetts. She is the author of thirty-one Zebra historical romances and is currently working on a new historical romance, IF HE’S SINFUL, coming in December 2009! Hannah loves hearing from readers and you may visit her Web site:
www.hannahhowell.com
.

ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

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Copyright © 2009 by Hannah Howell

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ISBN: 1-4201-1096-9