Land of a Thousand Dreams (17 page)

Mooney, the larger of the two, had no mind to return to the ship before morning. Rice, ever the sorehead when drunk, insisted loudly they should go back. He had the devil of a fire in his gut, he said, and would be ill, right here in the street, if they didn't get away.

They stopped their squawking at the sound of approaching hoofbeats and carriage wheels. As Mooney watched the fancy gilded carriage pull up in front of the inn, he was overcome by a sense of anticipation.

He knew who was inside the coach.

The street was dark and thickly shadowed, but the coachman held a lantern for the occupants of the carriage. Staring hard, Mooney recognized the big black man with the seaman's cap who leaped from the carriage and helped the beauty down.

The drunken Rice muttered and lurched forward. Mooney flung out an arm to force him back into the shadows of the doorway.

No one was paying them any heed, nor likely would. A huddle of lads playing pitch-and-toss, and the few passersby in the street appeared to be either drunk or indifferent to their surroundings.

Rice swore at being manhandled, and Mooney warned him in a hoarse whisper, “Shut up! 'Tis
her
—the beauty they keep shut away upstairs! Keep quiet!”

Pressed tightly against the door of the tin shop, the two watched the black man lead the woman, almost completely concealed by her hooded cloak, around the corner of the house toward the back stairs. As they climbed, the wind renewed its force with a mighty blast, and the hood of the girl's cloak dropped away. For an instant, the golden veil of her hair fell free. Quickly, she reached to tug the hood back over her head.

Mooney swallowed as a blaze of heat roared up inside him. He had seen her come and go more than once from the streets, but she was always well-hidden in that cloak.

Ah, but he had seen her
without
the cloak, and she was a beauty! No doubt he was one of the few to have managed more than a stolen look at the one they called the Innocent.

He had seen her close up, he had. Just once. He had seen her face—like that of an angel—and that bedazzling mane of golden hair. And he had seen the fine, delicate, womanly shape of her.

He had been upstairs at Gemma's, just leaving the room of the girl called Poppy, when one of the older, used-up women opened the Innocent's door at the same time. They had slammed it shut at once, but not before Mooney had seen the “beautiful dummy,” the subject of so much speculative talk on the docks.

She was naught but a simple child, they said, a child in a woman's body. Could not speak a lick, according to those who had caught forbidden glimpses of her. Talked on her hands.

An Innocent, they would say, tapping the head with a knowing smile. Simpleminded.

But a beauty, all the same.

Aye, and she was that! Mooney had made himself a regular at Gemma's since that night. He would slink about near the outside stairway, or lurk in the upstairs hall. At times, he stood in the shadows across the street, staring at the door, waiting to see the glimmer of lamplight behind the curtain.

He had seen her only twice since. Once, just as tonight, she'd been escorted upstairs by the big, thick-chested black. The other time she'd appeared for a fleeting moment in the open doorway at the top of the stairs, waiting for the cat to come back inside. And both times, Mooney had been there waiting…waiting…

His mouth went dry as he watched her hurry inside the room at the top of the steps. Outside, the black man waited, looked around, then went back downstairs.

Mooney dragged his gaze away from the beauty's door just long enough to see the black man climbing into the carriage. The coach pulled away, and he stepped out of the shadows, staring once more at the darkened doorway.

This was his best chance. If he went now, she would likely think he was the black man returning. If she was slow, as was claimed, he'd be in the door before she could stop him. But if he waited too long, he'd miss his chance entirely.

She would never make a sound…he could do whatever he wanted to her, and no one would know….

The fire inside him blazed higher. Rice sprawled drunkenly against the wall; he would be out for hours.

Mooney s eyes returned to the door—
her
door. His dark gaze bored into the wood as he imagined the beauty who stood behind it. Then, his heart pounding against his chest, he started across the street.

When the soft rapping on the door came, Finola was just slipping out of her hooded cloak. Small One had wrapped herself around her legs, mewing and begging for attention.

Looking toward the door, Finola wondered what Sandemon had forgotten. With her cloak still loosely draped about her shoulders, she reached down and gently lifted Small One into her arms. Then she crossed the room and turned the key.

Smiling, she opened the door with her free hand. Her mind formed Sandemon's name, then froze. For a moment she could do nothing but stand and stare at the rough-looking man in the doorway. Then terror seized her, and her heart began to hammer wildly with exploding dread.

She felt the frenzied beat of Small One's heart against her own at the sight of the stranger.

Not Sandemon…a stranger…
Instinctively she knew that this stranger was different—sinister, somehow…evil.

Too late Finola realized her foolish mistake. She moved to slam the door, but the man wedged one leg in the opening. Shoving Finola hard enough to throw her off-balance, he charged the rest of the way into the room.

The cat in her arms screeched in panic, digging its claws into Finola's shoulder. Ignoring the pain, Finola clung to Small One, holding her close.

The man threw the lock on the door, then turned back. His face wore a hungry, wolfish look, like a wild beast cornering its prey.

Finola opened her mouth to scream. Nothing but a ragged, painful rush of breath came out.

The man's eyes narrowed. “So it's true, then, what they say! You can't talk, not at all.”

His mouth was misshapen, looked to have been sliced from his upper lip to the lower in one corner. The split lip gave his speech a heavy lisp, a whistling quality.

Finola looked wildly around the room for some means of escape. But there was nothing, not even a weapon. She was trapped!

The big man came at her slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. Finola's mouth filled with the hot, vile taste of fear. She knew she was teetering on the edge of total panic. She shrank backward, and he snaked out an arm and jerked her back. Small One yowled, and the man flung the cat away from Finola with one hand, hurling her across the room. The cat landed on her feet and bolted under the bed, howling.

A silent scream tore through Finola. She lunged toward the cat, but the man yanked her arm, holding her. Pain seared through her, choking off her breath, bringing hot tears to her eyes.

He caught both her wrists behind her back, trapping her with one hand as he jerked her around to face him.

In the throes of terror, Finola's mind spun, desperate for a way to escape him. But he held her fast. With his free hand, he tore her cloak from her body and flung it to the floor.

The mutilated mouth twisted in a leer as his eyes raked over her. “Small wonder they keep you locked up!” he said thickly, ogling her like a pirate examining his treasure.

His unnatural, hissing voice sent a chill of revulsion coursing through Finola.

“Aye, you're a looker, no lie! Even better up close, like this. Much better. They keep you reserved special, for the gentry, is that it, then?” he sneered. “Like His Honor what owns the carriage?”

Still holding her hands trapped behind her, he raked the calloused fingers of his free hand over Finola's throat.

“A beauty, and that's the truth.” His eyes held a feverish glint of obscene fascination. “But not so innocent after all, I'll warrant. No doubt your rich gentleman has taken care of that long before now.”

He gave an ugly laugh. “Or has he? Like as not, you've no inkling of what a real man is like!” He licked his lips. “Aye, I'll bet that's the truth, now, isn't it, lassie?”

At the mention of the
Seanchai,
Finola's fear gave way to total repugnance, and she turned her face away. He jerked her closer, peering at her with narrowed eyes.

“So that's it, is it?” he spat. “Such a fine lady you are, you can't even look at the likes of me?” His fingers dug into her tender wrists, and she gasped in pain. “I've seen that look before, I have. Think you're too good for me—well, I'll teach you a thing or two about who's good enough—”

Her heart slamming like a fury against her chest, Finola lowered her head and pitched forward, trying to wrench free. He yanked her head up with such force her neck snapped. He struck her across the face with the back of his hand, and Finola gagged as a blast of pain exploded in her head.

“Don't you
fight
me, girl!” he hissed. “You'll give me what I want, or I'll beat it out of you!”

A terrible darkness rose up in Finola. A part of her was dimly aware of Small One's cries from beneath the bed. The floor swayed under her, and the room went spinning.

The man pressed his face close to hers. Revulsion washed over her like a wave as she felt the heat of his body, smelled the scent of the sea and unwashed flesh.

And whiskey…the sweet, cloying smell of whiskey….

Suddenly, her assailant's face gave way to a different one. As if a mask had dropped over the face of the man holding her captive, Finola now stared into the eyes of another.

Feverish eyes that seared her skin, burned her soul…This was a face she knew, a face that was sickeningly, wrenchingly familiar….

Finola squeezed her eyes shut, as if by refusing to look, she could banish from her mind this new face, once so gentle and aglow with affection, suddenly turned vicious and cruel with lust….

Without warning, he had turned on her, shattering her trust, crushing her devotion like filthy rags. He had hurt her, done terrible things to her
….

Savage hands tore at her clothing, mauled and bruised her without mercy. Words pummeled her, knifed through her, slashed at her. Words steeped in filth and degradation, they flew through the darkness like vindictive ravens bent on tearing her to pieces.

She was being attacked by two men, one a stranger, one—

Her mind swirled, threatened to shatter. She tried to cry out for the angels.

No angels here…nothing but darkness…evil darkness….

The brutal hands of her betrayer went on tearing at her flesh, pounding her body. Far away, like the pitiful echo of a grieving child, Small One wailed on.

Finola knew one last moment of raw, annihilating terror. Then the soft shroud of darkness slipped over her, and she fell, tumbling slowly into an empty silence.

Her ears laid back and her body flattened against the floor, Finola's cat watched from beneath the bed as the man rose, straightened his clothing, and made for the door. She growled—the low, deep, threatening sound of her ancestors—and with a mighty leap, attached herself to the departing leg, sinking teeth and claws into fabric and flesh.

With a roar and a curse, the man shook her off and made his getaway, slamming the door behind him.