Ryan's Bride (3 page)

Now, to make matters worse, her uncle’s threat had, ironically, come true: she was in prison. And all because of the interfering stranger.

She had thought of little else since that day, playing over and over in her mind all the details. And she had concluded that there was a moment when he’d been about to let her go. A few more seconds, and she was sure he would have shown mercy. There had just been something in his eyes once he discovered she wasn’t a boy. He had kept on holding her, and she had seen how the anger and disgust faded to the slightest glimmer of compassion.

She had sensed something else as well, and that was how he had continued to hold her after he knew she was a woman. His fingers had caressed her breasts ever so slightly. Then came another staggering awareness, one that flamed her cheeks to recall. He had been lying on top of her, and while it might have been her imagination when she felt the sudden hardness pressed against her, she didn’t think so. Such thoughts were not invented in her mind, especially after her uncle’s brutal attack. And in a way, it had brought the terror washing back.

He had teased her about how she could be a courtesan, his wit fascinating at such a time. He was probably a very pleasant person under normal circumstances. He certainly had a nice smile, warm as spring sunshine.

He was strong, she could tell. Yet, as he continued to hold her, his grip lightened a bit, as though he were afraid he might be hurting her. That was why she was so sure that, given a little more time, he would have let her go. He seemed to care. Otherwise, why would he have told the gendarme not to be so rough with her or asked where she was being taken?

She told herself she was being silly. The whole thing had happened so fast, and he probably hadn’t given her a second thought once it was over.

Still, there in the damp darkness, Angele preferred to dwell on the stranger rather than her miserable past or precarious future. She also felt a bizarre kind of comfort to remember his touch. It had made her feel that as long as he held her, she was insulated against all harm. And that was an emotion she’d not known in a long, long time.

Tears welled in her eyes, and Angele furiously blinked them away. Her uncle had tried to make her cry the night he raped her, so he would know she felt the pain he intended to inflict again and again until she agreed to marry him. Then he would be gentle, he said. He would not take her so roughly. But Angele had refused and promised herself to be so strong in the future that nothing—no one— would ever make her shed a tear.

To take her mind from the nightmare of the past, she again thought about the stranger, wondering what kind of life he led. He probably had a wife, a family. And he looked like a man of position and wealth, even if his clothes were rumpled and dirty from chasing her.

Then she made herself think of good times, like riding her horse Vertus, her hair blowing about her face as they galloped across the lush, green valleys, wild and free. It was a memory she would forever cherish, for it would likely never be again. Her uncle had taken Vertus, like everything else, and she was no longer free and likely would not be for a long time—if ever.

She felt a little stirring in the pit of her stomach and knew it was not hunger that gnawed but will—the will to survive, no matter what.

“I will not let them beat me down,” she said aloud.

“I will not let them beat me down,” she repeated, and with each word an inner strength surged. She could feel it winding about her heart, warm and caressing. There had to be a way. There had to be.

And she said it again, even louder, because it felt so good, better than anything had made her feel in too long to remember.

Screams of protests exploded around her from the other prisoners.

“Shut up, you bitch.”

“We ain’t listenin’ to your caterwauling.”

“Hey, I’m tryin’ to sleep. Shut that hole in your face.”

A few seconds later, footsteps sounded outside her door, and Angele cringed. She’d let herself get carried away, and the guard had heard, and there was no telling what he might do. She’d heard the other prisoners yelling back and forth, talking about the torture called The Grave. A wooden box buried in the ground, it was where rebellious prisoners were laid out like corpses and covered up with barely enough air to breathe. They were left there, buried alive, until they were almost dead. And oh, God, she prayed it would not happen to her.

A key turned in the lock.

She had been sitting on the floor, leaning back against the cold wall, but straightened in apprehension.

The door opened. A lantern was held up, and in its glow, she could see the guard called Leon. He was scowling as he swung the lantern about, searching the shadows. Then he saw her and growled, “All right. Get your thievin’ as over here and don’t give me no trouble. The commandant wants to see you.”

Angele cringed. “Please. I meant no harm. I was just talking to myself. Maybe I was too loud, but I didn’t mean to be. I’ll be quiet. I promise.”

His scowl deepened as he walked to where she was crouched. Reaching down, he twined his fingers in her hair and gave a hard yank. “Don’t argue with me, you little bitch, or I’ll tear it out by the roots.”

Angele managed to stand. He shoved her toward the door, and she nearly fell but righted herself in time.

“Walk ahead of me.” He pulled a leather baton from his belt. “And if you try anything, I’ll lay your head open with this.”

Angele had no doubt he would. She had heard him do it to another prisoner and had peered out the opening in the door to see the blood streaming down her head. She had been dragged out and never brought back. Angele wondered if she had died in The Grave.

After climbing steps that seemed to go on forever, she was taken to a small office where a man sat behind a desk.

He had dark, mean eyes, bushy brows, and a hawk nose.

His mouth twitched with either pleasure or annoyance.

She could not tell which.

He stared at her in silence for a few seconds, then stood and waved Leon from the room and told him to close the door after him.

“My name is Captain Duclos,” he said, rising. Then, hands splayed on his hips, he began to circle her as his gaze flicked up and down in scrutiny. “Skinny,” he murmured. “But you should still bring a good price.”

He took her by surprise when his hand clamped about her throat to jerk her face close to his. “Open your mouth.”

She did so, dizzily recalling how her father had always looked at a horse’s teeth before buying the animal.

She fought to keep standing despite how her knees knocked together. He had said she would bring a good price and frantically wondered what he meant. She wasn’t a slave to be sold at auction. She was a prisoner, and there was a difference. Dear Lord, there had to be.

He released her, and she coughed a few times before she was able to ask, “When will I go before a judge? I’ve been here—”

His hand closed around her throat again. “You will not speak unless I ask you a question. Is that understood?”

She struggled to nod.

He went back to his desk and sat down. “This is not the city jail,” he said, as though she did not have sense enough to figure that out for herself. “We take prisoners here when they don’t have room there. But we are getting crowded here, as well. I have to make room. Some of you have to leave.”

Angele wanted to ask where she would be taken, but he looked as though he was hoping she would so he’d have an excuse to choke her again. She swallowed her curiosity.

“You are a thief. You will go to prison for a long time. You may even die there. How do you feel about that?”

It was her cue to speak, and she quickly did so. “I…I feel badly,” she said, wanting to sound contrite when it was all she could do to keep from springing across the desk and raking her nails down his arrogant face. But she had to play by the rules if she was to survive, and that meant she had to appear whipped, beaten. “If you will let me go,” she dared add, “I promise I will never steal again.”

“Really?” He smiled and leaned back to stare at her through templed fingers.

“Yes. I swear it.”

“And why were you stealing in the first place?”

“I was hungry.”

“And what will you do when you get hungry again?”

“I’ll find work.”

“Doing what?”

She had no idea. She had tried everything, from mending clothes to scrubbing floors. But she couldn’t let him know that. “I’m not sure. There must be something—”

“Of course there is. And it’s the only way you can stay out of prison.”

Apprehension was a snake, curling about her spine. “What do you mean?”

He did not meet her querulous eyes. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll be well taken care of. A man will be coming in a few hours to pick you up. Leon will see to it you get a bath and clean clothes.” He wrinkled his nose. “You smell to high heaven. All you wenches smell.”

He shoved a piece of paper across the desk along with a pen. “Here. Sign this.”

His hand was positioned so that she could not read what was written. “What is it?”

“It merely says that you agree to be released to this man’s custody in exchange for his paying your fine to get you out of jail and making sure you won’t go back to being a thief.

“Not that anyone really cares what happens to you,” he added with a smirk. “You told the police you have no family, that you’re all alone in the world. But it’s a formality, just in case.”

“But I don’t know this man,” Angele protested. “And I don’t know what kind of work he offers. Maybe I’m not suitable. And if I’m brought back, it will look terrible, and the judge might give me a harsher sentence.”

Threat was a thundercloud in his eyes as he slammed his fists on the desk. “It doesn’t matter that you don’t know him. And you’ll be suitable once he fattens you up a little. And don’t worry about a judge giving you a harsher sentence if you come back. I’ll make sure you stay in your cell till you die. Now, sign this if you want to live.” He tapped the paper with the pen.

An image flashed before her eyes—her uncle stripping her naked, grunting and panting as he forced her legs apart to thrust himself inside her. She was no fool. She knew what he meant for her to do. She would be forced to work in a bordello.

She shook her head wildly from side to side and stepped back from the paper as though it were a spider about to spring and bite. Panic was a choking knot in her throat, and she had to speak around it. “No, I won’t do it. You’re afraid one day you might have to account for me—what happened to me—so you want it to look as though I went willingly.”

Rage spread across his face like a crimson tide. “You refuse? You dare not to cooperate? You refuse a chance at freedom?”

“It isn’t freedom. It’s slavery.”

“You little fool. This man is willing to take responsibility for you and pay your fine.”

She was too angry to watch her tongue. “It’s not a fine, and you know it. The money would go in your pocket. I’ll wager there’s not a word on that paper about any fine. You just want it to appear that I agreed to go with him.”

“I’m offering you a chance at a new life.”

Snatching up the paper, she tore it in pieces and threw them in his face.

Enraged, he shouted, “Leon!”

The door opened quickly, as though Leon had been leaning against it, waiting for his cue to enter.

“Take her to The Grave. Leave her there till she comes to her senses.”

Angele could only pray she had the strength to resist. Maybe if Captain Duclos realized she had no intention of giving in, he would just let her rot peacefully in her cell. She preferred that to the fate he wanted her to accept.

Leon seemed to enjoy putting her in The Grave. It was situated at the far end of the hall. He hung a lantern on a peg in the wall, then stooped to lift the rectangular board that covered it.

There was no coffin. Just raw dirt. She could see several holes had been bored in the lid Leon held. They would keep her alive—if she did not die of madness.

“Get down there. And you better get comfortable, ’cause there’s no room to turn around.”

When she hesitated, he kicked her behind her knees, buckling them. She pitched forward into the hole but quickly rolled over, not about to be buried on her face. Then she would surely suffocate, unable to press her nose to the air holes.

“Once a day, I’ll raise the lid and give you a cup of gruel and water. Other than that, you stay there till you do what the commandant wants.”

He slammed the lid in place and fastened it. His voice coming through the holes was muted, but Angele could hear and listened in dread.

“It usually takes a day or two to make a woman give in. A few die right away, though. They just can’t take it. Maybe you can last longer. You’re younger than most of ’em. Maybe smarter, too. When the man comes for you, I’ll see if you’ve wised up yet.”

He left her, and the silence afterward became a great roaring in her ears. She felt as though her temples were being squeezed and would cause her head to explode. Her fingertips ached to rub them, but she could not bend her arms. Then her nose began to itch, and she wriggled it furiously to try to bring relief.