Ryan's Bride (7 page)

“I’ve got every goddamn right.” He began to push her, his palms slapping her shoulders, as she stumbled backward. “You’re nothing but a common thief. You live in the sewers, and you steal from old ladies.”

“That shows how much you know. They’re called catacombs—not sewers. Now get out of here, or I’m going to scream.”

He snickered, giving her another hard shove that nearly sent her to the floor again as she struggled to keep from falling. “Go ahead. Scream. I’m going to call for the police anyway. You belong in jail. But first I want to know how you got in here and what you stole from my cousin.”

She knew he would not believe anything she said, and if he sent for the police, she would be taken right back to jail, and this time there’d be no getting out. She thought fast. She had to keep him talking, asking questions, distract him, then lunge for the door. But she had to have her clothes. She had gratefully peeled out of her dirty, tattered boy’s attire and tossed everything into a corner. She would have to try to snatch it all up on the way out, because she couldn’t go running out of the hotel wearing nothing but a silk robe that was practically hanging in shreds.

Suddenly she bolted to run around the bed, putting it between them.

Corbett began moving slowly around it. “You’re a whore, aren’t you? You’re too scruffy to be anything else.”

Angele knew she did look wretched. Too weary to bathe, she had decided to take a nap first, only she had fallen dead to the world. She had intended to try to make herself look nice for Ryan. She would put on the gown he was to have delivered, and he would be proud to take her to dinner, and—

She glanced about wildly. There was no gown, but how could there be? A hotel employee or messenger would likely not have pounded on the door as though he were driving a nail as Ryan’s cousin had done.

He was creeping closer. “Stay away!” she warned. He was between her and the door.

He kept coming. “I don’t know how you got in here, but I intend to find out. I can’t believe Ryan would have anything to do with the likes of you.”

“He said I could stay here. My room wasn’t ready yet, and—”

“Your room?” he echoed, incredulous. “A fine hotel like this wouldn’t let you eat out of the garbage cans, you little liar. You’ll have to come up with a better story than that, and you will—even if I have to beat it out of you.”

He lunged, and so did Angele. She tried to make it across the bed, planning to run out the door even if she didn’t have time to grab up her clothes. But he was faster. He caught her by her ankle and yanked her back. Flipping her over, he landed on top of her to pin her wrists above her head.

She squirmed wildly, but he held her tight. The robe fell open. His gaze fastened upon her breasts, his breath momentarily catching in his throat. “Maybe Ryan doesn’t mind the dirt and grime. Maybe you’ve got something that makes him overlook everything else.”

Fastening wet, greedy lips on one nipple, his hand dove downward to force her legs apart.

Like the waving of a magic wand, Angele turned into a madwoman, fighting, twisting, heaving from side to side to get him off her. The last time a man had groped between her legs, she’d not been able to fend him off. But she had vowed that it would never happen again, that she would die before enduring such anguish and humiliation.

The fierceness of her struggle caught Corbett off guard. Instinctively, he raised from her and fell slightly to the side. Not much, but enough that Angele could take advantage of the opportunity to slam her foot into his crotch, then again to his stomach.

With a yelp of pain, he rolled to his side, clutching himself in agony.

Angele sprang to her feet and began snatching up her tattered clothing to quickly dress. “Damn you to hell,” she muttered, furious. “Who do you think you are barging in here and thinking you can have your way with me? I told you the truth.
Monsieur
Tremayne told me to stay here. He’s taking me to dinner tonight.”

“Why…why would he do that?” Corbett was gasping, rocking gently from side to side as he continued to hold himself. “I don’t…understand…any of this.”

She stepped into the trousers, then pulled them tight around her tiny waist and tied them with the frayed rope to keep them from falling. She’d lost weight in the jail. Her hips were sharp blades, cutting into the already frayed material of the trousers.

Maybe it had all been some kind of cruel joke, and Ryan Tremayne wasn’t coming back. No gown was to be delivered. There would be no elegant dinner. He had probably left her to his cousin to do whatever he wanted with her, then take her to their bordello. Marriage. Sailing to America. It was all part of the ruse.

Dressed, her hand on the doorknob, she threw a hating glare at the man who had tried to rape her. He was still balled up on the bed, holding himself and groaning. “Tell your cousin that his scheme didn’t work, but I’m sure he’ll find other girls stupid enough to work in his whorehouse.”

Corbett was lying on his side, head toward the door, and he craned his neck to look at her in bewilderment. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t act innocent with me. You probably help him run it. But I have to say it was a clever plan—making me think he wanted to marry me.”

“Marry?” With great effort, Corbett pulled himself up to sit on the side of the bed so he could look at her without straining. “You really are crazy. Ryan would never—”

“Now who’s lying? He even said we were going to America to live…in a place called Virginia. He really went to a lot of trouble to make me believe him. You two must have a hard time recruiting your whores.”

He held up a hand in gesture for her not to go. “Wait. Now I really am confused. Ryan said he was taking you to Virginia?”

“It was all part of the plan—as you know.”

“Well, I don’t know, and something isn’t making sense here. Where did he find you, anyway? I thought you were taken to jail.”

“I was. He had me released to his custody, and now I’m getting out of here, because when he finds out I know what he’s up to, he’ll try to take me back to jail, and I don’t intend to let that happen.”

She had not finished buttoning her shirt but opened the door, anxious to leave.

A young man was standing there, about to knock. He was wearing a blue cotton coat with matching trousers. He blanched to see Angele’s open shirt, the line of her bare breasts beneath. Backing away, he murmured, “Sorry. I must have the wrong room.”

He was holding a rectangular-shaped box. A blue satin ribbon was tied around it with a big bow on top.

“I guess I’m going to be in trouble,” he said, edging away. “I’ve been knocking on the wrong door all afternoon.”

“Whose room are you looking for?”

“Uh, it’s…it’s all right,” he stammered. “I’ll find it. I apologize for bothering you.”

Corbett, still sitting on the side of the bed, called, “Are you looking for
Monsieur
Tremayne’s room?” He looked past Angele and nodded.

Angele quickly asked, “Are you supposed to deliver a package? To someone named Angele Benet?”

He looked her up and down with uncertainty. “Yes, that’s the name on the box. It was delivered to the hotel earlier and I was told to take it to
Monsieur
Tremayne’s room—number 208.”

Angele pointed to the numerals painted on the door behind her. “This is 208, and I am
Mademoiselle
Benet.” She practically yanked the package from him. “I’ll take it. Thank you.”

“Wait a minute…” Corbett started to rise. “I think you’d better wait around till he gets here…”

But the young man turned on his heel and rushed down the hall to disappear around the corner. Trouble was brewing, and he was not about to get involved.

Angele stared at the box, unsure what to do. The fact that Ryan had kept his promise to buy her a dress meant nothing. It might be part of the plan. But she wanted to see just how nice it was. Perhaps she could sell it for enough money to sustain herself for a little while, anyway.

She glanced at the man sitting on the bed. He only had one hand pressed against his crotch now, and he was sitting up straight, his face no longer twisted with pain. “You’re Corbett, aren’t you?” She walked back into the room and placed the box on the marble-topped table to the left of the door.

“How did you know that?”

She tugged at the bow. “
Monsieur
Tremayne told me. He said he hoped we would get along.”

Corbett drew his hand from his crotch, the pain lessening. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Why would he say that?”

“Because we were to all live together at BelleRose.” She hated sounding so wistful. She was a fool to think he had meant it. He had probably laughed all the way to the dress shop to select the gown she would wear while he wined her and dined her and tried to make her believe how good life could be if she agreed to work for him.

“
Live…together?
” Corbett was sputtering, unwilling to grasp the implication of her words. “You…mean he was taking you to…to Virginia to be his mistress?”

“Mistress. Courtesan. Whore. Who knows? When you get down to it, it’s all the same, isn’t it?” Opening the box, she gasped, long and loud. The gown was exquisite. Fashioned of emerald-green taffeta, it had a low in both front and back. The sleeves had several graduated puffs to the wrist, and the skirt was full and gored.

Still making soft, adoring sounds under her breath, Angele gingerly lifted it from the box. And there were other things, as well. Forgetting about Corbett as she laid the dress out on the bed, she hurried to see what else Ryan had sent.

She had to giggle over the corset. Her mother had worn one, but Angele’s undergarments had been quilted and heavily starched cotton petticoats attached to the bodice with wide shoulder straps. Things like nipped-in corsets would come later, her very proper mother had assured.

There was also a pair of green satin slippers with rounded toes, a lace shawl, and a pearl necklace with matching earbobs. Then she squealed with delight to discover at the very bottom of the box a prettily wrapped bottle of perfume.

She pulled out the stopper and held the bottle to her nose and breathed deeply. It was sweet but subtle, reminding her of wet rain on the first roses of spring. “Your cousin has good taste,” she absently said to Corbett.

“And he’s obviously lost his mind.”

She paused in her pleasure to glare at him. “You don’t have to worry about me. I realize now it was all pretense. He never would have married me.”

Corbett hooted. “You’re damn right he wouldn’t. And I think you’re making all this up, anyway. I don’t know why he sent the dress. Maybe he thought he owed it to you after bedding you, and—”

“He never bedded me!” she snapped, pushing the stopper back in the perfume bottle with a vengeance.

“You were here, sleeping naked in his bed.”

“He wasn’t with me.” She began stuffing everything back into the box. It would all fetch a good price, and she felt she had it coming to her after Ryan had played her for such a fool.

“He’s obviously been here. He had to have let you in.”

“The concierge let me in.”

“Likely story.”

She slammed the lid down on the box and sloppily tied the ribbon around it to hold it together. “I don’t care whether you believe me or not.”

“I don’t. You can be sure of that. I just wish I could understand what this is all about—you in his room, all those things he bought. It’s insane.
He’s
insane. I still can’t believe he would have anything to do with a dredge of society like you.”

Angele decided she had taken enough of his abuse. She tucked the box under her arm. “No,
monsieur
. I am the one who is insane—to have believed he wanted to marry me.”

Corbett flashed an arrogant smile. “Especially when he’s going to marry my wife’s cousin.”

His barbed arrow hit its target. Angele was hurt even deeper to think that Ryan had so glibly lied to her when he was betrothed to someone else. And she thought he should be ashamed for making up such lies about his father, too, claiming he was threatening to disinherit him.

Corbett felt uneasiness creeping. Now that the first shock had subsided, he had to reason that the only way the girl could have got in the room was through Ryan. The concierge would never have let her in otherwise. But, if that were the case, what the hell was he thinking? And he had, apparently, also arranged for her to get out of jail.

Slowly the possibility began to dawn that perhaps she was telling the truth, and for whatever bizarre reason, Ryan had actually asked her to marry him. Maybe he was doing it to take home a French bride to please his father and ensure his inheritance. And, if that was the case, then Corbett was smart enough to realize that he would be a fool to alienate her—at least until he learned the whole story.

She had already walked out, but he sprang to rush to the door. “Wait, please,” he called. “Come back so we can talk. I…” He paused, hating to say the words that were not inherent to his vocabulary. “I think I’m wrong and I owe you an apology.”

Ryan took the steps from the street two at a time. A doorman in a resplendent red velvet coat was ready to open the glass doors as soon as he reached the top.