Stand and Deliver Your Love (16 page)

“So ye have a guest for my inn have ye, my lord?” The man favored them with a hasty bow. He leered at Sarah. His eyes raked her from head to toe, and she couldn't help but shiver as they lingered on her breasts straining against the thin material of her shirt.

Byron did not look at her. “Yes, I would like special consideration for this prisoner, my good fellow.”

The man fastened his eyes on the coin bag the marquis fished out from his pocket and placed on the desk in front of him. He licked his lips. “Yes, my lord, anything ye say.”

Byron fixed the man with a stern stare. “I want her housed away from the other prisoners, given clean water, good food and a bed free of fleas and lice.”

“I ain’t running no fancy inn here, me lord.”

Byron tossed another small sack of coins on the desk. “I also want a clean change of clothes, a bar of soap and a bucket of warm water for her to wash with.”

The jailer grinned and nodded. “Shall I bathe 'er for ye myself, me lord?” he asked with a chuckle.

Byron leaned over the desk and clutched the man’s dirty shirt, just below his fat chin. His
eyes glinted with murderous intent. “Anyone touches her and I will see they hang. Is that understood?”

“Yes sir, my
lord, sir,” the jailor yelped.

Byron released the man and turned to leave. “I will be back for her tomorrow.” Sarah fought to control the fear that rose to a panic level as he left, closing the door behind him. She wanted to cry out for him to come back, not to leave her there, but pride prevented her. Biting her lip
she fixed her terrified gaze on the guard.

The jailor ignored her as he counted the gold coins in the sacks and grinned with

delight. “There’s more than enough coin here to buy a few comforts,” he mumbled, “Even enough for a bottle and a wench to keep me warm this night.” He chuckled to himself and stood, looking at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Yer a pretty wench ain’t ye? I can see why his lordship wants ye for himself, eh?” He walked toward her on unsteady legs. “Mayhap I should try yer favors to see what ye have t' offer a real man.”

Sarah shrank back against the wall as he reached out a meaty hand, grasping her chin in a painful grip. She began to shake like a leaf, realizing she was totally at the man’s mercy, if he had any. He laughed, clearly enjoying her fear. Pride stinging she pulled herself up as tall as she could, looked him in the eye and scowled.
How dare he relish in my fear! How dare he touch me!
“If you touch me again, I swear I will tell his lordship. I would not want to anger him, he has a terrible temper,” she embellished, hoping he would not call her bluff.

“Ah, ye angered yer master did ye? No doubt, dressin' like a man as ye are.” The man chuckled and Sarah almost gagged as his stale breath washed over her face. He smiled and showed a row of rotten teeth. “No matter, there's plenty a willing wench when ye got a pocket full of coin.” He tu
rned away and waved to the two prison guards by the door. “Take 'er to a cell in the ‘noddy’ section. Their rantin' and ravin' should keep 'er company.”

Sarah had no choice but to go with the guards down the long di
m hallway leading to the cells. Each door had a small barred window in it. Faces peered at her from many of these windows and the occasional skinny hand reached out to claw at her as they passed by. Tears of terror ran down her cheeks as she tried to block out the sounds of men moaning, yelling and pleading. She covered her mouth and nose with her still shackled hands to keep the stench of vomit and feces from making her ill. The further down the corridors they went, the darker and more foreboding her trek became. It was as if she was journeying down into hell itself.

Finally they stopped at a door. The guards unlocked it, and it sagged open with a squeal of rusty hinges. One of the guards pushed her inside. The cell was approximately eight feet long and eight feet wide. The floor was rough stone covered in bits of damp, moldy straw, the smell putrid and she coughed. Before she could ask if her shackles could be taken off, the door slammed shut and she was left in complete darkness.

Panic over rode her reason and she screamed out to the guards, “Please. Do not leave me here.” Clutching the bars on the window, she pressed her face to them. “Please.” When she was sure the men were gone, she huddled against the door and wept.

Chapter
Sixteen

Sarah shivered in the dark, pressing her hands to her ears to block out the insane

laughter coming from one of the other cells. The man had been making the eerie noise since she arrived more than an hour ago, despite her pleading with him to stop. Something furry brushed against her leg. With a shriek she scrambled to her feet. A pair of beady eyes glowed in the dark. The creature let out a series of tiny squeaks and scurried across the floor.
Rats!
Sarah pressed herself up against the wall and stamped her feet to frighten the loathsome creatures away.

Footsteps approached her cell, stopping outside. A key scraped in the lock before the door swung wide with a frightful squeal. A lantern was held up. Sarah blinked at the sudden intrusion of light. A guard tossed a battered straw stuffed mat on the floor of her cell. Another threw a couple of blankets, a wad of material and a half used brick of soap on top of it and entered the room. Grabbing her hands, he pulled her forward into the light and unlocked her shackles. She snatched her hands away when he removed the cuffs and rubbed her wrists where the metal had chaffed them. Without speaking to her, he placed a wooden bucket of water on the floor and a lit candle beside it. He left, locking the door behind him.

Sarah listened to the sound of the footsteps retreating before she approached the door. When she was sure the guards were gone she picked up the candle and tested the water in the bucket with her fingers. It was cold and she dreaded washing with it, but it looked clean at least.

Placing the candle in the
middle of the room, she stripped off her mud encrusted clothes. The little bar of soap was sweet smelling and she lathered her body and hair quickly. Taking a deep breath she rinsed herself off with the icy water. The excess trickled down a drain in the floor with a soft gurgle. Unfortunately, the water seemed to enhance the smell coming from the hole. Wrinkling her nose she dried herself with the bloomers she wore under her breeches.

After she had rung out her hair and rubbed her tresses as dry as possible with the damp bloomers, she picked up the wad of material and shook it out. It was a dress of a fine, but worn red velvet. The neckline was low and the color too bright to be a genteel ladies garment but she put it on. It was a little too short, coming only half way down her calves but the bodice fit rather well. The skirt was light and uncomfortably breezy without the bloomers and petticoats which usually accompanied a dress. With a sigh she tossed her shirt, breeches, stockings and cloak to the side. She briefly considered washing them in what was left of the water but there didn't appear anywhere she could hang them to dry.

Without the luxury of a mirror, she picked the tangles out of her matted hair with her fingers. After, she put her stiff leather boots back on and dragged the heavy straw tick into the corner of the cell. Placing the thinner of the two blankets on top of the mattress she was relieved to find they were both clean and in good shape. Afraid to snuff out the candle and brave the dark, she left it burning and curled up on the mattress under the second blanket.
 

The laughter from the other cell died down and finally stopped altogether. Sarah couldn't tell if the fellow had died or merely fallen asleep. Either way she was grateful for the silence.

She lay listening to water dripping somewhere in the corridor and the wind whistling outside the tiny window high in the wall above her head. A single star winked at her from the little patch of night sky she could see.

Did Bert and the others get home safely or were they out there somewhere looking for her? Poor Ann would be worried sick about her when she didn't arrive home on the morrow as she planned. Sarah allowed the tears welling up in her eyes to flow freely down her cheeks. What would happen to all the children when she was dead? Would someone come forward to take care of them or would they all end up tossed back into the filthy gutters from whence they came? She couldn't bear to think the only love, joy, and comfort the children had found in their short lives wo
uld be coming to an end.
I have failed them all.

* * * *

Sarah must have cried herself to sleep because when she opened her eyes a weak ray of light was drifting through the tiny window causing miniscule flecks of dust to dance in the musty cell. She blinked and rubbed her eyes which were raw and gritty. Her dry cracked lips stung as she ran her tongue along them, her throat parched and sore. The candle had long since burned down to a puddle of melted wax and gone out. She jumped when the lunatic from the next cell inexplicably launched into a rowdy, off key rendition of ‘The Belle of London’. Scrambling to her feet she realized she should be thankful he at least ceased his frightening, insane laughter.

Footsteps paused outside her cell and keys jingled. The lock clicked and the bar scraped on the door as it was pulled back. Sarah stood with her back up against the far wall clutching a blanket to her chest. Shielding her eyes from the bright light of the guard’s lantern, she
stared with apprehension as the fat jailer strolled into her cell.

He sneered at her and held out a
covered tray.“Yer last meal m’ lady.”

My
last meal. Lord help me.
Despite her sorrow and fear her stomach gurgled, yet she stayed where she was, too afraid to move.

“What’s the matter, this place killed yer appetite?” he said, with a sadistic laugh.

The taunt in his words was not lost on Sarah though she refused to let him know it. She shrank back as the jailer grabbed her arm and jerked her toward him. It was all she could do not to gag as she fell against his soft belly. The stench of stale wine and body sweat filled her nostrils.

With
a grunt he pressed against her. “With a body like yers I might forget ye be a lord’s ladybird.” The lustful look in his eyes convinced her he just might dare defy his orders. He ground his loins against her again, sneering.

Sarah struggled to free her arm and move away from him, but he just laughed at her attempt. With one last body grind he let go and pushed her down onto the straw tick. She was
terrified.
He is going to rape me!
Bile rose in her throat and she clenched her fists, prepared to fight for her virtue. Instead of attacking her, he dropped the tray in her lap, turned on his heel and left. Only after the door slammed behind him and his footsteps receded down the corridor did she allow her tears of relief to flow freely down her cheeks.

After a few moments she pulled herself together, wiped her
face with her sleeve and took the cloth off the tray. There was a quarter of a bottle of red liquid. She popped the cork and smelled it. Soured wine made her wrinkle her nose. She set the bottle beside her on the floor and inspected the rest of the offerings. There were two slices of coarse rye bread, a small pot of runny butter, and an orange. Sarah sighed. It didn't look like much of a meal; despite her ordeal she was famished. She drizzled the butter over the bread slices, tore off a small piece and stuffed it into her mouth. Her tongue and the bread were so dry she nearly choked, but she managed to swallow. Her stomach threatened to revolt when she washed it down with a mouthful of the warm wine. She forced herself to finish the meal, not sure when she would get another. She supposed she was getting better fare than the rest of the prisoners, thanks to Byron’s generosity.

When
finished she placed the tray by the door and washed with the remaining water from the evening before. As she turned back to the door she shrieked. A large brown rat waddled to the tray and picked off the few remaining crumbs. When she tried to scare it away by flapping her skirt, the rodent just looked at her calmly and continued to lick up every last morsel. For lack of anything better to do, she sat on the straw tick and watched it.

Wh
en it finished eating it sat to clean each and every whisker. It seemed ironic a creature who found its meals in every disgusting alley in town could be so obsessed with the cleanliness of its body. It stood up on its hind legs, looking at her for a moment before twitching its whiskers and scurrying away through a small hole in the rock wall. It must be going to look for a larger meal in the next cell she supposed.

The meager sunbeam that played with the dancing dust flecks dimmed and disappeared.

Sarah looked out the tiny window. Thick black clouds drifted across the precious little patch of sky. She sighed and rested her head on her knees. Rain again, not that it mattered when she was locked in. The prisoner in the next cell ceased singing and began swearing instead. Sarah cringed as words she had never heard before flowed from his lips without pause. Covering her ears she began to hum as loud as she could, trying to block out most of the foul words. Just as suddenly as the man began, he stopped and all was quiet except for the steady drip, drip, drip that never seemed to stop.

Leaping to her feet, Sarah paced back and forth. She was going to go as crazy as the man in the next cell soon she feared. To occupy herself, she began counting the steps,
“One, two, three, four, turn. One, two, three, four, turn….” When she tired of that she began to count the seconds, adding up the minutes, stopping finally, when she lost track somewhere around seventy-five thousand. With a sigh she laid down on the straw tick and tried to sleep, but she just tossed and turned.

Footsteps in the corridor had her scrambling in
to a sitting position. They stopped outside her door and the key rasped in the lock. Leaping to her feet she waited, staring at the door as the bar was lifted. The door swung open. The jailor and a guard stood there. The fat jailor grinned. “Come here, ladybird,”

She regarded him
suspicion. “Why? Where are we going?”

“You
got a date with the hangman,” he sneered.

I’m going to die.
Sarah shuffled forward. He clutched her by the arm and propelled her from the cell. Jeers and catcalls followed them as they made their way along the damp corridor. When they finally reached the jailor’s office, Sarah found a couple of men in black masks waiting for her.

With a nod to the obese man they took her by the arms between them and led her from the building. When they reached the outer courtyard she was handed up into a coach with blackened windows. After she was seated both men jumped inside. One of them tapped on the roof to signal the driver to move on. The coach lurched into motion. They turned down a few streets before stopping. One of the men climbed out. Sarah looked out the open door and back at the remaining guard. He shook his head in warning. Even if she made it out the door he would likely catch her once she tried to run, she consoled herself. The guard who exited the coach marched up to the door of a mansion in a state o
f disrepair. Within moments of banging on the knocker, Byron came out.

It took her a moment to realize he hadn’t l
eft Lady Livington at his house the night before, he had merely dropped her at her own door. It appeared Byron was not as rich as she thought. He followed the man back to the coach and climbed in without saying a word.

Torn between relief at seeing him and anger at him for not releasing her, she looked down at her hands. The guard jumped in behind, shut the door and the coac
h lurched into motion. Finally when she could stand the silence no more, she glanced up tentatively. “Where are we going?”

Byron stared at her with a subdued, wistful look.

One of the men in black frowned. “You are to appear in front of the judge who will decide your fate.”

Sarah shivered at the finality in his voice. A single tear slipped down her cheek. “I do not want to die,” she whispered.

Byron reached out and wiped the tear from her face. “You are not going to die.”

A hiccupping sob bubbled from her. “There is nothing you can do. It is not your problem, I brought it on myself,” she babbled.

He
cradled her chin in his hands and searched her eyes with his. “Do you trust me?”

Sarah hesitated for a moment. Did she trust him? It did not seem she had any other choice but to trust him as he trusted her at the cottage in the woods. She nodded mutely, afraid if she spoke she would burst into uncontrollable sobs. Before long the carriage stopped. The door was flung open and two more men in black peered inside. One thrust a black sack over her head and pulled her from the carriage. With a startled scream she kicked at her captor trying to get away.

“Sarah,” Byron called to her, “Be still and go with these men. They mean you no harm.”

Sarah stopped struggling. She heard someone tell By
ron to hand over his pistol before she was led away between the two guards up some steps. They paused and a small click indicated a door opened. When someone gave her a gentle shove she walked forward with tentative steps. Their footsteps echoed as they walked not unlike the click of marble under foot.

 
Where am I? Where are the men taking me? Why am I blindfolded? What is it I am not supposed to see? The gallows?
Panic gave way to despair.
I am going to die, Byron is wrong. I will never see him, Bert, Ann, or the children again.
   

 
They paused for a moment, and a whoosh of air heralded a door being opened. A hand guided her and she gasped as she stepped out into nothing and was pulled back.