The Winds of Fate (3 page)

“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice soft, lilting.

“It was nothing but a grotesque, mockery of justice meted out by that jack-pudding of a brutally vindictive King.” He laughed and her eyes widened. His laughter shocked her. Did she wonder of his sanity?

“Are you so heedless of your punishment that you laugh at the threshold of an eternity you are about to enter?”

Was it possible she grew more ethereal in the lantern light? A feast for his eyes and torment for his body. Stuck in a dark cell for months, he counted the stones day in and day out. Her question taunted him, reminding him how he arrived at this wretched point in his life.

His sole ambition had been nothing more than retiring to the quiet existence of a country physician. Yet fate delivered a cruel twist. He had been dragged from his bed to perform a surgery on the Duke of Monmouth, the rebel leader responsible for the war incited against the King. The insurrection fell, crushed by the Crown. Too late for retreat, the rebels discovered the sovereign’s soldiers surrounded them. Including Devon. Despite his innocence, he stood guilty of treason against the King, his trifling connection with the rebels, fatal evidence. With bitterness, he recalled the unjust verdict handed down from a marionetted jury, pronounced by the King’s pasty-faced judge. By God, if he broke free, he’d have his revenge.

“Surely, it’s good I keep my humor to retain my sanity. For I am an innocent man whose only offense stemmed from practicing a charity. For my benevolence, I earned a rope about my neck.” Did he see her face soften? Did she believe him when everyone else had damned him? Why did he care what she thought? Somehow her understanding mattered to him.

There had been times in his life, he courted decency. Those glimpses of his past held treasured moments brought on by this beautiful woman who appeared at his darkest hour. Images of his long-dead mother, like an old dream, all the golden eternities of his past and all the living and dying and heartbreak that went on over and over in his head. In those flashes of sudden remembrance, the lack of being able to protect his mother and father plagued him. His hands shook…sweaty and helpless.

“There is no one you can plead to?”

It was a weak effort at sympathy. He gritted his teeth. He realized she knew her transparency the minute she spoke her words. “Good God! Are you not aware of the generation of vipers we live in? Unjust monarchs feed on us mere mortals, men so easy for slaughter. The
moment they cease to be cruel is the moment they begin to be bored. There is no compassion for a soul like me, only damnation based on falsehood.”

She took a step forward and stared at the sheet like a queen. “So what is left of your remaining time? Bitterness? Vengeance?”

“Have you noticed it’s much easier to forgive an enemy after you get even?”

“Revenge is sweet upon your tongue, but the little time you have left, it will only taste bitter. I will not listen to your talk of treason.”

“A toast to our wonderful and just King James. As a member of his illustrious and devout aristocracy, why am I not surprised?” He directed the full blast of his hostility toward her. She represented the nobility that determined his fate. Was it a trick of his mind to expect empathy from her? “There is no passion of the heart that promises so much as revenge.”

“The fruit harvested from vengeance bears little.”

She studied the sheet with curious intensity, trying to discern him, still unaware he observed everything about her. There was so much expression in those eyes…as if she cared for his soul. His chains grew heavy, chafing at his flesh. Long ago, he would have respected those words. She was no different than the King and his well-bred aristocrats who destroyed him. “It would be a kind providence for the people of England, if the King would leave this earthly terrain, his passing heralding a public improvement.”

She inhaled. “You have not answered my question. You will marry me, won’t you?”

“Don’t count your eggs before they’re in the pudding.” She swiped at a tear. Devon reared back. Bloody hell. His chest ached with the vulnerability, the grief and fear in this beautiful creature’s eyes. What made him want to take her in his arms and comfort her? They were the same, prisoners in their own worlds. “Tell me,” he urged, but he had a difficult time tamping down the devil within. “Perhaps your countenance compares to a terrapin, or your figure resembles a bovine form?” The devil broke loose. He enjoyed this diversion. Her outrage amused him. He could imagine her tearing down the sheet to strike him. She reigned more beautiful than ever.

“You ask too many questions.”

“Will you answer then?”

“No,” she said, her eyes half veiled by tears, like golden water seen through mists of rain. What had reduced her to beg a felon? He wanted the truth. Every bit of her history. She was an enigma to him, a distraction from the hangman’s rope. Devon raked his fingers through his hair, shaken by his reaction to her. “Is there not someone you can trust with such a sacred vow?” He waited for an explanation.

Claire didn’t know why she had to explain herself to this man, a complete stranger, a felon who provoked her at every turn. She had no recourse than to be honest with him. Besides the engagement was to be announced tomorrow. Perhaps by telling him the truth, he would agree to marry her. Reason. That was it. It was her only alternative. Nothing but the truth, for he would see through any falsehood. “I was in love with someone. I-I mean I thought I was in love with someone− until this morning when I learned what a cad he was.”

“Go on.”

He had a pleasant, vibrant voice, tempered and muted by his Irish accent. It was a voice that could woo seductively and caressingly, or command in such a way as to compel obedience. Indeed, the man’s whole nature was in that voice of his.

She sensed he would listen. “I loved Sir Thomas Durham my entire life, but being shy and plain, I had no hopes of him looking my way.” The prisoner snorted but she ignored him. She had always yearned for some attachment from Sir Thomas, even a look her way, but never so much as a glance. “Being impoverished by society’s standards, I wasn’t good enough.”

Confessing to this stranger seemed to ease her pain. She felt looser, freer and comfortable in his presence. She marveled at her instinct. He was a man of contradictions. Contentious, arrogant, dangerous, but never did she feel at any time would he harm her. She did not know his past, but by all indications, he believed himself to have been wronged. If truth be known, and he was innocent, then she could well understand his rage. “I am being forced to marry a duke.”

“Faith, to marry a duke would be a hardship.” His ridicule was light in the wake of his surprise.

She put her hand up. “Not this duke. I have been informed he is a monster. Fatal consequences befall those who marry him. The engagement is to be announced tomorrow. I had no alternative but to ask the gentleman for whom I had a fond attachment if he’d marry me. He informed me my financial situation was not attractive. He has chosen a bride with more adequate prospects. However, Sir Thomas did offer that once he was married, he would set me up as his mistress.”

“Bring him by, I’ll be happy to give the scum a length of my sword,” he growled.

Claire smiled. She had found a kindred spirit. “I would hand you the sword myself.” He was her knight in shining armor. For a brief moment, she wondered about what if he were free from these sad conditions, and they had met under normal circumstances.
Would they be friends?
She dismissed the idea as absurd. “So you can see why I have sought you out. You are my last recourse.”

There was a deathly stillness in the cell as if he heavily weighed on her words. She had poured out her heart. Would he deny her? She steadied herself. “Oh, this is humiliating. Must I abase myself by begging?”

“I confess the proposal sounds very sweet. ‘Tis my misfortune to have so little. I regret your proposal comes so late, for a husband should fulfill the nuptial night with his bride. Unfortunately, I have other plans for the evening. After all, how can I deny that grave-snatcher, Goad?”

“Don’t taunt me sir. I haven’t much to offer, but−”

“So be it. I won’t be unreasonable. If there is to be a wedding, then a wedding it is. Call the weaselly hounds. Let the act begin as your ladyship wishes. For upon my honor, ‘tis my first time wed, and no doubt, will be my last. You’ll excuse me if I wed and run, my lady?” He laughed. “My friends look forward to me in the prison-yard, and my time is scarce.”

The ceremony began in his cell with the sheet dividing them. With her head bowed, Claire stood, oblivious to the garbled responses of
the rite of matrimony dulled further by the monotone of the parson. The felon stood on the other side of the sheet, his presence much larger than she expected. Despite the abuse he endured, she could feel tremendous heat and energy−a force like a million burning suns. He was a man who made her long to bolt away.

“Milady?” He’d offered his hand from around the front of the sheet.

Staring at his hand, her fingers shaking, she accepted that which was offered to her.

She placed her hand into his.

And she quivered for it did indeed seem as if she set her touch to fire and steel.

Almost as if her destiny gave her clear warning.

She drew her hand away. He recaptured her hand and held it with his larger one. Which of them trembled?

“Do I frighten you?” he said.

“Are you supposed to?”

He laughed in a rich baritone she would always remember. Her hand lay trustingly on his, like a baby bird solaced by the nest. She marveled at this strange new feeling. A warm glow flowed through her. Her hand felt at home in his, like it should be, meant for all eternity. She studied his well-shaped fingers, filthy yet unlike the ill-born that had warped, claw-like talons. His hand was strong with fingers long and supple as a swordsman’s. Although chained, she sensed he wore his chains with solid indifference, his fearlessness allowing him to escape any tragedy. He was gallant for sure, for he had come to her rescue.

He turned her hand over, drawing a trail from her wrist, across the palm to the tip of the longest finger. Her fingers fluttered then curled inward. She smiled. Tenderly he folded her hand into a fist then stroked the crown of her knuckles. At once the palm uncurled, an intimation of trust as unconscious as her shiver of sensation.

He recited his name. Devon Blackmon. Strong and daring. It suited him. Claire followed with her own name. Oblivious to the interchange between them, the parson finished. After having them sign marriage
documents, he made his excuses and departed. She had done it. She had married a felon. Before God she had sworn to be his wife.

He took her hand again, brushed it with his lips, and murmured a soft, “Madame Blackmon.” It was too swift a gesture to give her any warning. She had felt a curious streak of tremors at his touch and a hint of sentimentality. Heat rose to her face.

“Would it allay your fears if I told you, I was as frightened as you?” he asked.

“You?” It was an accusation. “You seem so…so self-assured.”

“You believe it to be impossible? Is this not my wedding day too? Well, you’re stuck with me, and you’ll eventually learn to accept defeat graciously.” He laughed. “But with visions of the gallows beyond, you do not have to worry long. Do you think I, a condemned man, would have any requests?”

She tugged her hand away, wary. “I’ll leave you a basket of pastries and meats to supplement your remaining time.” A thought occurred to her. “Are there loved ones who need to be,” she coughed, “need to be contacted?”

He snapped out a cold expletive. “I am alone in this world.”

Claire’s heart thumped. “Pray tell, what do you require?”

“One night of conjugal rights with my bride.”

She drew a deep breath, and then let it out, her words uttered in one long staccato. “I−I−had–had not been prepared for this eventuality.”

“Answer me. Would you deny me if our circumstances were different?”

Claire thought it an absurd question and felt safe in her answer. It was a request from a desperate and condemned man. Whatever she answered made no difference. His fate was sealed as much as hers. “No, I would not.”

“Is that a promise?”

She hesitated. Her mind spun with the importance of making such a promise. What if this man broke free? She had no doubt he was the kind of man who would hunt her down to claim what was due him. Yet his execution remained certain.

Claire held an incredible sympathy for him. A little white lie she reasoned would be a kindness to him. Besides, her nerves were overwrought. She did not have the fortitude to tell him any different. He had married her. He enabled her freedom. He had none. She owed him at least that. If mere words gave him comfort in his last hour, so be it. A twinge of guilt pawed at her breast from her insincerity. At the same time, something intangible nagged at her, warned her of the future, the price of a lie. She shook that feeling aside. This time she grasped his hand.

“A promise.”

S
ir Edmund Jarvis sat in his library. Where was the little twit? Gone for hours with that goose-eyed cousin of hers and no one knew where they were. Never did he expect the damned duke to appear and demand to see his prospective bride. A growing stack of bills from the money he spent on Claire to hook a fat benefactor lay stashed in his drawer. Creditors camped on his doorstep. He swallowed hard against the pinch of his cravat and nodded a tight smile to the duke seated across from him. If his niece did not return, he’d lose everything he risked on his hated brother’s progeny. He still remained in the shadow of his handsome, intelligent, and prosperous first-born brother. It ate at him like acid. This business with Claire reminded him of all his failures. His fingers tightened on the top of his cane.