FLAME OF DESIRE (6 page)

She thought:
I wish that my father would stay far away from the duke.
Was the duke perhaps bribing her father? Heather decided that it could not be true. Thomas was miserly, but he had so far proven to be an honest man.

Perhaps instead he feared that I would ask for a new dress if I were to see the abundance of coins within the moneybox
, she reasoned. Looking down at the plain linen gown she wore, a simple frock of brown with long sleeves, at the plain apron covering it, she thought how well she fit in with the surroundings. She could nearly be mistaken for a servant or a simple housewife.

Adroitly dodging a foul-smelling drunk, Heather was shocked to realize that she had come farther than usual, no doubt lost to her thoughts. The area was a haunt for sailors and the like, a dingy narrow street where taverns dotted the landscape. Although unfamiliar with the area, she had no fear for it was still daylight and honest men were still at their work. Besides, Heather had lived in London all her life and was no country miss. Keeping her wits about her, she merely turned around in her tracks with the intent to retrace her steps and return to her father’s counting room. It was then that she saw him. There could be no mistake. How could she forget that swagger, those shoulders—wide and strong—that raven-black hair and beard?

“The rebel!” she breathed, breaking into a run, intent upon catching up with him. She could see that he was headed for one of the largest taverns, the Cap and Crown by name, and wondered at his haste. With strides nearly twice her own he seemed to be increasing the distance between them. She wanted to call out to him but wisely held back, instead picking up her skirts to hurry along. There was so much she had to ask him, to tell him.

A figure stepped out of the shadows before her, blocking her view of him for just a moment, and she swore an oath beneath her breath. A rickety hay wagon rumbling down the street stopped Heather for several moments while she stood watching in helpless frustration. She would never catch up with him now. He would be gone from her sight in just a moment. Gone, and she would never even known  his name.

“But no, he’s stopping.” She could see him in deep conversation with another man, a man with a red and a white feather in his hat, a man who held out a piece of paper toward him. Heather closed the distance between them, watching as the man, who seemed to be some sort of messenger, walked away to vanish out of sight.

The rebel stood reading the paper intently, oblivious of the world around him, and Heather wondered what could be written upon it to so transfix his eyes.

Coming close to him, Heather opened her mouth to speak, but instead gasped. A man in the shadows, the one who had been walking in front of her, held a knife in his fist, a knife poised to strike the dark-haired rebel. Springing forward, he lashed out at his quarry, just as Heather screamed.

Richard Morgan heard the piercing scream, turning slightly to see from whence it came, just as he felt the slicing pain of the blade. Like flames of white fire, driving the breath from his lungs, the agony came as he fell to the ground to lie gasping on the hard cobblestones of the road. He struggled to get up, clutching the letter to his chest.

He felt a hot flood of warmth wet his hand and fought to keep it from the paper that he held. Was it his imagination that he saw the face before him that had haunted his nights, saw the auburn tresses blowing near his cheek, felt a soft hand touch his face? Opening his mouth to speak, he reached out his hand to touch her, groaning as he did so, “Heather.”

Chapter Seven

Heather hovered over the wounded man, trying frantically to staunch the bleeding with the torn cloth of her chemise. The blood appeared to come from his shoulder wound and she knew instinctively that her cries had saved his life. The knife had been aimed to strike at the heart but had missed its target.

Watching him writhe in pain, Heather felt his suffering as if it were her flesh which had been pierced. A tremor of apprehension ran through her, a deep fear that he would not survive. The possibility struck her like a physical blow.

Despite his agony he clutched tightly to a letter, his face nearly as pale as that piece of paper. Pulling it from his hands despite his protests, Heather stuffed it into her bodice where it would be safe. If it was so precious to him, then how could it be less so to her?

“I’m going to help you. Lie back and be quiet.” Her words had a calming effect on him and he closed his eyes.

Looking about her at the people walking by, she sought to find someone to aid her, gesturing to them, crying out, but there was no one who would help. London was a city filled with crime and misery, and the horde of persons within had long ago learned to ignore any pleas for assistance. There were too many thieves who used such methods to filch one’s purse. Thus, they passed her by, ignoring the man whose life’s blood was oozing onto the ground.

Taking off one of her stockings, Heather tied it firmly around the wound, knowing full well that whether he lived or died was up to her now. The stocking slowed the spill of blood and for the first time she felt a faint ray of hope.

“I have to find someone to help me,” she murmured, and remembered at once the surgeon-barber with his checkered apron and kind smile. He was often called upon to pull teeth and perform minor surgery. It would be difficult to get the man there, but she must. Although petite, about five-feet-two, she was determined she would manage the task. She had to. Some way.

“I’m going to help you stand,” she said, struggling with his muscular form. Tugging, pulling, careful of his wound, she managed to get him to his feet. For just a moment his eyes flickered, he moaned, and Heather pleaded with him to put one foot in front of the other, to walk with her despite his pain.

It was two blocks to the barber’s shop, yet it seemed a mile as she staggered toward it. More than one sailor called out to her, pleading with her to leave her drunk companion and come instead with him, yet none offered to help her, hurrying off at once at the sight of the red seeping from the wound.

“Cowards! Blackguards!” Heather sobbed, seeing the worst of men’s nature. Exhausted, trembling, she nonetheless managed to find the strength and courage to at last reach the barber’s door. “Help me! Please help me!”

About the town shutters were rattling shut. The bells warned of day’s end, that time when thieves would come from hiding to replace the honest folk upon the streets. Dusk would soon be sending its gray shroud to clothe the earth.

Finding the barber’s shutters and door locked for the night, Heather panicked. All that struggle for nothing.

“No. He can’t die. I won’t let him die.”

Gently laying the rebel upon the hard ground, Heather beat upon the strong wood of the barber’s door until her hands were bruised. She would not give up. At last the door was opened. “Help me!” she sobbed.

Seeing the face of the young woman he recognized, the barber replaced his surly frown with a look of concern. “What be wrong, miss?”

“He’s been stabbed. We must stop the bleeding.” Heather motioned toward the form of the wounded man.

With a strength which belied his skinny form, the barber picked up the rebel and carried him inside his sparsely furnished shop, depositing him on a large wooden bench upon which his customers waited to be served during daylight hours. Heather bent down beside where the wounded man lay, reaching out to take hold of his wrist. The faint beat of his pulse reassured her that he still lived and she nearly sobbed out loud with relief.

Muttering beneath his breath, the barber examined the wound, dabbing at the sticky red wetness with a cloth he held in his hands.

“This one be lucky. It could ‘ave been ‘is ‘eart.” He pinched the folds of the wound together tightly, stopping the flow of blood for a moment. “Fetch me a needle, miss.”

Heather looked at him in bewilderment, not knowing where to look, nor what he would want with such a thing.

“In that pewter jar,” he instructed with a nod of his head.

Heather watched in fascination as he took the needle from her hand, threaded it, and set about stitching the wound as if it were a piece of her father’s finest cloth. Sprinkling a white powder atop the wound, he stood back to appraise his work. At her look of inquiry he muttered, “Alum. I use it for nicks and cuts when I give a shave.”

“Will he live?” Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

“’E’s strong. ‘E’ll recover in time, unless ‘ooever stabbed ‘im comes back to finish the job.” The answer struck fear to her heart, as she was aware of how vulnerable he was at this moment. He could not be turned back out upon the street. What could be done with the wounded man? She would have to leave him here.

It was as if the barber read her mind. He shook his head in denial. “’E can’t stay ‘ere. I got me family to think of. I don’t want violence to touch ‘em!”

“But where….?” She knew the answer as soon as the words left her mouth. “Can he be moved?”

“Aye, though I think it would be well to find a quiet place where ‘e can gain back ‘is strength. “Oo is ‘e?”

“I don’t know his name. I only saw him once before today,” she answered. Hearing the wounded man’s moan of pain, she bent over him, smoothing back the hair from his face and whispering to him gently. His eyes remained closed. He was nearly unconscious, but Heather now had the hope that he would recover.

The barber’s eyes met Heather’s, seeing the tender look for the injured man clearly written there. “Don’t know ‘is name and yet you ‘elped ‘im.” He smiled. “Me mother told me once that if one saves a life, from that moment on ‘is fate was entwined with that of ‘im ‘oo he saved.” Heather felt a flush color her cheeks, knowing at that moment that what this man’s mother said was true.

Heather closed her eyes, thinking of what she could do, where she could take the rebel. The only place that would be safe, where she could care for him was her father’s house. But surely she could not be so daring!

“’E can’t stay ‘ere!” the barber repeated, misunderstanding her frown.

The stables. She could hide him in her father’s stables. Thomas Bowen would never deign to go there. It was beneath his dignity. And Harold, that kind old man, would help her. Wasn’t he always pilfering food to give to the needy with her help. She would go back to her house, get Harold to help her, and then return with a wagon to bring the wounded rebel back with her.

“I will take him with me, but I must go back home first and get a wagon. He’s been moved around enough today and I don’t think he has the strength to walk a long distance.” She turned to leave but the barber reached out to touch her arm.

“No! Take ‘im with you now. ‘Ow can I know that you will return for ‘im?” she looked at him and her eyes held the truth of her words. “I’ll come back. On that you have my word.”

“Aye, I believe you. Methinks ‘e be a lucky gent to ‘ave so fine a lady care for ‘im.” He opened the door for her and Heather stepped out into the gray of the London dusk.

It was a far different London which now met her eyes, a world of thieves and beggars and women of questionable morals. She averted her eyes as a girl younger than herself openly solicited upon the streets, and narrowly escaped the clutching hands of a bedraggled man who mistakenly took Heather to be a woman of the night. Clutching her few coins tightly in her fist to keep them from a pickpocket’s grasp, she fled the nightmare of the night, her long red hair blowing in wild array about her shoulders as she ran.

Arriving home, she was pale and trembling, her heart beating like a timpani. Never had her house looked so dear to her eyes, never had she so welcomed the flood of light which came from the windows. Grasping the knob, she was relieved to find it open, not yet locked for the night. With a wrench she opened it, only to find her father’s corpulent frame blocking her entrance.

“Where in God’s name have you been, girl?” he asked in anger. “Your mother has been sick with worry and I have had to tally up my profits all alone!”

She felt a flood of resentment arise like a tide, but fought against it. He was within his rights in being angry with her. “I’m sorry, Father.” Taking a deep breath, she fought to regain her composure. How she wished that she could tell him the  truth of what had happened and know that he would understand. Instead she said, “I stopped at the cobbler’s. My shoes are nearly worn through.”

He sniffed in disdain. “Another pair? You will soon impoverish me. Only last year you had a new pair made.” He led her inside, closing the door tightly behind her. In the light his eyes were drawn to the bloodstains on her gown. Noticing the direction of his glance, Heather sought for an explanation.

“I stopped by the butcher’s, Father.” She nervously brushed at her gown. “He was slaughtering a pig and I fear that I got some of the blood on my dress.”

He grunted. “Well, be more careful in the future. Cloth is expensive, as you well know.” Giving her a little push, he said, “Hurry with you now. Your mother and Tabitha are already preparing the evening meal.” He grinned at her. “You know how much I like
your
plum pudding. Along with you, now.”

Hurrying up the stairs, Heather thought wildly of a way to escape, to find Harold and bring the wounded rebel to safety. For the moment there was no way. She would have to be patient and wait until the time came.

Chapter Eight

The flickering flames of the oil lamp illuminated the pale face of the man lying on the rough bed of linen and straw in the stable loft. Heather gently wiped the perspiration from his face. He was weak from loss of blood and had lapsed into unconsciousness from time to time, but he was alive and for this she gave thanks to God. Surely it had been divine intervention which had caused her to cross the rebel’s path just in time.

Heather had removed his shirt, doublet, and jerkin in order to tend his wound, and now she let her eyes roam over what she could see of his body. His skin was several shades darker than hers, with a swarthy natural tan. His arms and chest were well-muscled and she remembered their strength when he had held her that night they met. A tuft of black hair covered his broad chest and trailed in a thin straight line down to his navel. Not having viewed an unclothed male torso before, she nonetheless knew him to be powerfully masculine. Just looking at him was strangely exciting.