Not Quite Married (25 page)

“Uppity bitch! You need learnin’!”

The wench clutched her empty pitcher and backed away . . .

toward the corner where Aaron sat. As the woodsman lunged at her again, she swung her pitcher at his head and dealt him a solid blow that sent him tumbling.

For a stunned moment the entire tavern was quiet, then raucous laughter rocked the pump room, mixed with hoots and calls aimed at the remaining trapper. Pride was at stake as the second man bounded up, determined to mete out justice. His bellow froze the wench in her tracks, and as he charged her she stood with shocked eyes, watching her doom descending.

Aaron stepped in front of the wench, and the woodsman—already committed to the action—crashed into his stomach, headfirst. All three slammed back into a nearby table and sent patrons and tankards flying as they struggled to regain their footing on the damp floor. The woodsman went down on one knee, but Aaron’s years at sea on rain-soaked decking helped him maintain his footing. He landed a knee up under the trapper’s chin and sent him sprawling beside his friend.

Gripping his battered stomach and panting heavily, Aaron turned to the girl, who stood cowering in the corner. As she edged out into the lantern light he was suddenly riveted by the sight of her face. Those features, those same eyes were etched in the recess of his memory. Then it hit him, harder than the woodsman’s head

. . .
he knew her.

He tossed a coin to the tavernkeeper, declaring that it was to pay for the romp he’d just had and the one to come. He hoisted the girl up and over his shoulder, and headed for the narrow stairs that led to the sporting rooms above.

Ducking into the first dingy nook that passed for a room, Aaron straightened and allowed the girl to slide down him, turning her so that her back was to him and he could hold her arms against her sides.

“Slimy, backstabbing cur! Do yer worst while ye can—”

“Not likely.” His breath came fast as he fought to maintain his advantage. “I’ve no taste for the skin of a tavern wench—if indeed that’s what you are.”

The sense of his words finally penetrated her anger and her struggles slowed.

“You’re new to this tavern and to this life, eh?” he continued.

“You were of another station not long ago . . . say . . . a lady’s maid?” A productively quiet moment passed. “I only want information. If I let you go, do you promise not to flee?”

She nodded slowly, but no sooner had he released her than she flew to the questionable haven of the nearest corner. He reached for a sooty lantern hanging in the passage outside and held it up to look at her.

“You’re the one.” He nodded. “What’s your name?”

“E-Ella.”

“You were a lady’s maid in England about two years ago, is that not so?”

She nodded, still wary.

“And your lady was Brien Weston Trechaud?”

“Th’ same.” Her eyes widened as she studied his face. “And now I’ve a clue who you be. Th’ clothes are fancier, but th’ scar’s th’

same. Yer ’im that . . .” She was instantly hostile. “’Im that pretended t’ marry ’er! Ye’ll not get a word outta me—”

“I know who and where Lady Brien is. She’s here in the colonies, this moment, in Boston. You need not fear for her safety on my account. I would do nothing to hurt her.” Her manner was openly mistrustful, but at least she was listening. He patted a nearby stool. “Tell me about you first. How did you come to such a place?”

“I’m in-den-shured.”

“How is that?” No woman of good reputation would choose this life willingly.

“It was that Raoul’s doin’. ’Er ’usband. ’E said I stole an’ ’ad me carted off while I was too sick t’ defend meself.” She eyed him, evaluating his face and finally taking a seat on that stool. “’Ow is she? Is she all right? ’Er and ’er ’usband?”

“She is fine. As to her husband, I cannot say. Nor can any mortal.” Seeing her frown, he leaned a bit closer. “He’s dead.

Nearly two years now. They were wed only a month or so before a fire claimed him.”

“No.” The girl stared in amazement, then her temper ignited. “No more than ’e deserved, th’ bastard. Insisted on marryin’ my lady even knowin’ she ’ated ’im.”

“Go on,” Aaron urged when she stopped. “Tell me what happened to you.”

“I was sentenced aboard a prison ship bound for some colony.

But th’ turnkey figured t’ make a bit o’ coin on me an’ a few other women. Sold us onto a ship bound ’ere instead.” She looked around the hot, smelly room. “I only been ’ere a few weeks.

Before ’im”—she threw a contemptuous look toward the door and her new master—“my papers was ’eld by another innkeeper, out a ways from town. He was a good an’ decent man. Not like this limp poker.”

“So you were sold illegally as an indenture. What did you steal?”

“Nothin’!”
She fairly exploded. “’E ’anded me over t’ a pocket justice . . . ’ad me sentenced without a say or a witness . . . just ’is word.” She jumped up and glared. “As if I’d take aught from my lady. She tried t’ get out of marryin’ ’im by marryin’
you.
When they found out th’ vows was false, she was forced t’ wed ’im anyway.”

“Were they false?” He edged forward on his seat. “Was the marriage a sham?”

She lowered her gaze to her work-reddened hands. “Th’ bloke who brought ye t’ th’ church was my uncle. When ’is lordship said there was no record of th’ vows, I went lookin’ for ’im.

Couldn’t find ’im nowhere. An’ th’ church was locked up tight, just as ’is lordship said.”

“So, Billy Rye duped you along with the rest of us?” Aaron demanded.

She shook her head. “I can’t believe ’e’d do such a thing t’ me.”

Old shame washed over her again. “I tried t’ make it up t’ my lady. When she told ’im she’d never be a wife t’ ’im, th’ jackal might have killed ’er if I ’adn’ta been there wi’ a pistol.”

“You turned a
gun
on him?”

Ella rolled her eyes at his reaction. “She refused t’ bed ’im . . .

told ’im there’d been another. He left, swearin’ revenge. I climbed out o’ my sickbed t’ go t’ ’er side an’ after . . . I collapsed. When I woke up later, I was in gaol. Already sentenced.” Her eyes and voice lowered. “Lord knows what ’e done t’ ’erself, th’ brute.”

“She told him about me . . . us.”

“An’ said ’e should ‘annul’ th’ vows.” She gave him a fiercely resentful look. “I’d wager ’e made ’er pay well for your time on

’er. An’ now ye mean t’ wring yer price from ’er as well. More gold, is it? Or is it another toss ye fancy?”

Truth be told, he wasn’t sure what he wanted from Brien. But he admitted with chagrin that jealousy had ridden him hard at the thought that she took another husband . . . even unwillingly. Was he relieved to find that she had been forced?

He slapped his thigh and looked up. “Ella, I’ve had my eye on a house in Boston, but it would take some staff and more time than I wish to spend running it. Loyal as you are to your previous employer, I feel you could be trusted. Have you the education and skills to make a housekeeper?”

Surprise kept her silent for a moment. “I’m sure I could if it was a house of middlin’ size. I learn quick.”

“If I buy your papers back, will you come to work for me . . .

with wages?”

She stared at him warily, then looked around the dirty cove that passed for a sleeping room. Whatever else might be required in the bargain, she seemed to think it could be no worse than the indignities of labor in this wretched hole. She straightened her spine and nodded.

“I will.”

HORACE VAN ZANDT strode heavily into the offices of Weston Trading and paused, listing each ledger, desk, and chair on some mental tally sheet. His gaze quickly fixed on Brien, assessing her as if she were part of the acquisition he had come to discuss.

She fought a wave of revulsion to extend her hand to the man.

His ponderous weight shifted about his frame as he bent to press bulbous lips to her hand. The thought of being trapped with him in the offices for even a short time was so disagreeable that she insisted they have a thorough, firsthand look at the warehouse and the inventory.

Van Zandt was torn between getting a closer look at the goods he intended to buy and avoiding the exertion it would require. A confident smile from Brien convinced him to make the inspection tour.

More than an hour later, they filed back into the offices. Brien took the chair beside Silas, glad to have Van Zandt across the desk from her. His red face and thick lips had a cruel cast and he breathed in quick snorts, as if fighting his own bulk to draw air.

She couldn’t wait to be done with this bit of negotiation. If he was unloved, she mused, it was not entirely the result of his business practices.

“Mr. Hastings has supplied you with a listing of property and inventory, I believe.” She affected a cordial but official tone.

“He hasss,” the fat man hissed, rocking back in his groaning chair.

“You’ve seen the quality of the goods. Have you any questions?”

“I know all I need,” Van Zandt assured her, his beady black eyes narrowing.

“Then all that remains is that we agree upon a price,” Brien said firmly, hoping her determination would be taken for confidence.

“I make offer,” he growled, “at dinner tonight.”

Brien bristled at his arrogance, but bridled her rising anger.

Instinctively, she knew that charm would produce results where condescension or indignation would fail.

“I am afraid I have plans for this evening, sir.” She smiled politely.

“Tomorrow, den,” he demanded.

Her pleasantness thinned. She glanced at Silas, whose eyes widened in warning and she understood the risk she was taking.

“I . . . don’t see why not. But if I have an offer, I may think on it today and we may be agreed when we meet tomorrow.”

Van Zandt’s eyes narrowed to slits as he openly ap-praised her.

“Den . . . for dis varehouse und goods, I give you twelf t’ousand sterling.” His tongue curled around the final “g,” drawing it out obscenely.

Brien’s heart sank. “I shall need no time to consider that offer, sir. The answer is no.” She threw a smoky look at her opponent from beneath a thick fringe of dark lashes. “The warehouse and inventory are worth well more than thirty thousand and you know it. Unless you would care to make another offer . . . closer to the fair worth of these holdings . . .” She studied him as openly as he studied her . . . as one man would assess another.

Van Zandt pursed his thick lips. The game took on new interest for him and his smile became a fair counterfeit of geniality.

Silas, bewildered by the turn of events, looked from one contender to the other. Brien’s steady gaze had the gray chill of winter ice.

Van Zandt slapped an elephantine knee with a hand. “By Gott . .

. vat vould you haf me offer?”

“Thirty would be acceptable.”

“Den you vill not zell.” Van Zandt abandoned all pretense of humor, but Brien marked well that he made no move to leave.

“On the contrary, sir. I shall sell at a fair price.” Brien’s cool tone now matched her gaze. “Would you care to make another offer at dinner tomorrow evening? By then you may have had time to reevaluate the property.”

An ugly smile laid bare Van Zandt’s yellowed and decaying teeth.

“
Ja.
I t’ink on it. Who knows? Maybe you soften dis heart of mine.” He patted the broadcloth-covered expanse that engulfed what at one time must have been a chest.

“What is good for the purse may not delight the heart, Mister Van Zandt, and vice versa. Silas and I will see you at dinner tomorrow evening. We will arrange for dinner at the Braithwaite Inn. Say, seven o’clock?”

He struggled up, panting with the effort, and brushed the hand she offered with his lips. The floor groaned under his bulk as he swayed out and was joined by two hard-looking toughs just outside the office door.

Brien watched serenely until he was well out into the street, then she grabbed her handkerchief and rubbed her hand viciously where his mouth had made contact with it.

“At least it was short,” she gritted out.

“Brien, the man is no fool,” Silas warned. “It is not prudent to bait him—or underestimate him.”

A gleam entered her eyes as she faced her friend. “I know well the force of cunning, and I don’t fear it. I will have twenty-five thousand and not a penny less. Paying a fair price is his cost for having dinner with me.”

Silas winced. “You believe he is thinking only of dinner?”

“He will”—she smiled coolly—“when he sees Dyso is my escort.”

THE NEXT EVENING, Brien and Silas, accompanied by Dyso, went by carriage to the Braithwaite Inn. The inn’s modest name belied an elegance of cuisine that rivaled some of the best restaurants on the Continent. Visiting wealth and dignitaries, lacking their own facilities, often used the Braithwaite’s dining rooms to entertain. Thus it was the perfect place for such a meeting.

Brien arranged that Dyso be seated at the table beside theirs and that he be served whatever she herself ordered. Her protector’s concern was plain in his face. Brien had told him enough to ask for his alertness, but advised him to show restraint, whatever befell. He indicated clearly that his strong arms were her defense.

And she felt relieved.

Van Zandt arrived shortly and drew poorly veiled stares from the other patrons. If Dyso’s scarred, fearsome countenance had shocked them, Van Zandt revolted them. The irony of these two associated with the most beautiful woman in the room was made clear by their surreptitious glances.

“Hastings. Madame.” Van Zandt stared avidly at her. But whether it was a genuine desire or merely a ploy in the negotiation, she had no way of knowing.

“Mr. Hastings has a new child and may be called home unexpectedly,” Brien said, nodding to Silas. “Thus, Monsieur Dyso also accompanied me, to see me safely home.” As she indicated her man at the next table, Dyso fixed Van Zandt with a steely glare and the Dutchman caught a glimpse of the chilling potential of the lady’s protector.

Van Zandt regarded his lovely companion closely, reassessing her. She had planned well. He would not have expected such canniness and determination in a woman.