The Light in the Darkness (2 page)

Forcing herself to speak, Jenny stammered, “What—what may I get for ye, sir?”

She noted that he appeared vaguely amused by her all-too-apparent nervousness. He seemed to decide not to torment her further. “Ale,” he said curtly, and looked away.

Realizing that she had been dismissed, Jenny turned away and shuffled back through the crowded taproom, deftly avoiding the regular customers who liked to pinch her bottom as she passed. “ ’E wants ale,” she reported.

Her uncle, a big, burly man with a sullen face and a worse disposition, poured a tankard of ale and handed it to her. “Ye make certain yer attentive enough to the gentleman, mistress,” he admonished her. “ ’Tis plain to see ’e thinks ’e’s too good for the likes of this tavern, but being as ’e’s deigning to drink our ale we shan’t refuse him any. ’E ’as the look of a man who likes ’is liquor, ’e does. We could make a shilling or two on ’im tonight.” His eyes dropped to the front of Jenny’s outgrown gown, which stretched tightly across her small but firm young breasts, as if speculating exactly on how the maximum profit could be made, but Jenny did not notice. She had already turned away to deliver the ale.

Apprehension made her hands so unsteady that she almost spilled the ale. It was not that she was afraid of the dark man and his disapproving stare. Nothing could break into the calm stillness of her mind to frighten her, for terror had been beyond her for many years. But nonetheless she was conscious of a faint feeling of alarm, and her hands trembled slightly as she placed the pewter tankard on the pitted pine table before him. Once again he glanced up,
and his eyes met hers squarely. They were a pale gray which seemed to glow in the light of the rushlight on the table and in the dying sunlight that filtered through the windows. And, she saw with surprise, his eyes were empty, as empty as hers must be.

He was, she realized, like her. He was beyond caring what life might hold. And the realization that there was someone like herself, indifferent, unfeeling, shocked her into a sudden reaction. She yanked her hand away too quickly, and the mug of ale fell onto his lap.

As the cold liquid cascaded across his long, muscular legs and fine woolen knee breeches, he slowly rose, looking down at her with an expression that was part amusement, part fury, and part utterly unreadable. Jenny discovered deep within herself a brief flash of fear, for he was a very tall man. The top of her head came nowhere near his shoulder. And though he was lean, the powerful muscles in his arms were clearly visible where he had carelessly pushed up his ruffled sleeves.

Jenny swallowed and raised her eyes to his, meeting his gaze levelly. In his silver eyes she saw a glint of approval, instantly extinguished. And then the world exploded.

“Clumsy bitch!”

Jenny found herself on the hard-packed earthen floor, her ears ringing. There was blood oozing from a cut on her cheekbone where a heavy fist had struck her. At first she thought that the dark man had hit her, and a curious disappointment seeped through her. But then she looked up and saw her uncle’s angry form standing over her.

Of course, she thought with resignation. Her uncle had struck her in the past with far less reason. By spilling ale over the gentleman she had alienated a man who was likely to be a very lucrative customer. By her uncle’s standards, she richly deserved a beating. She heard the first titters of amusement and struggled to her feet.

Once again, she realized dully, she was to be the evening’s entertainment for the tavern customers.

Her uncle moved toward her, a murderous expression on his face, still bellowing expletives at her. Jenny did not cringe, only stood swaying with a pitifully patient expression, an expression that said clearly that this treatment was exactly what she expected. She could have run from her uncle’s fists into the gray darkness outside, but there was nowhere to go. The ordinary was her only home, virtually her entire world, bounded by virgin forest on one side and Pine Tree Creek, the small body of water that spilled into the Lynnhaven River and from there into the great Chesapeake Bay, on the other. Here and there, carved from the forest, were plantations, small specks of civilization in a vast and savage country, but their owners were aristocrats who cared nothing for the well-being of a tavern wench. There was no one to help her. Besides, she had long ago concluded that she must merit this treatment. She waited silently for the next blow to fall.

And then the dark man stepped forward.

Jenny stared at him, wide-eyed. No one had ever come to her defense before. In this rural area of Virginia it was not unknown for disagreements to become vicious wrestling matches, with the contestants struggling to gouge each other’s eyes out, or even to castrate each other. She had once seen a man after one of his eyes had been plucked from its socket, and the memory still made her want to retch despite the layers of callousness she had developed. Her uncle was a big, beefy man, and she had never thought anyone would dare to challenge him—certainly not for the sake of a mere tavern wench!

But the dark man moved so quickly that a wrestling match was out of the question. One moment he was glowering down at her uncle, and the next moment his opponent was sprawled on the floor, blood oozing from his split lip.

“I suggest,” the dark man said in a low tone that nonetheless carried all the menace of a wolf’s growl, “that you refrain from striking the girl again.” His deep voice resounded in the suddenly quiet tavern as he turned back and
sat back down at the table. Stepping over her uncle’s prostrate form, Jenny hastened to get her champion more ale.

Edward Greyson had already dismissed the incident from his mind as he strode from the tavern into the gathering gloom and mounted his restless stallion in one easy motion. He had no idea what had accounted for his sudden burst of chivalry, an impulse he believed had died within him long ago, but he had drunk enough ale that he was not inclined to be introspective. It was enough to assure himself that it would never happen again.

In point of fact, he had virtually forgotten the meek tavern wench with the huge eyes that had stirred him to such unaccustomed pity. Inebriated as he was, his mind filled with a different concern.

He had been in Princess Anne County for three weeks, and as of yet he had not met a single woman he could envision marrying. He had not told his friend Kayne O’Neill of his halfhearted attempt to seek a wife, yet the moment he had arrived at Windward Plantation, every ambitious mother in the county had descended on the plantation with her unmarried daughter in tow. They acted like vultures circling over a carcass, drawn irresistibly to his wealth as well as to the scandal and mystery that had surrounded him for years.

And every last one of those daughters was an idiot.

The past three weeks had done nothing to alter his conviction that most women were vapid and foolish creatures possessing no more brains than pigeons. For three weeks he had been his usual rude self, sharp and cutting and callous, and the women had only fawned over him the more. Today he had actually gone so far as to tell one young lady that her display of flesh was more suitable to a courtesan than to a lady—and the girl had been foolish enough to take it as a compliment, giggling and slapping him lightly on the arm with her fan.

Faced with such incredible stupidity, and slightly concerned lest he embarrass his friend and host by saying something even more appallingly rude, Grey had fled to this godforsaken little ordinary to drown his concerns in even more alcohol than usual.

He swore under his breath. He seemed to have two options. He could wed one of these simpering females and install her as mistress of Greyhaven. Or he could listen to Catherine’s incessant harping on the subject for the rest of his life.

Neither option was particularly appealing.

Noticing at last that his stallion was dancing impatiently, he decided to ride back to Windward Plantation and give the matter more consideration there. Perhaps a glass or two of Kayne’s excellent apple brandy would help him consider the situation more clearly. As he gathered the reins into his hands, however, a small sound startled him into whirling the stallion about.

The wench who had so ineptly served him ale had followed him out into the darkness. Now she stood staring up at him, a small slender figure with disheveled hair and huge eyes that appeared black in the dusk. She spoke quietly. “Please take me with ye.”

Grey said nothing, only stared down at her. His gaze did not hold the slightest bit of interest, for she was less than nothing to him.

Even in the gloom, however, he could see the nascent hero worship shining in her dark, pleading eyes. Clearly she had decided he was some sort of hero. And obviously, just as any shrewd woman of her class might, she had decided to “reward” him for his heroic actions by offering her body in trade for security and protection. His repugnance increased at the thought.
The opportunistic little fool.

Some of his revulsion faded, as she went on haltingly, “I’m a ’ard worker, sir. My uncle could tell ye that. Whatever ye might need—I can spin and cook—”

He relaxed slightly as he realized that she was offering
her limited skills as a servant, rather than her body, in exchange for his protection. Not that he had had the slightest intention of bedding her—her body was far too filthy to be attractive. Like most people of her class, she was unable to waste the time heating water to bathe in. Bathing was a luxury only the planter class could enjoy on a regular basis. She was in all likelihood louse ridden. No, her body held no attraction for him.

However, he had no need for a servant. After all, he owned over ninety slaves to spin and cook and to perform the other labors that kept a large plantation running. Not even deigning to answer, he started to turn the restive stallion away, and she actually dared to catch at his stirrup. “Please!” she murmured, and there was desperation in her voice.

It was not pity for her plight that made him glance back down. He knew that if he left her here he was damning her to a life of pain and degradation. He knew by the hopeless, empty expression in her dark eyes that she was beaten often. He did not care. What made him halt his stallion and look back down at her was the memory of his sister’s nagging voice, raised in one of her interminable lectures.

He had promised to look for a suitable wife.

Looking down at this bedraggled, pathetic specimen of humanity, he almost smiled. This dirty, unattractive child was perfect for him. She would never expect love, compassion, or even respect. She had learned to expect nothing from the world, and that was precisely what he would give her.

And if he were to marry this child, this unattractive girl with the incredibly lower-class manners, polite Virginia society would be appalled and astounded. He would be the scandal of the colony—and not for the first time. He felt an irrepressible smile curving his lips at the amusing thought of how shocked his neighbors would be. Even his mistress would be scandalized by his actions.

Furthermore, he mused, if he installed this chit as mistress
of Greyhaven, he would no longer have to tolerate the unwanted advances of every unwed maid in the colony. (He did not object to the advances of married, experienced women, but starry-eyed virgins bored him.) If he wed the child, he would never feel obliged to spend time with her, or converse with her. Certainly he would never have to bed her.

In fact, he would have to make no alteration in his lifestyle whatsoever. If he were foolish enough to marry a lady of his own class, she would expect him to entertain her, to escort her to routs, and to leave the sanctuary of his study on occasion to converse with her—in short, she would make unacceptable demands on him, just as his sister did. His surly, selfish habits would have to change. This girl, on the other hand, would expect nothing from him at all. His life would change very little—except for one small but delightful detail.

Catherine would never dare nag him again.

Perhaps if he had not been so drunk, he would not have regarded the idea in the light of a joke. But once it occurred to him, it was all he could do to keep himself from laughing out loud.

He looked down at the earnest, solemn eyes peering at him from behind a tangle of brownish hair, and he smiled devilishly.

“I think,” he said, “that I would like to speak with your uncle.”

“Ye must be daft!”

Privately Grey agreed. Certainly he had been accused of being daft, or even outright mad, frequently enough. It was an image he cultivated the way other gentlemen cultivated an aura of breeding and prosperity. Prosperity, Grey thought, was dull. Insanity was far more interesting.

He grinned inwardly at the thought but leveled a harsh stare at the innkeeper. “I beg your pardon?” he said coolly.

The man was clearly disconcerted. “I—I beg yer pardon, sir,” he stammered. “I forgot my place, I did, just for a
minute. ’Tisn’t any concern of mine, sir, if ye think my niece is attractive, though I can’t say I agree with ye. No, sir, I can’t. She’s been naught but trouble to me since the first day she—”

Recognizing the beginnings of a diatribe, Grey waved his hand carelessly, and the beefy man immediately cut his sentence off. He knew his betters, and was appropriately respectful, despite the fact that his better had provided him with an ugly bruise and a throbbing jaw earlier in the evening.

“I gather the girl’s no favorite of yours,” Grey interrupted. A vast understatement, he thought, recalling the girl’s expression of hopeless resignation as her uncle struck her. “That’s why I’m offering to take her off your hands.”

The man seemed baffled. He knew full well that Grey had been lying when he spoke of marriage. Wealthy planters such as this one did not marry tavern wenches. The idea was utterly ludicrous. Yet the fellow did seem to have taken a fancy to his little niece. No doubt he’d use her body until he tired of it and then abandon her.

That did not concern him. All that concerned him was the best way to profit from the situation. He had planned on selling his niece to a local planter, Carey O’Neill, who had oftentimes expressed an interest in setting the girl up as his mistress, but this man appeared to be considerably wealthier—and, he thought shrewdly, might be inebriated enough to pay more than the girl was worth.