Читать книгу The Abducted Heiress - Claire Thornton - Страница 11

Newgate, Tuesday 4 September 1666

‘Fire! Fire! Fire!’

‘The Papists have fired London!’

‘Nay! The flames of hell are purging the corrupt city!’

‘It’s the French to blame. Throwing fireballs into the houses…’

‘’Tis God’s punishment for the sins of the Court…’

‘The Dutch are taking vengeance for our recent victory…’

‘St Paul’s burns…’

‘We’ll all burn!’

Jakob listened grimly to the uproar around and below him. He was in Newgate, awaiting the next gaol delivery to the Old Bailey. At the best of times the prison wasn’t silent, but now the cries of his fellow captives had risen to a frenzied cacophony of panic.

Newgate was not only a gaol, it was also one of the seven ancient gateways into London. Its two massive stone towers straddled Newgate Street. Every day people crowded through the iron gates and beneath the portcullis on their journey into, or out of, the City. But for two days there had been no normal traffic through the gate. The sounds of London descending into chaos had filtered through the thick stone walls and iron bars of the gaol.

News of a fire in the east of the City had first reached the gaol on Sunday morning, but fires among the old wooden buildings of London were so common that initially only a few doom-mongers were alarmed.

All the same, speculation about the extent and cause of the conflagration quickly circulated among the prisoners. By Monday it was claimed that the fire extended from London Bridge in the south to Lombard Street in the north. That it covered the whole of the waterfront for almost the entire length of Thames Street. Rumours abounded. Many people believed absolutely that the fire had been started deliberately by a Dutch baker. Others that the French had ignited it by throwing fireballs into houses. England was at war with both countries. On Monday night the fire destroyed Cornhill and advanced inexorably on Cheapside.

By Tuesday morning, St Paul’s Cathedral and Newgate were both under immediate threat. It no longer mattered to anyone trapped inside the prison how the fire started. Their only concern was to escape. Even in their confinement the prisoners could hear the terrified screams of those who fled through the gate in search of safety. They could also hear the thunderous roar of the fire raging towards the towers. The stench of burning was stronger than the usually overpowering stench of the gaol. The air was foul with smoke.

Jakob stood at a barred window, his throat raw from the polluted air. He took shallow breathes to avoid pulling the smoke too deeply into his lungs. He was in a better position than many prisoners. They were incarcerated in squalid quarters below ground. Fortunately Jakob had not come penniless to gaol. He’d bribed the Keeper of Newgate to house him in the more comfortable conditions of the Master’s Side at the top of the prison. He’d also taken the first opportunity to send out a message to his cousin, the Duke of Kilverdale. The Keeper had been impressed by Jakob’s high-ranking connections and since then had treated him with careful respect.

But so far Kilverdale had neither returned the message nor appeared in person. On Monday morning, after two nights in Newgate, Jakob had reluctantly sent out another message. This time to his grandfather, who had a house in St Martin’s Lane. Under other circumstances Jakob would have waited considerably longer for Kilverdale to respond before asking for Lord Swiftbourne’s help, but he believed Lady Desire was still in imminent danger. There had been no reply to his second message either.

Jakob tested one of the bars at the window, while he wondered with some annoyance where Kilverdale had gone. His cousin seemed to be constitutionally incapable of staying in one place for more than five minutes.

The roar of the fire was louder, closer. Smoke curled through the bars. Burning embers swirled past the window, a terrifying portent of what was to come. Jakob’s muscles tensed with horror at the thought of being caught like a rat in a trap before the flames.

He shook off the ghastly image and went to hammer on the locked door.

‘Hey! Are you going to leave us to roast?’ he shouted.

It wasn’t the first time he’d demanded information about the fire. Since he had the money for bribes, the gaolers kept him reasonably well informed. This time no one replied. He waited by the door an instant longer, then returned to the window. He’d checked all possible escape routes when he’d first arrived, and he’d quickly discovered that the mortar holding the bars was in poor condition. Though the prison was a formidable building, it was old and in disrepair.

Jakob had spent much of his time over the past two days chiselling away at the soft mortar with a large iron nail he’d purloined during his transfer into the cell. The fire had been his ally in his escape preparations. Anyone who noticed how much time he spent at the window would assume he was trying to follow the progress of the flames.

Now he braced one hand against the wall and wrapped his other hand around the first iron bar. He focussed all his strength and dragged the bar free. It grated loudly against the crumbling brick, but there was no need for silence. If anyone heard him and came to prevent his escape, they’d open the door.

An open door was all Jakob needed.

He was about to drop the bar on to the floor when, beneath the ever-present roar of the fire, he heard the scrape of a key in the lock. In the few seconds before the door swung inwards he thrust the bar beneath his doublet.

‘What took you so long?’ he demanded, striding towards the terrified gaoler.

‘Hurry! We’re going to the Clink.’ The gaoler coughed and gestured frantically towards Jakob with his left hand. In his right he held a musket.

‘To hell, more like.’ Jakob strode through the door, helped on his way by a shove between the shoulder blades.

All around him he could hear frightened, angry shouts. The gaolers were trying to march their prisoners away to the alternative confinement of the Clink Prison in Southwark. But the gaolers were disorganised and as terrified as the prisoners. Once they reached the street it was easy for Jakob to escape in the confusion.

As soon as he was alone in a debris-filled alley, he paused to get his bearings. Inside the prison he’d become almost used to the roaring approach of the fire. Outside in the street the noise was a physical assault on his whole body, pounding his ears and disorientating all his senses. Stones exploded in the high temperatures. It sounded as if a battle was being fought within the flames.

He turned to take his first real look at the fire—and shock briefly held him completely immobile. The fierce gale that had been blowing since Sunday had whipped the sulphurous flames into a savage inferno. It towered high above the tallest buildings, dwarfing everything in its path. The sky above was black with smoke.

A shower of crimson fire droplets rained down upon him, covering his doublet with tiny, blackened pinpricks. The intense heat scalded his eyes and seared his face. Acrid smoke gusted suddenly around him. Choking him. Nearly blinding him. His lungs burned. The flames seemed almost alive in their malevolent intent to devour everything in their path.

He shook off his momentary horror and turned to run through the thick layer of ash that swirled in the streets.

By now his temporary lodgings in the City would surely have burned. There was no point in going to the house in St Martin’s Lane because the message he’d sent there had been left unanswered. Besides, he wasn’t keen to present himself to his grandfather in the guise of an escaped convict. Now Jakob was free, he regretted the necessity that had forced him to send that message.

He paused to check his location and a fit of coughing tore his lungs.

He remembered the moment her ladyship’s steward had levelled his pistol at him. Jakob had dived flat behind the meagre protection of a bed of herbs. The steward had pulled the trigger, but the pistol had misfired. Jakob had no doubt the man had intended him to die on the roof of Godwin House.

He’d survived the débâcle because of a misfired pistol and Lady Desire’s absolute determination he would live to stand trial. He recalled the way she’d held him at bay with the pistol she’d taken from her attacker. There was no doubting the lady’s courage, but the fire would not respect her dignity or her privacy—and it was not the only threat to her safety. No doubt she’d already fled from her grand mansion in the Strand, but Jakob wanted to know where she’d gone.

He was covered in soot and ash. Just another desperate man escaping from the fire. As long as he avoided members of Lady Desire’s household, he was unlikely to be recognised. Perhaps he could find someone to tell him what he needed to know. He owed the lady his life. He meant to repay the debt.

Desire stood in her roof-garden, the key to the river-gate clutched in her hand. She stared, transfixed, at the burning city. With the exception of a couple of watchmen left to guard the property from looters, she was alone in Godwin House. She wondered vaguely whether Arscott or Benjamin Finch had realised yet that they’d left her behind.

She hadn’t intended to stay, but in the end she hadn’t been able to leave. Godwin House was her home—this garden her sanctuary. She had a superstitious fear that if she deserted it she might never see it again.

The arrangements they’d made to convey the contents of the house to safety had made it easy for no one to notice her absence. The most valuable items had been taken away either by carriage or in the river barge. Arscott had gone with the barge, intent on protecting the locked chest that contained all of Desire’s monetary wealth. There was more than nine thousand pounds in the heavy chest, the revenues from all the Godwin estates scattered throughout the country. Arscott had taken the head porter and several of the strongest menservants with him to guard the chest.

Benjamin had been in charge of the three coaches that had hauled away other chattels as well as most of the staff, including Lucy, Desire’s personal maid. There had been some discussion about whether Desire would be more comfortable in the overcrowded barge or a coach. No clear decision had been made. In the confusion it had been easy for both men to assume that their mistress was safely in the care of the other.

Despite her fear that she might lose her home, Desire had not consciously intended to stay behind. Somehow she simply hadn’t left. She wondered if she was living up to some deep-rooted family tradition of not running away in the face of danger. Twenty-two years earlier, her mother had lived—and Desire had nearly died—by that creed. In the absence of the Earl, the Countess had taken charge of their Devonshire estate. She had held the fortified house for Parliament against besieging royalists for five weeks of fierce fighting. Even the injuries to her daughter had not compelled the Countess to yield. Only the arrival of Parliamentarian forces, led by Desire’s father, had brought an end to the siege.

The thunderous roar of the fire destroying London was horrifyingly reminiscent for Desire of the noise of the royalists’ bombardment of Larksmere House because, trapped behind the defences of the house, there had been no peace and no escape from the fighting. Desire touched her cheek. Her scars were an ever-present reminder of that frightening period of her life.

The strong easterly winds whipped her skirts around her legs. Her dishevelled hair felt gritty with the ash swirling through the air. Her garden was full of flying debris. A charred piece of paper briefly caught against the side of a raised bed. It gusted up into Desire’s face before spinning heavenwards once more.

All the previous night she had watched the fire light up the sky. She’d seen the crimson, snake-tipped flames dance obscenely over the rooftops and curl wickedly around the church spires and towers. She’d seldom visited the crowded streets of the City, but she’d imagined walking along them. She had always enjoyed knowing there was so much enterprising human life close by. She even enjoyed listening to the harsh, vulgar curses of the Thames boatmen as they plied their trade on the river adjoining her property.

Now London was being destroyed before her eyes. And the fierce wind was driving the flames dangerously close to Godwin House. She was almost sure that Fleet Street was already on fire. She pressed the shank of the river-gate key against her lips. She had prayed all night for the gale to cease and the flames to be quenched. But now it seemed inevitable that the fire would reach the Strand. It was finally time to leave. She would seek out her watchmen and take to the safety of the river.

She turned to leave the roof—and screamed in terror.

Jakob Smith stood three feet from her. A huge, wild-eyed, soot-grimed monster. She was sure he’d come for his revenge. Shock momentarily paralysed her.

His lips draw back in a snarl of fury as he made a gesture towards her.

She threw herself away from him, falling backwards into a bed of herbs.

He lunged after her.

She rolled frantically away, fetching up against the parapet wall. The impact knocked the air out of her lungs and she gasped for breath. Heard him curse.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he shouted, looming over her.

Desire didn’t answer. She struggled to sit up, keeping a tight grip on the key. It wasn’t much, but it was the only weapon she had. Even a monster like Jakob could not be entirely invulnerable. If she could only find his weakness…

Abruptly he moved away from her. Out of her reach. An expression of grim wariness in his red-rimmed eyes. Wild speculations raced through her mind. She wondered if he’d guessed her intent. The demon had a lot more experience of reading a foe’s intentions than she had. She resolved to keep her expression impassive.

‘Where are your men?’ he shouted at her.

‘What?’ His question startled a response from her.

Too late she realised he wanted to assure himself that no one would interrupt his planned revenge on her.

‘För bövelen!’ he exclaimed, in apparent exasperation. ‘At least on Saturday you had a small army to protect you—some of them even seemed loyal. Today I find you alone and defenceless, like a peach waiting to be—’

‘Not by you!’ Desire shouted back, too angry to be afraid. ‘I’ll die…you’ll die first!’

She tried to dig her heels into the ground, to give herself purchase to scramble backwards along the wall. Instead her foot caught in her petticoats. Before she could untangle herself a large clump of fiery debris cartwheeled down from the smoke-filled sky. The wind bowled the tattered ball of flames across the roof until it was trapped between the parapet and Desire’s tangled skirts.

The fire hissed and crackled as it found new food to feed on. Desire screamed, terror consuming her as flames seemed to engulf her legs.

In her panic she barely noticed Jakob seize her in his arms. A few seconds later he plunged her into the water cistern. Shock knocked the air out of her lungs and an instant later Jakob thrust her billowing skirts beneath the ash-covered surface of the water. The flames hissed and died. Desire panted for breath.

It took several long moments for her wits to return sufficiently to comprehend what had happened. She was sitting in the large cistern, water almost up to her neck, though a fair amount had washed out when Jakob had dumped her into the trough. Bits of soot and ash floated around on top of the dirty water in front of her. Jakob knelt beside her. One of his strong hands gripped her shoulder. The other covered the hand in which, to her somewhat detached amazement, she discovered she was still clutching the key.

She stared at Jakob, drained of all emotion.

He stroked a matted strand of hair gently behind her shoulder and smiled at her. He had a very attractive smile for a fiend—even though his face was black with soot and his eyes were red. His hair had lost its angelic lustre. It was stringy with sweat and grime.

Images of the long-ago siege of Larksmere House receded from Desire’s mind. She focussed on the immediate past instead. She’d thought about Jakob often since Saturday. Confused by the conflicting emotions he aroused in her. She’d been a little captivated by him when he’d first appeared on her roof—and then he’d destroyed all her ridiculous illusions. She’d allowed herself to be deceived by his comely appearance. The fire-grime that now covered him gave a much clearer indication of his true character. Except, of course, that he’d just saved her from being roasted alive.

‘What does the key open?’ he asked, his voice soft, almost teasing. ‘Your jewellery case?’

‘The river-gate!’ she exclaimed indignantly.

The iron key was large and ugly. It opened the gate in the wall that separated the edge of her property from the Thames. Even the keys to the sturdy locks on her treasure chest were more elegant. Besides, did he really think she was so vain and foolish that she would put jewels before her own safety?

‘Good girl.’ He smiled and slipped the key out of her fingers before she’d realised his intent, and stood up.

‘You scurvy, double-dealing—’

‘Language, my lady,’ he chided her, laughing gently. ‘No, don’t get up,’ he added, as she seized the edges of the cistern. ‘We aren’t leaving just yet.’

‘We?’ She stared at him warily, still clutching the sides of the water cistern.

‘I didn’t expect you to be here,’ he informed her, shrugging out of his doublet. ‘Not once I’d discovered the house was deserted. I only came on to the roof to get a better look at the fire. To see how far it extends. Lucky for you I did.’

‘Why?’ Desire asked warily. ‘The house isn’t deserted,’ she added. ‘There are porters guarding the gate—aren’t there?’

Jakob grinned. ‘Easily evaded, my lady,’ he said, and stripped off his shirt.

Desire’s eyes widened at the breadth of muscled chest and lean, hard-ridged stomach his actions revealed. Then, as the likely motive for his disrobing dawned on her, she tried to surge out of the water.

‘Sit.’ He put his hand on her shoulder and easily shoved her back under the surface. ‘You’re safer there till we get off this damned fire-trap.’

‘Why are you—?’

‘Not for the reason you think,’ he retorted, casting a quick glance towards the advancing flames.

The sky above them was thick with roiling smoke. Desire’s throat was raw. She could tell from the hoarseness in Jakob’s voice that he was also suffering the effects of the smoke. Amidst the noise of the fire and the wind she heard something that sounded like an explosion.

‘They’re using gunpowder in Fleet Street,’ Jakob explained. ‘Blowing up houses to make a fire break. But unless the wind drops…’

He gripped his shirt tightly and jerked his hands apart. The fine linen ripped and. Desire watched in bewilderment as he tore his shirt into several pieces.

‘Why are you doing that?’ she asked.

‘Just a precaution, my lady,’ he replied, smiling in a way that she only belatedly realised was deeply suspicious.

In one smooth movement, he seized her wrists and efficiently tied them together with a piece of ragged linen.

Desire struggled valiantly. Water splashed everywhere but, but in the confines of the cistern, she had little chance to evade him.

She cursed him freely, anger temporarily displacing the underlying fear she continued to feel in his presence.

‘You mangy, flea-ridden, thieving, ill-begotten cur!’ she raged, just before he pushed one of the rags in her mouth.

He tied the strip of linen securely behind her head. Then he smiled at her.

She blinked water out of her eyes and glared at him over the gag.

‘Time to go,’ he said, and hauled her out of the cistern.

Instantly she swung up her bound hands in an attempt to hit him in the face.

He barely managed to dodge the blow as her hands rasped across the stubble on his chin. He swore briefly and concisely, and threw her over his naked shoulder.

Desire kicked viciously and tried to pound her fists against any part of his anatomy that she could reach. His grip on her tightened until it was painful as he went across the roof and down the stairs that led to a side entrance. From there he had only to run through the gardens behind the house to reach the river-gate.

Desire stopped struggling. He marginally relaxed his grip, but he didn’t slow down. Instead of trying to hit him, Desire concentrated on getting rid of the gag. If she could only attract the attention of her watchmen…

But it wasn’t easy when Jakob was jolting her along upside-down through the neatly clipped box hedges. By the time they’d reached the boathouse she’d only just managed to free her mouth, painfully pulling out several strands of her hair that had been caught in the knot as she did so.

Jakob laid her on the ground and began to drag up her charred, water-soaked skirts. Desire fought desperately, flailing at him with her clubbed fists, whimpering with terror. She had no breath to scream for help.

He threw himself over her, finally containing her struggles with the weight of his large body.

‘Stop fighting, you vixen,’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘I’m only trying to find out if your legs are burnt.’

‘You lecher!’

‘I should have left you to roast!’

‘Hell-spawn.’

‘Hell-cat.’

For a few moments they both lay still, breathing heavily. Reason slowly replaced the terrifying images of rape that had filled Desire’s mind. She didn’t trust Jakob, but so far he hadn’t actually hurt her.

‘My legs aren’t burnt,’ she said frigidly

She shoved ineffectually at the solid bulk of his torso. The weight of his hard body pinning her to the ground was profoundly disturbing. She wasn’t used to intimate physical contact with any human being—much less with a large, powerful man naked to the waist. She felt trapped and frightened—and furious at her sense of helplessness.

‘You’re too upset to know if they are,’ he retorted, easing himself cautiously away from her.

‘I’m not stupid!’ she snapped. ‘I’d know if my own legs were burnt.’

‘I’ve seen men wounded in battle who didn’t even know their legs had been cut off!’ Jakob countered.

‘Battle…? Are you claiming to be a soldier?’ Desire jabbed her knuckles against the ridges of his stomach, ineffectually trying to increase the distance between them.

Jakob winced. ‘Until lately I was an officer in the Swedish army,’ he growled.

‘An officer?’ she scoffed. ‘A cowardly deserter more like. Or a camp-following scavenger who steals from wounded me—’

He clamped one large hand over her mouth.

‘Var tyst! We’d have been on our way by now if you weren’t such a wildcat.’

‘Way? Where?’ Desire demanded, as soon as he took his hand away.

Jakob didn’t reply. Instead he moved so suddenly she was left gasping with shock. One minute he was lying half on top of her, the next he was straddling her hips, his back towards her head as he doggedly pulled up her skirts.

Outraged, Desire hammered his broad shoulders with her bound fists. His naked flesh was hard and unyielding. Only his occasional grunt indicated he wasn’t entirely immune to her assault. Desire kicked wildly, trying to clout him in the face with her knees.

With a muttered curse he finally managed to contain her struggles. Half-blinded by her hair, panting with her exertions, Desire endured the insufferable indignity of having her captor satisfy himself that her lower limbs were only minimally scorched.

‘All this material must have protected you,’ he announced at last, ‘your chemise isn’t even singed. I don’t think you’re much damaged.’

‘That’s what I said!’ Desire was beside herself with rage. ‘How dare you…’

He jumped off her, springing aside just in time to avoid a well-aimed blow to his groin as she scythed her hands upwards.

He grabbed her joined fists, pulling her to her feet in one smoothly continuous movement.

‘I should have trussed you tighter!’ he declared in exasperation.

‘You oaf! I’m a lady!’ Desire was incensed at his impertinent suggestion.

‘Not like any I ever met before.’ He dragged her along behind him. ‘You’d have made this a lot easier on both of us if you’d had the good sense to swoon when you first saw me.’

‘I never swoon.’

‘More’s the pity.’

Jakob found some rope in the boathouse and tied it around Desire’s knees, over her blackened, dirty wet skirts.

‘You’ll hang,’ she taunted him, from her undignified position on the ground. ‘At Tyburn, you’ll hang for this.’

Jakob merely grunted. Now that he was no longer hampered by Desire’s stubborn resistance he made short work of getting the small rowing boat on to the Thames and Desire into the boat. He even locked the gate, thoughtfully safeguarding the house from river-borne looters. He dropped the key on Desire’s lap, pushed the boat away from the river stairs and began to row upstream.

Desire stared at him in baffled fury, then twisted around to look at the burning city behind her. The boat rocked precariously in the waves stirred up by the wind and the other crafts that thronged the river. Desire was stunned by the scenes of devastation all around her.

The Thames was full of people escaping the inferno. Boats were piled high with belongings. She could hear a woman sobbing, children screaming…

She abandoned her half-formed plan to shout for help. Amidst this chaos her cries would either go completely unnoticed or would be ignored in the general pandemonium.

She strained to see one last glimpse of her home as Jakob rowed steadily upriver. When they were well beyond the outskirts of London she turned to face him, noticing at once the familiarity with which he handled the oars. His naked torso glistened from his exertions. There was a light dusting of golden curls on his hard-muscled chest, but Desire was sure that beneath the sooty grime that covered him his skin was smooth and blemish free.

For the first time since he’d appeared on her roof she had an opportunity to reflect on her situation. It wasn’t good. She was bound hand and foot in the power of a man who should have been languishing in Newgate, awaiting his trial. Not only that, none of her household even knew she was missing. There would be no hue and cry for her until it was far too late. She bit her lip, wishing she’d had the good sense to leave with Arscott in the barge that morning. But it was too late to repine over her decision now.

Her gaze narrowed on Jakob. He was a hardy rogue. What did he want with her, now that the man he’d served was dead?

‘Are you to be my bridegroom now?’ she demanded.

‘No.’

She stared at him, confounded by his brief reply. ‘Arscott shot the other one,’ she reminded him.

Jakob grinned briefly, but there was no amusement in his eyes.

‘As you say,’ he agreed. ‘I value my continued good health too much to risk a similar fate. Is that—’ he timed the rhythm of his words to fit easily into that of the oars ‘—how you’ve managed to remain unwed so long? Your steward shoots all your hopeful suitors?’

‘What? No, of course not!’ Desire frowned at him. ‘What do you want then? Ransom? Am I to be your hostage?’

She thought of the chest full of money Arscott had taken away with him.

‘No,’ said Jakob.

‘Then why do you want me?’ she asked, bewildered.

‘I don’t want you,’ he replied curtly.

Desire caught her breath. His sharp response cut straight through her defences, hurting her where she was most vulnerable. She knew full well that her most attractive feature was her inheritance—but it was a long time since she’d been reminded of that quite so brutally. It didn’t matter that Jakob was a brigand who’d just escaped from prison. He was still a handsome man who had no doubt enjoyed many beautiful women. His sharp rejection was deeply wounding.

Shamed and humiliated, she bent her head to gaze hazily at her bound hands. For the first time since her ordeal began she felt tears pricking her eyes. She was determined not to cry. She turned her face into her shoulder in an instinctive effort to hide her scarred cheek from her abductor.

Jakob saw the moment the fight left Desire. It baffled him. One minute she was matching him point for point, the next she hunched her shoulders and turned her head away from him.

It was only when he realised she was trying to conceal her scars that he guessed why his brief comment had wounded her so severely. He muttered a soft curse. It hadn’t occurred to him she’d interpret his barely considered words as a rejection. If anything, he’d intended them to be comforting—a reassurance that he had no intention of raping her.

He’d been surprised by her scars the first time he’d seen her, but now he barely noticed them. From the moment she’d held the pistol on him, her beautiful brown eyes blazing with anger, he’d been far more impressed by her fiery personality. Even after such a brief acquaintance he knew her to be brave and resolute. He didn’t understand why she’d been alone on the roof of Godwin House—but he suspected it had been by her own choice. She’d already demonstrated she wasn’t the kind of person who fled in panic from danger.

He was sorry he’d inadvertently hurt her, but he was irritated with her for being ashamed of her scars. She ought to hold her head up proudly and damn him for his impudence—not cringe from him like a mistreated puppy. Somewhat to his surprise, he realised he was also angry with whoever had taught her to feel that shame.

He gritted his teeth with annoyance and pain. Desire had escaped lightly from the fire in her petticoats, but both of Jakob’s hands were blistered and sore from his efforts to quench the flames. Now every pull on the oars caused him intense discomfort. He wasn’t in the mood to ease Desire’s distress with gentle words.

‘So why did your murderous rabble of a household desert you?’ he asked, and waited with interest to see how she would respond to his wantonly insulting question.