Читать книгу Uncovering The Merchant's Secret - Elisabeth Hobbes - Страница 12

Long fingers of light fluttered across the wall. They played over his legs and moved slowly, languidly up his body until they reached his face and began to climb stealthily upwards. Because of this, he knew time was passing, but his limbs felt heavy and he had no desire to move. He was lying on a mattress, though the lumpy sack filled with stale-smelling straw hardly dignified the description. Everything was unfamiliar. This was not his home.

His head ached as if he had been beaten around it repeatedly and his muscles felt torn, but he didn’t know why. He reached a hand up to touch the main source of the dull throbbing on his temple and discovered his arm was weak and the effort brought a sweat to his brow. He succeeded in feeling his head. It was bandaged, which meant he had suffered an injury of some sort, but he had no idea what or how he had come about it. Nor did he have any idea how he came to be in this place.

The last thing he remembered was—

And there he was forced to stop, because although he had the vague sense of scents and tastes, and the sound of screaming and splitting wood in his ears, he had no recollection of what had happened. He knew for certain he did not know this place, but how he knew that, he was unable to explain. The smell was musty and old with a hint of yeastiness to the air. If he didn’t know better, he would say he was in a bakery or storeroom.

He rolled his head to look at the source of light and realised the narrow slit of window was barred. Panic constricted his chest as he realised he must be a prisoner. The fact he had no idea who his captors were, or why he had been imprisoned, increased the terror tenfold. The agitation heated his limbs and he felt his blood spring to life as it surged around his body. He took a deep breath and decided he would hammer on the door until someone came, but when he embarked on this plan his legs buckled before he had crossed half the small space, and he crumpled to the ground. He lay in a heap on the cold stone floor, noticing now that he was naked from the waist up. So, he was in a barred room with a stone floor and a small door. That probably meant the ground floor or cellars. Which meant a big building. The effort of coming to this conclusion made his head reel and did not, in fact, help him in any real way, but a small part of him cheered in satisfaction that he had noticed the surface he was lying on. He had not lost all his wits.

He cried out in English, but when no one answered, something in the back of his mind told him this was not the only language he could use. He repeated his words in French, gratified that the words came as easily. Still no one came, so when he felt slightly stronger he crawled his way back on to the pallet and pulled up the sheet and furs. He lay there shivering, his mind in turmoil, knowing that he had no choice but to wait until his captors deemed it fit to visit him. He slept again.

When he woke it was daylight now. The sun was a warm orange and there was a faint scent of sea in the air, accompanied by a hint of sweet blossom. He inhaled deeply, taking pleasure from the only thing of beauty in his life that he could clutch on to.

A metallic scraping sound caught his attention and he realised it was coming from the other side of the door. It was the sound of a bolt being drawn back. He looked to the door slightly too sharply and the movement caused his head to spin. Lights burst behind his eyes and he blinked furiously to clear them, so that when the door opened he was lying with watery eyes and staring at the ceiling so he did not immediately notice who had entered.

Someone walked to the corner of the room and he heard a pot of some sort set down on a table he had not noticed earlier. He waited patiently to see what would happen. An instinct was telling him to try overpowering whoever it was and try to escape, but he knew he didn’t have the strength to do anything of the sort. He opened his eyes and craned his head weakly. A short girl in a plain gown was placing a jug on a small table.

‘Where am I?’ he asked in English. ‘Help me!’

His voice was rasping from the dryness of his throat. The girl shrieked and jumped back and the jug toppled over. Before he could speak again she had fled from the room, banging the door behind her. He heard the bolt scrape, confirming he was a prisoner. He groaned weakly and licked his lips, thirsty beyond endurance and with a belly that ached from emptiness. He didn’t think he would be able to sleep, but his head began to spin and he lapsed into a fitful sleep.

He was awakened once again by the bolt drawing back and someone entering the room. The person began to hum softly in a voice that was soft and female. This time he had the sense to remain silent and lie with eyes half-open. It was a different woman this time, taller and dressed in a deep brown, flowing surcoat. She was standing by the small table doing something Jack could not see. She came to the bed and he realised that she had a cloth and a bowl of water. Another servant of whoever was holding him, he suspected.

He closed his eyes so she would not realise he was awake. She unwound the bandage from around his head and bathed the wound, then moved from working on his head to tending the grazes on his body. She slid her cool hand slowly up the length of his bare belly with the softness of a lover beginning a caress. He drew a sharp breath as an overwhelming sense of pleasure combined with the sting of the cuts. Realising he could no longer feign sleep, he opened his eyes.

‘Ah, you are awake again,’ she said in what he recognised as the Breton dialect.

That mended another rip in the cloth that was his mind. Now he knew which part of the world he was in. She did not sound particularly happy at the discovery.

‘You frightened Marie,’ the woman said. She was looking at him severely so his first impression was of forbidding black eyes. ‘She ran to me crying tales of nonsense words growled at her.’

He swallowed and opened his mouth to try explaining what had happened.

‘Don’t try to speak,’ she instructed. ‘Wait there.’

She moved to the table and came back bearing a wide-rimmed earthenware cup. She slipped a hand beneath his neck and raised him slightly to cradle his head, then held the cup to his lips. It turned out to be cider and he drank greedily until the cup was empty.

Her cool fingers trailed across the back of his neck as she withdrew her hand and laid his head back. He shivered once more with unexpected desire and gave a soft moan. She must have interpreted this as pain because she peered down at him and concern banished the severity of her expression. Something woke inside him as her face filled his gaze: a deep sense of familiarity and the certainty that he had seen this face before. The memory fluttered from him like moths circling a lamp and evading fingers trying to seize them, leaving only vague shapes and the sensation of intimacy. Like the moths, he felt pulled towards her flame. His lips twitched.

‘Can you speak now?’ she asked.

‘I did not mean to frighten her,’ he croaked.

‘I’m glad to hear it. I would not like to think I am giving shelter to one who would terrorise girls.’

They were strangers, then. So why did he feel such a connection to her? He furrowed his brow.

She gave a brief smile. ‘Think nothing of it. Marie is silly and jumps if the kitchen cats mew behind her.’

With an effort of will he was able to focus on her with a little more clarity now, though his eyes kept blurring. From the high singing voice, he had thought she was not much older than a child, but now he saw she was past her youth. A few faint lines had begun to appear at the corner of her eyes and mouth and a short frown line ran between her brows to the top of a straight, sharp nose. The severe expression must be habitual.

He reassessed his opinion that she was a mere servant. Her surcoat was plain brown with wide sleeves, but the close-fitting green kirtle beneath had a wide band of embroidery around the straight neck and wrists that spoke of quality. Beneath the linen band across her brow, there was a glint of gold combs that swept her black hair up into rolls at each side of her head. They looked expensive, indicating wealth, and she wore rings on three of her fingers.

More than that, the way she held herself and the expression on her face suggested she was used to any command she issued being obeyed. She was clearly waiting for him to respond. He tested his tongue and found it looser.

‘My head aches,’ he said in a croaky voice. ‘I do not know this place. What happened to me?’

She frowned, deepening the small line between her straight black brows.

‘Do you remember anything of how you came to be here?’

He knew better now than to try to shake his head and simply murmured, ‘Nothing, madame. I remember nothing. What can you tell me?’

She did not answer and her eyes narrowed. He rose up as best he could and clutched at her hand and felt her fingers straighten. Her eyes widened and without knowing why he put a hand to her cheek. Immediately, the gentleness with which she had nursed him was gone, replaced by ice.

‘Take your hands off me,’ she snapped, her face becoming thunderous. She leaned closer to him and with a twist of her wrist she had slipped from his grip.

‘Pardon me,’ he said. He fell back on the pillow, panting slightly from the effort it had cost him. ‘But, please, if you can tell me anything, I beseech you to do so.’

‘I will tell you what I can. Be warned, monsieur, no man touches me without my consent, even an invalid.’

‘I understand.’

She gave a brief, tight smile of approval and settled back on to her knees, arranging her skirts with practised elegance, then rested her hands neatly in her lap.

‘You were on a ship.’

She paused and looked away. Her face closed down. She looked wary and, despite her sharp, striking features, this uncertainty gave her an air of fragility. He waited, examining her in the bright sunlight as her eyes darted quickly around. He wanted to stroke her arm and encourage her to continue, but her warning rang in his ears.

‘What do you know?’ he prompted.

‘There was a shipwreck. We found you on the beach among the debris and the dead.’ She leaned closer and her eyes raked over him, scrutinising him so intimately he imagined he was being undressed. ‘Do you really remember nothing? What is your name?’

And this was when he truly began to panic. With rising terror, he realised he did not know the answer.

‘I can’t remember!’

He heard alarm in his voice, but the woman looked suspicious. Her expression became stone.

‘Are you sure?’ She leaned closer. ‘Are you a spy? How do I know you are telling the truth?’

He reached out to clutch her sleeve to emphasise his integrity, but remembered her warning in time to stay his hand in mid-air. They both regarded it. He clenched his fist, holding it to his side, then lowered it to the fur. Their eyes found each other’s and the woman nodded. A brief moment of understanding passed between them. In any other circumstances he would find the situation extremely erotic, but the fascination he had for her had to compete with the disorientation, weakness and confusion he felt.

‘I have no proof, but believe me, please. I am telling the truth. I cannot remember who I am.’

He ground his fingers into the thick white pelt that covered him and gazed at her, willing her to believe him. She eyed him steadily, her dark eyes moving slowly over his face, up to the wound on his head and down again, further over his body. It made him feel uneasy to be examined so frankly by a stranger. More than that was the fact of her sex. The fascination he felt for her was being pushed deep inside him by a stronger, more painful emotion that cautioned him to resist and retreat. The presence of a woman felt even more unfamiliar than the unknown surroundings, but it came to him that it was not just her. He would not feel easy with any woman at his bedside, but did not know why. It was slightly reassuring because the warning voice meant that deep down inside him, some knowledge of himself still existed and could hopefully be unearthed.

‘Shall I suggest some names and see if anything seems right?’ the woman asked.

He nodded slightly.

She spoke names, pausing after each to give him time to respond and looking questioningly at him. ‘Philippe... Michel... Charles... James... Jacques...’

A dart pierced his stomach.

Jack.

That had a familiarity where the others did not. She stopped and her head tilted to one side.

‘You are Jacques? Or Jack, as you are English, I suspect. You muttered something on the shore when we found you which could have been that.’

‘You were there?’ He raised himself to his elbows, more astonished by this revelation than a possible nationality and name.

‘I was.’ She pushed herself to her feet and walked away, gracefully crossing the room to the table. She stood with her back to him, wrung out the cloth and returned. She pressed it to his forehead and used the motion to lay him back down again.

‘It was I who found you. You were the only survivor that we found.’

Her full lips twisted down with sadness and Jack—as he decided must suffice for now—was filled with warmth for her compassion. Who had time to grieve for strangers? He could remember nothing of the men who had perished, though he must have known them, and remorse chilled him.

‘I thought you were dead, but then you opened your eyes,’ the woman said in a matter-of-fact voice, as if she was recounting a day at market. ‘I was unsure if you would survive, but we brought you back here anyway and hoped.’

We? Did she have a husband? A woman of her age usually did, unless she was widowed.

‘Whose house am I in?’ he asked. ‘Where is its master?’

Her lips twitched and once again she paused before answering, filling Jack with the suspicion that there was an undercurrent he was not aware of.

‘You wish to meet the master of this house? You have no idea whose house you are in, but you assume naturally that there must be one.’

Jack said nothing, wondering if his assumption was wrong. This woman was fascinating. Perhaps she was the mistress and sole chatelaine of wherever he was.

‘Shall I call you Jack?’ she asked.

He nodded. The shape of it felt well enough in his mouth and he would be content to live under that name for the time being. If he discovered another, then he would relinquish it. If he never recovered his memory—and the thought of that made him want to scream with horror—a plain name would suit an unknown man.

‘You should sleep again,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll have food sent to you as well as water to bathe in and clean clothing.’ Her gaze raked him once more. ‘We didn’t want to touch you too much for fear of injuring you further, but I can imagine some fresh attire would be welcome.’

She wrinkled her nose slightly and Jack realised with a sense of shame that his body and hair felt filthy. There was an odour clinging to him that had the taint of seawater and stale sweat. Bathing was suddenly the most enticing thing he could think of.

‘Last night,’ he said. ‘On the shore...’

The woman raised her eyebrows.

‘Monsieur Jack, you have been unconscious for five days.’

Five days! His head swam and he shook his head, causing waves of dizziness to envelop him. ‘How?’

‘A fever took hold of you. I thought you would die. It was only last night that it broke and you were able to rest.’

She looked thoughtful, then placed her hand on his chest, over his heart. His skin flamed beneath her touch. Even with the deep sense of unease that had cautioned him to keep his distance, he did not want to discourage her from touching him in the slightest. Quite the opposite. He watched her face to see if she was equally affected. She slid her eyes to his and smiled like a cat watching a mouse and his heart gave a violent thud.

‘Your heart is strong, monsieur, even though you are weak. I think you are strong when you are well, yes?’

Jack flexed the muscles in his arms and felt them tighten easily. He felt weak and ill, but there was strength in his body that would return in time. His heart was racing, but that was from the sensation of her hand on his flesh.

‘Perhaps,’ he agreed.

She nodded in the manner of a queen receiving homage from a subject, then left. Jack listened for the sound of the bolt being drawn across, but heard nothing. He had been a prisoner before, but apparently was no longer. Or perhaps the woman rightly suspected that even if he had the inclination to roam about, he didn’t possess the strength yet.

It was only as he finished the cider and lay back to try to sleep again that it occurred to him he had not asked her name, nor had the bewitching creature given it.