Читать книгу My Lord Savage - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 11

Rowena fought for balance as the savage wrenched her forward. Her head struck one of the bars, setting off an explosion of pain. She sagged for an instant, the candle flame spinning in her vision. Then, as her senses cleared, she began to twist and claw in earnest.

“Let me go!” She spat out the words, forgetting that he would not likely understand her. “I’m not your enemy, you fool! I’m here to help you!”

His grip tightened around her wrists. She felt the crushing of bones and tendons. Rowena whimpered as he wrenched her flat against the bars. She might have screamed, but she knew no one else in the house would be able to hear her. Not from this deep, dark place.

She could see the savage’s face now by the light of the guttering candle. His cheekbones were gaunt bronze slabs. His jet eyes were as cold as a panther’s. She could smell him, too. His scent was a trapped animal’s, thick with the musk of rage and terror.

“Let me go,” she gasped, weak with pain. “They’ll come for me…they’ll punish you—”

He growled something under his breath—a guttural, menacing phrase whose meaning Rowena could only guess. The grip of his manacled hands shifted, and for the space of a heartbeat she thought she might have reached him. But no—he was only crossing her wrists so that he could wrap a length of his chain around them, leaving his right hand free. By the time Rowena realized his intent, it was too late to jerk away.

She was on her knees now, her body molded to the bars. The savage’s face was a handbreadth from her own. Rowena shuddered as his black eyes impaled her. “Tell me what you want,” she whispered, choking back panic. “If it is within my power—”

Her words ended in a gasp as his huge hand knifed through the bars and caught her at the waist. She would have wrenched herself away, but the iron grip on her wrists kept her pinned against the bars. She froze, her heart pounding, as his fingers groped the span of her waist, fumbling awkwardly with the knotted sash of her robe.

Rowena’s eyes closed as the knot came loose and the robe fell open. The bars were strong, she reminded herself. Aside from hurting her hands, the savage could not truly harm her. All the same, her heart seemed to stop as his fingers seared through the thin fabric of her shift, moving urgently along the curve of her waist, then lower, skimming her hipbones. His dangerous touch triggered subtle tuggings and tightenings in the moist core of Rowena’s body. A tiny moan quivered in her throat.

She thought of the candlestick, the candle still flickering on the floor where she had left it. One well-placed kick could tip it into the straw that lined the cell. The straw would begin to smolder, then burst into leaping flames…

She could not move.

His touch became more demanding, more frantic. Rowena could feel the anger in him, the rising tide of frustration that grew until it exploded out of him in a single word.

“Key!”

She stiffened against him in sudden awareness. The savage had evidently learned on the ship that a key was needed for opening locks. He had even managed to learn the word. And last evening in the courtyard, the ring of keys hanging at her waist had caught his sharp gaze. He was looking for those keys now.

Finding nothing, he drew back from the bars. His eyes seethed with anger. “Key!” he demanded again, jerking her arms so hard that she whimpered. “Key! Give me!”

“No!” Rowena began speaking volubly, with no idea of how much he could understand. “I don’t have any keys with me. And even if I did, even if I were to let you out of this place, it would do you no good. You’d be lost in this land. You wouldn’t know where to go, where to hide, how to find food and clothing. You wouldn’t have the first idea how to get on a ship and return to your own country. You must stay here for now. Stay here!” She emphasized the words, praying he would understand their meaning. But he only glowered at her, his eyes so hot with pain and hatred that their gaze all but withered her spirit.

“I don’t have the key,” Rowena said again, resisting the painful pull on her hands. “No key.”

The savage stared at her, then snorted with disgust and let her go so abruptly that Rowena tumbled backward into a pile of moldering firkins. The small barrels came bumping and rolling down around her, making such a commotion that she feared someone in the house would hear. She sat up, rubbing her bruised temple, as the racket subsided.

The candle had burned down to a glowing stub. By its faint light she could see the savage, standing now, behind the bars of his prison. The fierce majesty of his presence filled the wretched space. Who had he been in that other faraway world? Rowena found herself wondering. What would he tell her if she could understand his alien tongue?

But this was no time for idle questions. She would need to get the candle at once, before it sputtered out and left her in darkness. She felt the savage’s eyes on her as she crept forward and snatched the candlestick from its place on the floor. The sudden motion fanned the flame, causing the light to dance crazily over the walls of the cellar. As Rowena scrambled to her feet she glimpsed his face—the grim mouth twisted wryly at one corner, disdainful, amused, as if he were silently laughing at her. She felt a sudden surge of irritation. Her temper flared like tinder as she swung back to face him.

“I’m not afraid of you!” she snapped, not caring whether he understood or not. “And I have better things to do than put up with your bullying! If you’re too blind to see that I’m your only friend in this place, there’s nothing more to say! You can stay down here by yourself and rot!”

She wheeled abruptly and stalked toward the stairs. Her exit would have done a queen proud if her candle had not, at that very moment, burned to the end of its wick. The fragile light flickered and died, plunging the cellar into pitch blackness.

Only Rowena’s anger kept her from giving way to panic. She could not, would not let the savage know how terrified she was, she vowed as she groped her way across the cluttered floor. She had suffered enough humiliation without giving him cause to laugh at her again.

The memory of his searching fingers, hard and rough through the fabric of her shift, brought a surge of heat to her cheeks. She’d had no choice except to let him touch her, Rowena reminded herself. But that did not in any way excuse her from responding like a cat in heat. What could she have been thinking? That he wanted her? That any man could want her? What rubbish! He had wanted nothing except the key to his prison. Failing to find it, he had flung her away like a piece of tainted meat.

What had she expected? In the name of heaven, what had she wanted? Rowena inched forward, her face burning with shame in the darkness. Behind her, where the savage stood, there was nothing but silence.

Her shoulder scraped against a wall, and in the next instant her groping feet found the bottom of the long stairway. Sick with relief, she toiled her way upward, one hand clutching at the cold stones for support.

Eternities seemed to pass before she emerged into the corridor on the ground floor of the house. The shadows were more familiar now but they gave her no comfort. The very walls mocked her folly as she fled across the great hall and stumbled up the stairs. Reaching her own chamber, she bolted the door, flung herself into her bed and hastily drew the curtains. Even then the laughing demons would not be shut out. Rowena lay hot-faced and quivering beneath the covers, waiting for the mercy of dawn.

Black Otter fingered a corner of the quilt the woman had pushed through the bars of his cell. It was a wondrously fine thing—thick and soft, its covering smoother than doeskin. The fabric still smelled of her body—a pungent, flowery aroma that was nothing like the scent of his own people. Raising it to his nose, he inhaled deeply. The odor flooded his senses, awakening a spark of heat in his groin. He frowned at the sensation. Was he so woman-hungry that the very scent of this tall, pale creature could rouse him to desire? If that was so, he was even worse off than he’d thought.

Flinging the quilt down with a snort of self-disgust, he turned his attention to the bread. The loaf was fresh and soft beneath its crisp outer crust. Black Otter was starving, but he kept a tight rein on his appetite as he broke off one small piece and tasted it. Like the water, it might have to last him a long time.

The bread was light and chewy in texture, a far cry from the dense, flat maize cakes he had eaten all his life. But the flavor—yes, it was good. More than good. It was all he could do, in fact, to keep from bolting the entire loaf. But Black Otter was a disciplined man, his will tempered by experience. He ate only enough to dull the edge of his hunger. Then he wrapped his body in the quilt and settled himself against the wall, still clutching the bread to guard it from the rats.

The woman had brought him this gift of food and warmth, he reminded himself. She had come alone, at great risk, to do him the first kindness he had known in this strange land.

He remembered her moon-white face in the flickering candlelight, her large, cat-colored eyes wide with fear. It had not been easy for her to come to him—he had not made it easy. But even when he’d done his best to frighten her, she had not lost her courage. For that she had earned his grudging respect.

And he was not ungrateful for her gifts, Black Otter mused as he sank deeper into the softness of the quilt. Gratitude, however, was not the same as friendship. All whites were his enemies, this tall, strong-minded female among them. But if ever the chance came for vengeance he would remember this night and, perhaps, let her live.

He had resolved to not sleep, but as the warmth crept into his aching body he felt his eyelids grow heavy. The woman-musk scent of the quilt stole around him, awakening subtle urges in the depths of his body. He remembered touching her through the thin cloth, his fingertips tracing the long curve of her waist in search of the keys. If his hand had moved higher—or lower—would he have discovered her to be like the women of his people? Would his fingers have found the quivering softness of her breasts, the moist, secret cleft of her womanhood? Would her breath have caught and quickened at his touch?

Black Otter exhaled, pushing her image from his mind. Such careless thoughts would only do him harm. They would lull his spirit, causing him to lower his guard and miss the chance that would surely come. For such a lapse, he would never forgive himself.

He stared into the darkness, striving to fill it with the faces of those he had loved and remembered—pretty Morning Cloud who had died in his arms; their children, their friends, all of the people who made up the big, warm extended family of the village. He would return, Black Otter vowed. No matter what he had to do, no matter who he had to hurt, he would return.

His eyelids were growing heavy again, and the quilt was as soft and enfolding as a woman’s arms. Black Otter was drifting deeper, and he knew he could not battle sleep any longer. The white woman’s aura seeped like perfumed smoke through his senses. He smelled her, tasted her, and saw her dark-rimmed eyes in the candlelight. He heard her breathy gasp as his fingers touched her flesh.

As he sank into slumber, hers was the last image he saw.

“By my faith, have you lost your mind?” Sir Christopher confronted his daughter across the breakfast table. “What in heaven’s name were you thinking last night?”

“That our prisoner was in need of some common kindness.” Rowena willed herself to meet her father’s angry eyes. She knew better than to deny what she had done last night. Her quilt had already been discovered in the savage’s cell.

“The creature is dangerous, Rowena. He could have hurt you, even killed you!”

“As you can see for yourself, he did neither. I came away from the encounter quite unscathed.” Rowena avoided glancing at her wrists, which bore small, dark welts where the savage had jerked his chain around them. She had chosen a gown with long, lace-edged sleeves that covered all but her fingers. Her father did not need to know everything that had happened.

“This time you were fortunate,” Sir Christopher snapped. “But the savage is not to be trusted. You’re to have nothing more to do with him, and that’s that!”

“I suppose I should respect your wishes,” Rowena answered quietly. “But I am the only person in this place who has treated him kindly. You may discover that he trusts no one else.”

Sir Christopher cursed under his breath, swallowed his ale too quickly and broke into a fit of coughing. Rowena was on her feet at once, sprinting around the table to pound the old man between the shoulder blades until his raised hand signaled that he was all right. As the coughing subsided she bent closer, pressing the tankard toward his chapped lips. He waved her away.

“Don’t fuss over me!” he grunted. “I’m a man, not some ancient dotard who needs to be fed and wiped.”

“That I know.” Rowena sighed as she reined back the impulse to dab a bead of spittle from the end of his jutting chin. Only then did she notice the folded letter, its wax seal already broken, lying next to her father’s plate. A groan escaped her lips as she recognized the oddly back-slanted handwriting.

“Not Edward Bosley again! What does he want this time?”

“Need you ask?” Sir Christopher crumpled the letter between his arthritic hands. “The wretch is out of money again and asking for a handout! Just because he married your mother’s younger sister and worried her into an early grave, he thinks he’s entitled to bleed me dry!”

“Tell him no,” Rowena said. “If it were up to me, that’s what I would do.”

“Even if he were to inform you that he could find no more work in the theater and as a consequence his landlord was about to throw him into the street—in which case he would be forced to come and take shelter with us?”

Rowena sagged against the side of the table, remembering Edward Bosley’s last visit. “How much does he want?” she asked.

“Twenty pounds. For now.”

“And twenty pounds again next month, I’ll wager. Very well, I’ll see that the money is sent.” Rowena returned to her chair and forced herself to take a spoonful of porridge. “Now, about the savage, Father—”

He scowled up at her, eyes narrowing sharply behind his spectacles. “No, Rowena,” he said. “I know where this discussion is leading, and there’s no use—”

He broke off as Thomas burst into the hall. The husky Cornishman was out of breath. His fleshy face was as pale as a slab of lard.

“’Tis the savage, sir!” Thomas gasped. “He looked to be asleep, so I told Dickon to open up the door and get the slop bucket. The bastard jumped poor Dickon and got him by the throat! I managed t’ get the door shut, but Dickon is locked in the cell with the savage—that is, if ’e’s not kilt by now!”

“Bloody fool!” Sir Christopher was on his feet. “See what you’ve done!” he said, turning angrily to Rowena. “Your so-called kindness did little more than lessen the creature’s fear of us! Now there’ll be the devil to pay!”

“Oh, hurry, sir!” Thomas’s eyes bulged wildly. “The red ’eathen keeps screamin’ something about a key! If we don’t get down there…” The rest of his words were lost as he wheeled and raced back toward the corridor. Sir Christopher, feeling his arthritis, labored after him.

Rowena bumped her hip as she plunged around the corner of the table. The heavy key ring at her waist jangled as it struck wood.

Pausing, her father shot her a stern backward glance. “And where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.

“I’m coming with you,” Rowena said. “If there’s anything I can do—”

“Haven’t you done enough harm already? Stay up here where you belong!”

“With all due respect, Father—” she began, but this was no time for an argument, and they both knew it. With an indignant huff, Sir Christopher turned on his heel and hobbled furiously toward the corridor. Rowena caught up her skirts and rushed after him. Dickon, for all his size and strength, was the gentlest of souls, an innocent creature with the mind of a child. He had grown up on the manor and, as a youth, taught her to ride her first pony. She could not bear the thought of his being hurt. As for the savage—

Rowena forced all concern for the dark-skinned prisoner from her mind as she pressed past her father in the narrow corridor. This was no time for sentiment. If it came to a choice, Dickon would be the one saved. The savage, for all his worth, would be destroyed like a rabid dog.

From the top of the stairs she could see the yellow flare of torchlight on the walls. She paused while her father, his breathing alarmingly labored, came up behind her. He was too old for this ordeal, Rowena realized, her own heart pounding. His reflexes were too slow, his judgment too impaired by his years. She could not allow Sir Christopher to pit himself against the primeval strength and lightning instincts of the man in the cell.

She alone stood a chance against the savage.

Murmuring a plea for forgiveness, Rowena turned, pressed a hand against her father’s chest and shoved him backward into the corridor. Before the stunned old man could react, she wheeled and flung herself into the dark stairwell, pausing only long enough to slam the door and bolt it fast behind her.

“Rowena!” Sir Christopher pounded impotently on the massive oaken planks. “Open this door at once! Open it, I say!”

Closing her ears to his cries, Rowena hurried down the stairs, down and down, into the very maw of danger.

Fear hung in the dank cellar air, its presence so acrid that she could almost taste it. In the hellish glare of the torchlight, Thomas stood outside the cell jabbing a long wooden pike through the bars. The savage had backed into a shadowed corner, just out of his reach. One muscular brown arm was wrapped around Dickon’s throat. The other gripped the hapless servant’s waist.

“Keep back, mistress,” Thomas warned as she moved closer. But Rowena scarcely heard him. Her attention was riveted on the drama in the cell. She could see the glint of firelight on Dickon’s bulging blue eyes. She could see terror in every line of his plump, gentle face. Behind him the savage was no more than a black shadow, but she knew he was watching her.

“Key!” His voice rasped out of the darkness, pleading, demanding. Rowena felt the weight of the brass ring at her waist. One of the keys, old and rusted, was a twin to the key Thomas had used to open and lock the door of the cell. But she had no key that would free the prisoner’s manacled wrists and ankles. Her heart sank as she realized there might be no such key, except, perhaps, aboard the ship that had carried him to Falmouth.

“Rowena!” Sir Christopher’s muffled voice rumbled through the locked door as she glided like a sleepwalker toward the bars. “Have you gone mad? Let me in!”

Rowena pretended to not hear. Her father would be frantic, she knew, but a tragedy lay in wait here. If she did not act swiftly and courageously someone would die in this wretched place.

As she drew closer she could hear the whimpering sounds that came from Dickon’s throat. His face was an ashen lump above the dark band of the savage’s arm. Thomas was still jabbing uselessly with the pike. Rowena laid a hand on his arm. “Stop,” she said in a low voice. “You’re only threatening him. It won’t help.”

He hesitated, and for the space of a heartbeat Rowena feared he would argue. But Thomas was a servant and she was mistress of the great house. In the end he withdrew the pike and backed reluctantly away. From the top of the dark staircase, Sir Christopher continued to pound and rage. “Mind the door, Thomas,” Rowena said. “Keep my father safely out of this. Don’t let him interfere or you’ll answer sorely for it.”

“Aye, mistress,” Thomas muttered, his voice weighted with reluctance. He would answer sorely in any case.

Rowena could feel the savage’s black eyes on her as she fumbled with the cord at her waist, freeing the ring of keys. Her unsteady fingers found the oldest and rustiest among them and thrust it into the lock.

The corroded mechanism balked for a moment, then the tumblers clanked into place and the door opened.

Rowena could see the savage clearly now. His height and bulk filled the far corner of the cell. Black hair streamed in his battered, feral face. Black eyes glowed amber in the dancing torchlight. He looked like the devil incarnate, she thought. Only the sight of Dickon’s blanched face and bulging eyes kept her from bolting to safety and locking the door behind her.

“Hold on, Dickon,” she muttered, clutching the ring of keys. “I’ve come to get you out of here.”

Brave words. But Rowena felt her spirit quail as her eyes met the savage’s desperate gaze. There was a fair chance she could fool him long enough to free the terrified servant. But what would the savage do once he discovered that none of her keys would unlock his manacles?

She stepped into the cell and felt the stench of fear close around her, thick and dark and fetid. Beyond the barred door, even her father had fallen silent. She could hear nothing but the crackle of burning pitch, the labored sound of Dickon’s breathing, and the drumming of her own heart.

Dickon’s pale eyes bulged in the torchlight. Behind him, the savage seemed no more than a tall, black shadow. Only his arm and his massive fist had substance where they caught the light. She could see the chain now, passing in front of the groom’s plump, white throat. A single jerk would be enough to break his windpipe.

Swallowing her terror, Rowena forced herself to speak. “Don’t be afraid, Dickon,” she said gently. “I won’t let him hurt you. See, I’ve brought the keys. That’s what he wants.”

Dickon’s eyes flickered in response. His breath gurgled in and out, blocked by the pressure of the chain against his neck. “Let him go.” Rowena spoke slowly and clearly to the savage, holding the key ring just out of easy reach. The Indian made no response.

“I said, let him go!” Rowena’s hand dropped onto the bruised knuckles of the powerful hand that gripped the chain. The light contact sent a shock up her arm, a sensual chill that jolted through her veins. She felt the responding jerk of his hand. It took all her self-control to keep from leaping backward.

“Key! You open!” He rasped the words, shaking a manacled wrist in her face. The motion tightened the chain around Dickon’s neck. The groom gurgled in terror.

“Let him go!” Rowena ordered, punctuating the words with emphatic gestures. “You let him go, or no key. Understand? No key.”

“I…kill.” The chain tightened across Dickon’s throat. “Kill him…kill you.”

Rowena’s knees threatened to buckle beneath her petticoats. She willed herself to stand tall and speak fiercely. “You kill, you die!” she said. “Right here. Right now.”

Thomas moved the torch closer to the cell, shining the light directly in the savage’s eyes. The black pupils contracted sharply. Then slowly the chain slackened against the groom’s throat. The links slithered in the torchlight, and suddenly Dickon was free. He stumbled forward, half paralyzed by fear.

“Go on, Dickon,” Rowena said softly. “You’re all right now. Thomas will let you out.”

Dickon lurched toward the door of the cell. Rowena heard the ancient hinges creak behind her as Thomas opened the door. Then the iron bars closed. She was alone in the cell with the savage.

Her savage, she reminded herself. She had come to save him as well as the hapless groom. Now he stood before her in wretched majesty, his shackled arms extended, his eyes squinting in the torchlight.

How long could she play this game of pretense? And where would it end?

Rowena was about to find out.