A Wretched Rake, page 2
Part of her wished to delay the moment as long as possible while another part just wished to have it over.
How awful would consummating their marriage be?
The early summer air still held a chill that her outfit did little to stave off. Climbing into the bed, she pulled the covers around her chest and brought her hair over one shoulder to keep the strands from tangling as she sat with her back against the headboard.
Her fingers clenched and unclenched in the blankets as she waited, minutes passing into an hour.
Her eyes closed and her head fell forward.
She couldn’t quite bring herself to fully lay down, the position was too vulnerable, but a day of constant worry after multiple nights of barely sleeping in anticipation of tonight, had exhaustion pulling at her limbs.
Her eyes drifted closed, but she forced them open again.
It had to be approaching midnight. Would she receive a reprieve this evening after all? Had Makem fallen asleep again after several more glasses of wine?
A little hope filled her chest, and she slumped down lower in the bed, wishing for the reprieve of blissful sleep when a deafening bang reverberated through the house.
She yelped in surprise, the sound she made drowned out by the yells and screams echoing through the rest of the house.
But it was only the beginning.
All through the house, men began to yell, and women screamed. And then came the noise of pistols firing. Was this normal? It couldn’t be… Isabelle jumped from the bed, took one look down, and dove back under the covers. She ought to escape…
Her eyes scanned the room in the dim light, but no housecoat was visible. Should she dress? Hide? She shook with fear, frozen as the noise reached a deafening cacophony. Not knowing what else to do, she burrowed under the covers, pulling them up over her head.
Hiding was a ridiculous reaction. She wasn’t a child having a nightmare. Some terrible event was happening downstairs, she couldn’t even imagine what or why, but she knew she was in danger.
Would she die tonight? That thought had her head coming out from under the covers. With all that was happening, could she escape?
She pushed the blankets back again, swinging her legs over the side. She had no money, no place to go, but anywhere was better than here.
She rose from the bed, crossing to find her clothes when suddenly, the door banged open.
She screamed, spinning toward the sound as her arms wrapped around her body to cover herself.
Standing in the doorway, a man filled the space. His face bore thick scars, his size alone so intimidating that she let out another strangled scream. His shoulders filled the doorway, his head nearly touched the top of the door frame.
He looked more menacing than Makem or any of his men. And then he raised a pistol.
Isabelle gasped in a breath, her head spinning wildly, a moment before the room went black.
Bode cursed a black streak as the pretty whore fell to the ground. Dropping his gun, he left the door open as he searched several more rooms, looking for his mark.
But Makem had disappeared.
“Any sign of him?” he bellowed the question, several men echoing the question down the chain of his men that filled the house.
Lockton jogged up to him, his scowl telling Bode that they had not succeeded in capturing Makem. “He had a secret exit,” Lockton growled. “We found it in the kitchen, but it didn’t look like a door from the outside. We didn’t realize it was there until it was too late, and Makem escaped with several men.”
“Bloody bullocks,” Bode roared as he swiped a hand through his dark blond hair. He hated losing.
Life had taught him that when he lost a fight, it almost always meant his opponent would come at him again, harder, faster, more lethally.
Makem was not going to be an exception. He knew Makem’s type better than any person should. He’d been dealing with the Makems of the world since he was a child. He’d been raised by a man equally repugnant. He swiped his hand over the scars that crisscrossed his face, a reminder of all the lessons he’d learned.
“What do ye want to do?” Lockton asked.
“Collect up the women, the money, and anything else of value. We were prepared for this.”
Lockton gave a nod. “Get the goods,” he bellowed, his call being passed down the line. Bode, sure the task would done, started down the hall once again.
“We’ll have the auction this evening?”
Bode gave a nod. It was a sad fact that some of the women who worked in these houses were already married.
Their husbands were so in debt, they sold themselves to pay it off.
But for any woman who wasn’t currently married working in this house, she would be wed by morning.
He had a list of carefully cultivated clients. They were not mean men but perhaps a bit…unfortunate.
And Bode had been clear with them. He didn’t know what sort of ladies he’d be getting, Bode didn’t know any of these women.
Still, he had at least ten men looking for brides who were willing to take their chances.
For the rest of the ladies, they could return to their husbands or move to one of Bode’s houses outside the city. Their choice. He didn’t believe in forcing women to do anything.
“Any women in any of the rooms?” Lockton asked, approaching the door where the woman had fainted.
“A few,” he answered, thinking of the pretty woman who’d been alone and not with a client. Had she been waiting for someone?
He grimaced thinking of the way she’d dropped to the ground. Perhaps he should have helped her, but he’d been intent on getting his man. On stopping Makem from targeting his business anymore.
Lockton stopped in front of her door, looking into the room, his grimace evident.
Bode stopped just behind him. All he could see was a set of very lovely legs. Long and yet shapely, they spilled out from behind the bed, tapering off to pretty feet. The bed hid the rest of her body. “You didn’t shoot her, did you?” Lockton growled out, giving him a hard glare.
“Of course not,” Bode scoffed. “She fainted. That’s all.” Had she hit her head? He winced, pushing past Lockton and into the room.
Her legs shifted, her toes curling, and his shoulders sagged, relieved she wasn’t dead. He did not wish to hurt any of the women here.
He moved around the bed. He’d not looked at her much when he’d barged in, only noting that she was attractive compared to most women in the trade. Makem had been his goal.
And as this room was the largest at the end of the hall overlooking the garden, he’d assumed that this was the master’s quarters.
But he stopped as the woman came into view.
Both slender arms over her head, her sleek frame was on full display in the wisp of clothing she wore.
He stopped, his eyes widening. Dark lashes rested on her pale cheeks, and her full lips were softly parted.
She was beyond lovely, and the shapely length of her legs drew his gaze, captivating him. Christ, even her toes were attractive. She was a woman of far more quality than Bode had ever seen in Makem’s employ before.
His eyes skimmed back up her body, exposed by the sheer decolletage. Stunning.
Lockton moved into the room. “Well? Is she all right?”
She moaned softly, her head shifting from one side to the other.
In a quick motion, he pulled off his long coat, covering her exposed flesh and wrapping the fabric around her, then lifted her.
“Like I said, she fainted,” Bode said, noting that she hardly weighed anything at all.
“Let me feel her head for lumps,” Lockton grunted, as he reached Bode’s side and stuck his hand into the silky strands of her flowing dark brown hair.
Bode felt a wave of something unpleasant. Why did he care if Lockton searched her scalp?
“Only a small lump,” Lockton said, grunting. “Nice hair.”
The growl that rumbled in his chest was most unexpected as he bit out, “Annie—your wife—has nice hair.”
“That she does,” Lockton said as he cocked his head to the side. “Ye gonna auction this one?”
Bode looked down at the woman barely stirring in his arms. “Not if she doesn’t consent.” He stared down at the pert little nose and perfectly arched brows. “Besides, I’m curious about her. This isn’t one of Makem’s usual varieties.”
Lockton grimaced down at the woman in Bode’s arms. “She’s far more attractive, I’ll give her that.”
Bode started for the door, carrying her out into the hall and down the stairs. They reached the main sitting room. The guests had been escorted out and the ladies were seated in a semi-circle looking apprehensive at best. He swept his gaze over them, doing a count. There had to be fifteen of them.
Bode cleared his throat. He knew it was his job to conduct this meeting with the women, but he didn’t quite want to hand off the beauty he carried so he just stood in front of them, legs spread apart, with the woman in his arms.
“What happened to her?” a large woman with an exceptional amount of bosom called.
“I’m here to talk about you,” he leveled the busty whore with a glare to move this along as efficiently as possible.
“Mabel has a point.” Someone else raised a finger. “Did you do that to her?”
“Or was it Makem?” another called.
He scowled. “No one knocked her out cold, she fainted. I don’t hurt women. Name’s Bode Armstrong. You might have heard of Westerly House. I worked with the Duke before he retired.”
A murmur went through the women. They knew him…knew he had a reputation for being good to his girls. Now they all focused their attention on Bode.
“I’ve got ten men ready to make an honest woman out of any of you who wants it. All of them have been carefully vetted by me. They’ll be good husbands.” The ladies visibly shifted closer.
“Any of you who are married already and want to return to your husbands, a man with me tonight will take you directly. For the rest of you, I’ve got a few houses outside of London and further away from Makem’s reach. I don’t know if any of you wish to stay with Makem…”
“We don’t,” Mabel called from her spot next to the fire. “I’ll take a husband, myself.”
A murmur of assent traveled through the ladies. He looked down at the woman in his arms who hadn’t stirred since he’d brought her to his chest. “And this one? She married? Have a husband she needs to be brought back to?”
The large woman cackled. “Oh, she’s married all right, but you’re going to have a hell of a time getting her back to her husband.”
“Why’s that?” he asked staring down at the woman still not moving in his arms.
“Because,” another answered. “That’s Makem’s bride.”
Bode stumbled back. He was holding Rory Makem’s wife? That was a development he’d not anticipated. The question was, what should he do with her?
CHAPTER THREE
Isabelle woke in a warm bed, the sound of soft voices pulling her from her slumber.
A woman’s voice was first. But then…the deep rumble of a man that she did not recognize. She attempted to understand, as she shifted under the covers. Something smelled different.
Her mouth felt like paste and her head ached terribly. Had she had too much champagne? She cracked one eye open, trying to see if there was water. That’s when she realized, she wasn’t at home and in her bed.
She sat up, her mind frantically searching for some memory of where she might be and how she’d gotten here.
Her gaze caught the gauzy negligee that barely covered her, and she yanked the covers up again, the sight of the garment bringing a flood of remembrances.
She was married…the attack…the man with the scarred face. With a shudder, she let out a whimper.
“You all right, girlie?” a raspy-sounding woman asked. “How’s your head?”
“I’m fine,” she answered, not wanting to give these people any information. “Where am I?”
“Westerly House,” came a deep rumble from the shadows.
“Westerly House?” Was she supposed to know where that was? And who had spoken? She clutched the covers tighter in her hands, covering her body as her heart raced and blood rushed in her ears.
The older woman cackled. “My name’s Mama Rose. I take care of the girls here.”
Isabelle nearly cried out. Take care of the girls? She was in another whorehouse. “I don’t need any care.”
“Course you do. And it starts with some tea. I brought you a tray.” Mama Rose pointed at the stand next to the bed.
Isabelle looked to her right where a tray with plain biscuits, butter, jam, and tea sat next to the bed. She nearly cried out at the sight of them, reaching for the tray. But then she pulled back.
Should she eat the food?
She was in a strange place with even stranger people.
The man stepped out from the shadows, drawing first her gaze and then she gasped when she recognized him.
The man who’d held her at gunpoint. She cringed deeper into the covers.
“You should eat,” he rumbled. “You need your strength.”
“For what?” she whispered, shaking her head. Her hair was still undone, hanging down her back, surely a tangled mess.
“To recover,” he answered, moving to the edge of the bed. From where she sat, he appeared even larger and more intimidating.
She clamped her hands like vises into the blankets that she clutched about her chest. “I’m fine.”
He grabbed a biscuit, tore a piece off and held it out to her. She shook her head, refusing the food. What if it was meant to hurt her?
He brought it to his lips instead, swallowing the bite before he tore off another and held this one out to her as well. “Eat.”
It wasn’t a question, and tentatively, she unlocked her fingers, reaching out for the morsel before she brought it to her lips. She didn’t wish to eat but she was more frightened of saying no to this man again than she was of eating his food.
It settled like paste on her dry tongue, but even at that, a bit of food made her feel better as he poured her tea, taking a sip before he handed her the cup.
“Why am I here?” she asked, trying to control her tremble of fear as she took the cup. Her fingers shook, a bit of the tea spilling on the blanket.
He muttered a curse that did little to calm her nerves as he took the cup from her shaking hand and brought it to her lips himself.
The hot liquid slid down her throat, soothing both her parched mouth and her aching head and she gratefully took another sip.
“Can you hold the cup now?”
With a nod, she took the steaming hot liquid again, taking several more sips before she lowered the cup and looked up at the man who stood above her. Her neck was craned at a ridiculous angle as she tried and failed to ask her question again.
She’d tried to remember if she’d ever seen a man who was so…large. The size of his shoulders alone…
He looked down, his gaze giving nothing away. “You’re Makem’s wife?”
The cup trembled in her hands again, his question partially answering hers. “What are you going to do with me?”
His gaze lifted to the other woman in the room. Mama Rose stared back, harrumphed, and then finally turned, exiting.
When she did, the mysterious man grabbed a simple wooden chair and sat next to the bed. He was less intimidating this way, though she could better see his scars, and even up close, they had a frightening appearance, the sort that made her shiver with worry.
Isabelle carefully returned her cup to the tray, knowing she ought to not hold hot liquid for whatever came next.
He leaned back in the chair, assessing her again.
Sunlight shone into the room, glinting off his blond hair. It was one of the few approachable things about him. “Why don’t you answer my question first?”
To be fair, he hadn’t answered any of hers either. Then again, he wasn’t lying in a bed in scanty clothing. “What day is it?”
He sighed with a scowl. “Questions still?”
She shrank a little. Her first impression was only confirmed with this meeting. He was a giant of man, his face as uncompromising and frightening as a person might possibly be. “I’m trying to answer yours,” she whispered, her gaze casting down.
“Friday.”
“I married him yesterday.”
He sat silent for long enough that she lifted her gaze to his. “Last night was your wedding night.”
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway.
“I interrupted your wedding night.”
Again, she nodded.
“Is he very enamored with you?” He leaned forward, causing her to shrink back.
“I have no idea,” she answered honestly. Wasn’t it her turn to have a question answered? “What are you going to do with me? Why am I here?”
“All the women from the house are here or they were.”
“Where are they now?”
“Some went off to marry, some returned to their husbands, and a few went to another house of mine.”
“And where will you send me?”
“You’re staying here.”
She gasped, not sure what that meant. “For how long?”
Another silence, the only movement, the ticcing of his jaw. “Until I find your husband.”
She stared at him for a moment, trying to understand those words. “What if I wish to leave?” But the answer slowly penetrated her brain. She wasn’t a guest as much as she was an unwilling captive. And this man was her captor.
Inwardly, Bode winced.
The answer was that he had no intention of letting her go.
But no one wanted to hear she was being held against her will. “Was it a love match? You and Makem?”
She stared at him.
He recognized her fine accent and even with her hair a tangled mess, a refined quality to her features spoke of wealth and affluence. Even the way she’d held her teacup, her long-tapered fingers gentle and graceful around the cup.
