Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(5)

“Your mind is set?” Pitney asked in a deep, rasping voice. “This is to be the way of it?”

“Aye, Pitney,” she murmured quietly and, with more determination, “I will see it through.”

In the meager light cast by the carriage lanterns, his gray eyes met hers. His brow wore a worried frown. “Then you’d best make yourself ready.”

Shanna set her mind and with cool deliberation pulled a heavy lace veil down over her face and adjusted the deep hood of her black velvet cloak so that it further obscured her identity and held her long, golden-veined tresses from view.

Pitney led the way toward the main portal, and, following, Shanna fought an almost overwhelming urge to flee in the opposite direction. But she checked the impulse, reasoning that if this were madness, then marriage to a man she loathed would be hell.

At their entry the turnkey struggled to his feet with an eagerness born of greed and came forward to greet her. He was a grotesquely fat man whose arms resembled battering rams. His legs were so immense he had to walk with his feet well apart, causing a rolling motion in his gait. Yet for all of his size, he was short, his height barely matching Shanna’s, which for a woman was more small than tall. His wheezing breath, quickened with the exertion of rising from the chair, filled the room with an aroma of stale rum, leeks, and fish. Quickly Shanna pressed a perfumed handkerchief beneath her nose to ease the stomach-wrenching scent of the foul fumes.

“Milady, I feared ye ‘ad changed yer mind.” Mister Hicks chortled as he tried to take her hand to bestow a kiss upon it.

Shanna held back a shiver of revulsion and pulled away before his lips could touch her fingers, pushing her hands safely into the fur muff. She could not decide which was worse, having to stand and abide the fetid stench that hung like an unseen cloud about him or bear the sickening feel of his mouth upon her hand.

“I am here as I said I would be, Mister Hicks,” she replied sternly. The obnoxious odor got the better of her, and she again drew the lace kerchief from the muff to wave it in front of her veiled face. “Please—” she choked, “let me see the man, so we might get on with the arrangements.”

The gaoler delayed a moment and stroked his chin thoughtfully, wondering if there might be more to gain from this than he was promised. The only other time the lady had been to the prison was nearly two months prior, and she had been heavily disguised then, also. His curiosity was greatly piqued, but she had not elaborated on the reason she wanted to meet with a condemned man. The prospect of a weighty purse urged him on, and he had faithfully supplied the names of prisoners bound for the triple tree, giving them over to the hulking man at her side when he had come to fetch them. On her first visit Hicks had taken careful note of the ring on her finger and the subdued but rich cut of her clothes. It was not hard to surmise this was no pauper’s daughter. Aye, she had a fortune all right, and he was not above wheedling a greater portion of it than he had been pledged—if he could. And that was where the difficulty lay. He dared ask nothing of her when she was accompanied by her manservant, and the bloke seemed reluctant to leave her.

Still, it seemed a shame that a woman who smelled as tempting and sweet as she, should waste any moment of her life talking to a doomed man. That fellow Beauchamp was a troublemaker, the worst prisoner he had ever led to a cell. Hicks rubbed his fat cheek reflectively, recalling the man’s fist against it. What he wouldn’t give to see the damned rogue gelded. It would serve him right. But the knave was to die, and revenge would be had, though a slower end would be more to his liking.

Mister Hicks heaved a heavy sigh, and then snorted abruptly.

“We’ll ‘ave to see to him in his cell.” The rotund gaoler snatched a ring of keys from a peg on the wall. “Been kept away from others ’e ‘as. Likely ’e woulda ‘ad the ’ole bloody lot of ‘em rising agin us.” He lit a lantern as he chattered on. “Why, took a fistful o’ redcoats to put ‘im down an’ chain him when they caught him at the inn. Him bein‘ a colonial and all, ’e’s liken to be ‘alf savage, anyway.”

If Hicks meant to put a fright into her, Shanna was having no part of it. She was calm now and knew what must be done to ease her own plight. Nothing would stand in her way after she had come this far.

“Lead the way, master gaoler,” she directed firmly. “There’ll not be a farthing exchanged until I have decided for myself that Mister Beauchamp will meet my needs. My man Pitney will accompany us should there be any trouble.”

The smile faded, and Hicks shrugged. Finding no other excuse to delay, he took up the lantern to light the way. With his peculiar rolling gait, he preceded them from the dingy room, through the heavy iron doors leading to the main gaol then down a dimly lit corridor. Their footsteps echoed on the stone steps while the lantern cast eerie, flickering shadows around them. An unearthly silence held the place, for most of the prisoners slept, but now and again a groan or muffled weeping could be heard. Water dripped from some unseen fount, and swift scurrying sounds in dark corners brought chills and a strange foreboding to Shanna. She shivered in apprehension and clutched her cloak tighter about her, feeling the wretchedness of the place.