Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(6)
“How long has the man been kept here?” she inquired, glancing uneasily about her. It seemed impossible for anyone to long retain their sanity in a hole like this.
“Nigh to three months, milady.”
“Three months!” Shanna gasped. “But your note said he was only just condemned. How is that?”
Hicks snorted. “The magistrate didn’t rightly know what to do with the bloke, milady. Wid a name like Beauchamp, a fellow ‘as to be bloody careful just ’oo ‘e’s ’anging, even Lord ‘Arry himself is a mite afeared of the Marquess Beauchamp. Ol’ ‘Arry was reluctant, ye might say, but him being the magistrate, it were up to himself and no other. Then ’bout a week ago, ‘e gave the word—’ang him.” Hicks’s weighty shoulders lifted then fell as if they were a burden too heavy for him. “I ‘spect it’s cause the bloke’s from the colonies and as far as known, ’e’s no close kin to folks ‘ere. Or ’Amy instructed me to have the fellow ‘anged quiet like with no fuss so these other Beauchamps and the Marquess wouldn’t learn o’ the deed. Being the clever man that I am, I figured when they give me to ‘andle the matter on the sly that Mister Beauchamp be the one for ye.” Hicks paused before an iron door. “Ye said ye wanted a man bound for the gallows, and I couldn’t give him over to ye until Ol’ ‘Arry made up his mind to ’ang him.”
“You’ve done well, Mister Hicks,” Shanna replied, a trifle more graciously. It was even better than she had hoped! Now as to the man’s appearance and consent…
The gaoler thrust a key into a lock and pulled on a door which, with a loud creak of rusty hinges, yielded. Shanna exchanged a quick glance with Pitney, knowing the moment was at hand when she would either see an end to her plan or a beginning.
Mister Hicks lifted the lantern to let more light into the small cell, and Shanna’s gaze settled on the man within. He was huddled on a narrow cot and clasped a ragged, threadbare blanket about his shoulders as meager protection against the chill. As the candle’s glow presented him, he stirred and covered his eyes as if they hurt. Where the sleeve was torn from his arm, Shanna saw an ugly bruise. His wrists were chafed raw where manacles had been. Straggly black hair and a dark beard hid most of his features, and staring at him Shanna could not help but think of some fiendish creature which had crawled up from the bowels of the earth. A shudder ran through her as the worst of her fears seemed realized.
The prisoner pushed himself up against the wall until he sat and shaded his eyes.
“Damn it, Hicks,” he growled. “Can you not even let me enjoy my sleep?”
“On yer feet, ye bloody cur!”
Hicks reached out to prod him with the hardwood staff he carried, but when the prisoner obeyed, the turnkey hurriedly stepped back several paces.
Shanna’s breath caught in her throat, for the lean frame unfolded until the man stood a full head taller than Mister Hicks. She could now see the wide shoulders and, beneath the open shirt, the lightly furred chest which tapered to a flat belly and narrow hips.
“ ‘Ere’s a liedy to see ye.” Hicks’s voice was noticeably less demanding than before. “And if ye has it to harm her, let me warn ye—”
The prisoner strained to see into the blackness beyond the lantern. “A lady? What madness do you practice, Hicks? Or perhaps some more subtle torture?”
His voice came smooth and deep, pleasant to Shanna’s ears and bore no hint of a slur. It was easy flowing and less clipped than what she was accustomed to hearing in England. A man from the colonies, Hicks had said. That was, no doubt, the reason for the subtle qualities in his speech. Yet there was something else as well, an amused mockery that seemed to scorn everything about the gaol.
Shanna held to the shadows for a moment longer as she carefully studied this Ruark Beauchamp. His garments were as ragged as the blanket, and she became acutely aware that they were gathered in places with string in an attempt to cover his slender torso. His breeches were torn nearly to the waist on one side, and the rough mending concealed little of the lithe line of his flank. A linen blouse, perhaps once white, was now mottled with filth and barely recognizable. It hung in tattered shreds from his shoulders and showed thinly fleshed ribs that were still well muscled despite his deprivation. His hair was uneven and wildly tossed, yet his eyes filled with alert awareness as he attempted to make out her form. Failing that, he drew himself up and bowed formally to the blackness that shrouded her. A satirical tone was in his voice.