Veil of Pearls Page 8

  The cat rubbed against Mr. Rutledge’s leg. Traitor. There was no accounting for taste among felines, she supposed.

  “It’s a she, I believe,” Morgan said. “And her name is Snowdust.” He leaned and scratched the cat’s head, causing a chink to form in Adalia’s armor. Anyone who loved children and animals couldn’t be all that bad. Unless it was only a ruse.

  She growled and continued walking. “I realize you have nothing of import to do with your time, sir, other than flirt, drink, and gamble, but

  I am a healer. There are sick people with real problems. I have no time for coddled brats who toy with people only to ease their own boredom.”

  Morgan felt as though he’d been shot with a thousand arrows. The woman never failed to astound him. He thought she’d be flattered, amazed even, that he had gone to such lengths to see her again. Any woman would. Instead, she insulted him more than anyone had ever dared—or daresay, more than he had ever allowed. And now she turned her back to him and marched away. A common servant girl! Yet he could not deny that her words dug deep into his soul. He was bored. Terribly bored. And, if he admitted it, perhaps even a bit spoiled. And he had not considered that she had important work to do. In fact, the revelation pricked his jealousy, for he had no real purpose in life other than to be his father’s son and make his father proud.

  The latter of which he was naught but an abject failure.

  He marched after her, grabbing her arm. She stiffened at his touch and sprang away from him, eyes blazing.

  Was that repulsion on her face? Impossible. No, it seemed more like fear. But of what? He’d seen the way she looked at him, the way she blushed. He knew when a lady was attracted to him. But how to win this particular lady’s heart? I must do something drastic. “Please forgive me, Miss Winston. I have behaved the incorrigible cad.” He shifted his boots in the dirt and shook his head. “I didn’t consider the inconvenience to your time.”

  Her obsidian eyes softened. She studied him as if deciding whether he told the truth. “Very well. Good day, Mr. Rutledge.”

  Feeling ever so much like a little boy who’d been scolded by a parent, Morgan watched her leave. Despondency weighed down his heart as he realized the hopelessness of his pursuit. He had found the only woman in the world beyond the reach of his expert seduction. And yet he wanted her more than any woman he’d ever met. His shoulders rose with prideful indignation. How dare she shun him after he had humbled himself by apologizing? Did she realize how difficult that had been for him? Yet as he watched her storm away, her cream-colored skirts swaying with each movement of her curves, all he found within him was admiration. Amazing, honest, wonderful girl. She challenged him. She had life within her. Something vibrant, spirited, dynamic.

  And he knew above all else he must have her for himself.

  Adalia pressed a hand on her aching back. Grabbing a cloth, she took the kettle from the fire and poured the chamomile, thyme, and honey tea into several cups. There had been an outbreak of coughing at the orphanage, and with Dr. Patterson … well, indisposed … it had been left to her to help the five children afflicted by the incessant hacking. Setting the cups on a wooden tray, she glanced out the tiny kitchen window, where a magnificent sunset spread wings of violet and saffron across the sky. Where had the day gone? She’d sent Joy back to Dr. Willaby’s to aid Cook with supper hours ago. She knew she should leave as well. Before she had to walk home alone in the dark. But the poor children … They suffered so much and were unable to catch a moment’s rest without their frail bodies breaking into spasms. Carrying the tray into the hospital, she set it down on a table and lowered herself onto a stool before the first cot.

  “Drink this, Charity.” She held the cup out to the little girl.

  The girl nodded and tried to smile. Her heart aching, Adalia eased a lock of moist hair from her forehead. So much pain in the world. “This will help you sleep too, precious one. Drink up now.”

  After the little girl drained the cup and sank back onto her pillow, Adalia stopped at the next cot. A young boy no older than three. As she urged him to drink, her thoughts drifted to her encounter with Mr. Rutledge earlier in the day. She’d long since relinquished her anger for his impertinent behavior. But what she could not shake was her astonishment at the measures he took to see her. Surely, if he sought only a frivolous assignation, he would have given up by now. Perhaps her serenade of insults today would force him to do just that. Oddly, a pinch of sorrow tweaked her heart at the thought, making her laugh at her own girlish foolishness. Indeed, any woman would be flattered by the persistent intentions of so handsome and wealthy a catch, but to dwell on it, to enjoy it, would be vanity. Besides, Adalia was grateful for the life God had given her. She had freedom and purpose and all the comforts she needed.

  Yet … she had to admit it was nice not to be looked upon as a slave, as sub-human, an animal to be used for one’s own needs. But instead to be gazed at as a princess, a cherished and valuable prize. As Morgan looked at her.

  An hour later, most of the children had drifted into a peaceful sleep.

  All save a young girl. Adalia sat with her and sang a song her own mother used to sing at night to comfort her.

  “Sleep my child and peace attend thee,

  All through the night

  Guardian angels God will send thee,

  All through the night

  Soft the drowsy hours are creeping

  Hill and vale in slumber sleeping,

  I my loving vigil keeping

  All through the night.”

  By the time she finished, the little girl had ceased her fidgeting and closed her eyes. Adalia took the opportunity to do the same. She leaned her head back on the chair, allowing the tension of the day to slip from her, and before long, exhaustion stole her conscious thoughts and dragged them to a past she’d sooner forget.

  “Serve me my tea, Althea,” Sir Walter commanded from his seat on the high-backed sofa. Adalia complied, keeping as much distance between them as possible. But it was not enough. When she handed him the steaming cup, he slid a finger over her bare arm. Nausea bubbled in her throat.

  Then his face was floating in the air above her bed—hovering like an unholy specter. A ravenous grin breached his bloated cheeks. Darkness swirled about his head. He let out a maniacal, demonic laugh.

  She ran down a thorny path. Lightning stabbed the dark sky. Iron shackles tripped her. She toppled to the ground. He reached for her.

  Waking with a start, Adalia rubbed her eyes. She gripped her throat to slow her breathing. Her hand trembled. She gazed at the precious orphan now sound asleep. Only a dream. Like all the others.

  After ensuring that the caregiver of the orphanage was in the next room, Adalia slipped out onto the street. Darkness had claimed the city, sending its minions about to stir up the elite into a festive frenzy. Music, laughter, and myriad voices tumbled through the roads and avenues, accompanied by distant thunder. A breeze, ripe with the sting of rain, swirled about her. She drew her pelisse tighter as the memory of Sir Walter sprang fresh in her mind, fanning her fear. A carriage filled with loud and obviously besotted men passed by. One of them leaned out the window and gaped at her. “Hello, miss.” He lifted his hat.

  Did these coddled urchins have nothing better to do? She knew all too well what they wanted. It was what Sir Walter had stolen from her on more than one occasion. She had been his toy, his “pet” as he had called her. He had stripped her of her childhood and her innocence and left nothing but an empty girl who clung to her God and her dreams of someday being a princess. But princesses were not soiled like her. Blinking back tears, she drew her shawl further over her shoulders and ducked into the shadows, where she wouldn’t be seen. She wished she could do the same with her memories.

  Up ahead, light spilled from a stately house onto the street. Ladies in brilliant gowns with jewels to match stood alongside men in top hats and tailcoats on the long piazza, chattering and sipping drinks. These parties were the sort
of thing Mr. Rutledge had invited her to attend. Stopping for a moment, she gazed at them dreamily. Ladies decked in colored velvet spencers, scarves of cashmere, and fur tippets. Reticules of silk dangled from their wrists as they waved painted fans about their faces. The gentlemen sauntered through the garden, ladies on their arms as they bowed and addressed each other with the dignity of their class. High collars guarded lacy cravats that tumbled from their throats like icy waterfalls. Music from a live orchestra swirled about them. So romantic. Like a fairy tale from a storybook, or a dream that drifted through one’s mind in the wee night hours. But one that could never be entered. Never be lived. Always out of reach.

  Adalia shook off the spell. Silly girl. What was she thinking? Turning, she hurried forward. Just another block and she’d be home safe.

  Footfalls pounded behind her. Her heart seized. Just one of the partygoers. Nothing to fear.

  She hastened her steps. The thumping increased in tempo and volume.

  A glance revealed a dark shadow. Someone followed her. She quickened her pace, saying a silent prayer.

  A firm hand grabbed her arm and spun her around. Out of the darkness emerged an unusually large man, wearing a satin waistcoat and breeches … and a grin on his face as if he had just won a chest of gold.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Release me at once!” Adalia struggled to free her arm from the hefty man’s grasp.

  “At once, you say?” His words slurred. He wobbled, yet his grip on her arm remained firm. “Nobody tells Aniston Mulberry the Third what to do, especially not a”—he scanned her with glassy eyes—“common tart like you.”

  A metallic taste filled her mouth. She peered about wildly. No one was in sight. No one to save her. No one to hear her scream.

  Just like at the Miles Plantation.

  “Please, sir, I beg you, let me be!” She screeched, then slammed her medical satchel against him. It didn’t faze him. He tore the bag from her hand and tossed it to the dirt then grabbed her other arm and forced her against him.

  “How about a little kiss?” He leaned toward her, lips puckered. His stench of sandalwood cologne and rum suffocated her.

  Cringing, she jerked her face away and fought to free herself. But the man’s foppish attire belied his strength. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She gulped for air. She would not be a victim again! His wet lips landed on her neck.

  “Off of her, Aniston!” A man’s hand reached over her assailant’s shoulder and jerked him around. The villain released Adalia. She stumbled backward. Catching her breath, she peered into the darkness. Mr. Rutledge, his body wound tight like a panther’s, glared up at Aniston.

  “Find your own entertainment, Morgan.” The man gave him a look of disgust before he turned back toward Adalia.

  Again Morgan pulled him back. “You’re besotted, Aniston. Go back to the soiree.”

  Aniston Mulberry the Third staggered then tugged on his lapels and threw back his wide shoulders. “I will not. I saw her first.” He shoved Morgan, sending him sprawling backward, then turned toward Adalia.

  Clutching her skirts, she started to run, chastising herself for not leaving while she had the chance. But he caught her arm and yanked her to a stop. Pain spiked into her shoulder. Morgan barreled into him, sending both of them tumbling to the dirt. Grunts, groans, and curses saturated the air. “Run, Adalia! Run!” Morgan shouted.

  Hugging herself, Adalia glanced down the street. She could make it home, but how could she leave Morgan in the hands of this massive brute?

  That brute now leapt to his feet. With a groan akin to a rabid bear’s, he grabbed Morgan’s coat and lifted him off the ground. Then swinging an arm back, he slammed his fist across Morgan’s jaw. Morgan’s face snapped to the side. Blood spurted through the air.

  It began to rain.

  Adalia gasped and looked around for a rock. Anything to stop this mammoth. Surely by size alone, he would pummel Morgan into the ground. No rocks. No bricks. All she saw was her satchel, its contents spilled onto the sand.

  Morgan wiped the blood from his lip, his face thundering in rage. “I warned you, Aniston.”

  Aniston chuckled and raised his fist to strike again, but this time, Morgan blocked his blow with one arm while slamming his other hand into Aniston’s stomach. He bent over with a groan but still managed to swing at Morgan. Dodging the incoming strike, Morgan slugged Aniston’s jaw. Still the man came at him. Would he never stop? But Morgan blocked each punch with lightning skill, forcing the man backward. Finally he fisted the villain again in the belly. This time, Aniston crumpled to the ground.

  Thunder rumbled.

  “Go home, Aniston,” Morgan ordered in a tone that begged no defiance.

  Struggling to rise, Aniston Mulberry the Third pressed a hand to his stomach and shifted his scowl from Adalia to Morgan before staggering away.

  Raindrops tapped a nervous cadence on the cobblestones.

  Adalia stood frozen in place, her breath heavy. Her eyes met Morgan’s as he moved into the light from a streetlamp. “Are you all right, Miss

  Winston?” His tone brimmed with concern. Rain pooled on his lashes.

  “Yes,” she finally managed to say. But her wobbling legs betrayed her.

  Morgan steadied her with a touch. She moved back and glanced at the man staggering away. “Friend of yours?”

  “More of an acquaintance.”

  “You keep rather debauched company.” She wiped rain from her face.

  “Indeed. I’ve been trying to rectify that as of late.” He raised a brow and grinned.

  Rainwater dripped from loose strands of his hair onto his coat. He raked a hand through them, slicking them back. Lightning flashed silver light across the sky, accentuating the yearning in his eyes.

  Adalia looked away. “If you refer to me, sir. I’m hardly the sort of company that would foster your reputation.” Water soaked through her shawl into her gown. She shivered and hugged herself, trying to control the tempest of emotions spinning within her: the terror of the attack and the horrid memories it resurrected; the appreciation she felt for this wealthy, arrogant slave owner; but worst of all, the look in his eyes that was doing funny things to her insides.

  “I beg to differ with you, miss.” Shrugging out of his coat, he flung it over her shoulders. She intended to step away from the intimate gesture, but the fine wool blanketed her in warmth, and she found she could not resist it.

  Kneeling, he picked up her herbs and ointments, placed them back into the satchel, and handed it to her.

  Thunder made her jump and brought the concern back into his eyes. “Did he harm you?”

  She shook her head as a tear joined the rain sliding down her cheek. He reached up to wipe it, but she backed away, bumping into a lamp pole.

  He approached. Blood spilled from his lip. But the look on his face threatened to crush her resolve to have nothing to do with this conceited knave.

  “I won’t hurt you, Miss Winston. I would never hurt you.” He proffered his elbow. “Allow me to escort you home out of this rain.”

  Her gaze flitted between his as if searching for his intent. Rain transformed her hair into waves of dripping ebony. Water beaded on her lashes, framing them in silver. He swallowed, not wanting to move for fear she’d dash away and vanish. She reached for him. Stopped. Hesitated. Bit her lip. But finally she placed her hand on his arm. He hated that she seemed frightened of him. Even now, as they started on their way, he could feel her trembling.

  The rain lessened to a sprinkle. A breeze whipped around them, stirring the leaves of trees and loosening the raindrops from their tips. Droplets fell to the ground in a tap tap that accompanied the rhythm of their footsteps over the shiny cobblestones.

  “I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Rutledge.” Her voice was jittery.

  “My pleasure, Miss Winston. I’m only sorry you had to endure Aniston’s assault. It’s not the first time he’s forced himself on a lady.” The anger that had raged when he’d first see
n the man’s hands on Miss Winston still simmered in his belly. The prurient oaf!

  She frowned. “How did you know where I was?”

  “I saw you pass the Crenshaw estate.”

  Her silence and the tension in her hand brooked further explanation. “I should have joined you sooner, would have joined you sooner, but … in truth, well, you made it quite plain that you wanted nothing to do with me. And I intended to honor your wishes. That was until I noticed Mr. Mulberry’s absence.”

  “Yes, I suppose I did, didn’t I.” The spark of playfulness in her tone delighted him—encouraged him to find out more about this captivating woman.

  “May I ask how you came to be a healer?”

  She was silent for a moment. Almost sad. “My mother taught me. When we lived on Ba—Jamaica. She was quite knowledgeable of healing plants. For instance, did you know that nutmeg can cure a fever? And mango leaves can help you sleep?” Excitement edged her voice. “It is simply miraculous how God provided all we need for our health within the natural world. We just have to know where to look for the cures.” She glanced at him. “Oh my. I’m talking too much. Forgive me, Mr. Rutledge.”