Behind the Courtesan

chapter Six



The only sound for a full five minutes was the clip clop and squelch of the horses’ hooves against the dirt road, only slightly muffled by the slippery mud. Their rhythmic pace was a better distraction than Sophia’s nervous fidgeting. Each time she opened her mouth to say something she just snapped it shut again.

What was she supposed to tell him? That she had sent the letters to him because she feared her father would intercept them at home, but knew Blake’s uncle would be too drunk to notice the mail? That she hadn’t fled until after she had been raped and beaten and locked in a dark room with only her own cries of help to let her know she was still alive, still there. Rationality had no place in her actions in those early days.

Or that’s what she remembered. Thinking back was dangerous. All the pain, the fear. For two days she had traveled by foot, no shoes or stockings. Each step caused pain in so many places on her battered body, but still she didn’t stop. Her hastily packed satchel held only one borrowed dress, a comb for her hair and a spare set of underthings that were far too big. She had nothing to sell if it came to it. All she could lay claim to in the world had been left behind. She dared not return to her father’s house. She dared not tarry lest she be found and returned to Blakiston’s home.

It was becoming more than apparent that while Matthew and Blake feared for her welfare, thinking she had disappeared, she had been in the area the whole time. Locked in a damp room without even a tiny window for fresh air or a sense of time. Screaming hadn’t worked. Sobbing, begging, pleading to be set free hadn’t worked either.

Every noise she heard behind and around her that first night in the open could have been the sound of pursuit: her father come to beat her for her insubordination, the duke come to take again what she hadn’t freely given. She should have followed her initial instincts and run before the wax had a chance to dry on the documents.

Shaking her head, Sophia tried to dispel the memories that came unwanted to the forefront of her mind. She had no desire to rehash the past.

She stared at Blake, his eyes on the rough surface of the road ahead, his attention seemingly on the pair pulling the cart. “I’m sorry, Blake.”

“Never mind.” His answer was gruff, his gaze still on the road, but his shoulders seemed to drop a full three inches and the reins were somewhat released from the death grip he held on them.

Sophia resettled her skirts on the bench and hoped for a change of subject. She wanted no more attention to be paid to the night of her flight and there was something she still wanted to know, desperately. She half turned toward him and got ready for his anger.

“I don’t like that look in your eyes,” he said upon seeing the intention in hers.

“Why do you despise dukes so much? You almost could have been one.” Only a few words exchanged before God made the difference between a bastard and an heir. Between legal and illegal.

“Apart from the obvious reasons?” he replied. “Would you tolerate me better? What would you have done if you’d arrived in the tavern yard only to be told that your old playmate was now a duke?”

“Well, for one, I’m sure I would have known before now. The old duke has been where he belongs for some good time has he not?”

Blake nodded and was silent for only a moment before speaking again. “If I were a duke, we wouldn’t be sitting like this.”

“We wouldn’t argue so either.” She laughed. He skirted around the question but then she’d changed her mind when he’d asked if she would tolerate him better. She knew what he meant with those words and she wasn’t sure how to answer.

The real puzzle wasn’t if he would be a duke worthy of her bed, it was whether or not he would be a man worthy of her bed.

“I would like you just the same if you were a duke or a stable lad.” They might battle with one another but she did respect him when he wasn’t calling her names, even if they were mostly deserved.

“So you like me? Even as a bastard?” Blake leaned over and bumped her shoulder with his. It was the first glimpse she’d had of her childhood friend. Playful, fun, happy.

Sophia drew a theatrical sigh. “I suppose I must. It is still a long journey home.”

Before he could catch her on her slip of an admission—home—the reins pulled sharply in his hands cutting into his skin as he attempted to bring Misty and Monster in hand.

Monster pulled hard and seemed to almost hit the ground but then a wild animal scream rent the air and the cart lurched violently. It happened so quick. He couldn’t let go of the leather straps pulled tight in his hands. He couldn’t even look to see if Sophie held on or if she was in trouble. Then she was gone. Her skirts didn’t fill the edge of his vision, her cry a distant sound behind as he fought the traces.

And then the cart stopped dead and Blake was thrown over the drive board to land hard on the horse’s warm flesh. The bones in his neck gave an almighty crack as his head snapped back. Beneath his shoulder and ribs, Monster screamed again and thrashed. The horse was down, but tried with every powerful muscle he had to right himself. Blake was once again launched through the air to land on the side of the road with an oomph, the impact knocking the breath from his body.

He jumped to his feet and ignored the sharp agony radiating from his left side. Monster still screamed in that way horses do when something is desperately wrong and only one glance told Blake he’d broken his leg, the bone visible through the blood and mud.

Damn Blakiston and his penny-pinching. The terrible state of the road was likely to blame for his horse’s injury.

It took but a second to take in the scene and decide what to do. Misty kept launching herself at the traces, kept trying to drag the cart forward to escape the smell of blood, the fear from her companion and driver, the noise that scraped at one’s ears. She was going to turn the cart and drag everything straight into a ditch.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, jerking this way and that with the horse’s movements, he reached beneath the rough timbers. Blake took out two linen wrapped bundles. The first, a loaded pistol which he gripped tightly in his right hand, the second, a short knife which he held in his left. He wasn’t sure what to do first. Put Monster out of his hysterical misery or cut Misty free.

Deciding it was more important for Misty to take off into the afternoon’s fading light, he tucked the gun into the back of his waistband and approached Misty with a hand out, muttering soothing murmurs that she would only just hear over the still screaming Monster.

“Easy there girl,” he said, trying to run his hand gently over the muscles rippling her hide. “I’m going to cut you loose.”

If he released Monster from his pain first, Misty would still try to break free and they would all be in more trouble. He would rather be stuck on the road with a cart for shelter than lose everything including his last horse.

Within minutes, he had the lead ropes cut, still murmuring to a horse with wild eyes and a tension that told him she would be dangerous when finally unfastened.

He’d concentrated so intently that he hadn’t noticed Monster’s screams diminishing, the big horse now shooting breath from his nostrils in heavy gushes of wet, hot air. Reaching over Misty’s back, he cut another rope. Only three left to do and she would be safe from the cart and ties. But not from her own terror. That could still undo her.

As he cut the rope stretching over her massive girth, he looped his fingers in the bit to keep her head still, but Misty wouldn’t have it. She rose up in the air, blocking out the sky and everything else as she loomed over his head.

But even as Blake covered his head, he felt the edge of her razor-sharp shoe skate over his shoulder, the pain immediate and searing, ripping through his shirt to graze down to his elbow. When she landed back on solid earth, he didn’t hesitate. Sawing the knife against the leather took only seconds, but it felt like hours, the motions seemingly slowed to a point where he didn’t think he even moved. Misty kept trying to thrash her head from side to side to dislodge the hand at her jaw. She was beyond help as she tried to bite, tried to dislodge the bit between her teeth so he would have no control.

And then he let her go, jumping back, landing heavily once again, Misty’s beating hooves sounding for only two heartbeats before she was gone from sight.

Blake said a little prayer for her that she didn’t find a hole in the deteriorated road or stumble in her haste.

Misty must have kicked Monster, either that or the big horse finally noticed he was dying, his screams of pain starting up again. Blake rolled to his feet, every inch of the pain inflicted on him by his own animals ached and throbbed at the same time.

There was nothing he could do for the other horse. He wasn’t going to dodge yet more deadly hooves just to see if given the chance the horse would right himself. Reaching for his pistol, he found only the fabric of his dirty trousers. When he glanced back to see where he’d dropped it, Sophie was there, blood dripping down her cheek from her head. Her once beautiful gown was covered in mud and God knew what else. In her outstretched palm was the pistol he needed to silence the big black beauty.

“You might want to turn away,” he warned as he took the gun from her shaking hand.

She nodded and turned her body, chin slumping to her chest.

“I’m sorry, boy,” he whispered as he kneeled on the horse’s neck. Monster renewed his struggle to stand as Blake’s weight bore down. Placing the muzzle against Monster’s head, Blake closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.