The Making Of A Gentleman. Ruth Axtell Morren
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and no one, and remembered the other man’s words.
Lord, protect me. Show me what to do. Show me Your purpose in bringing me here. Only Scriptures could allay the terror that threatened to paralyze her.
She’d been face-to-face with many criminals since her work at Newgate, but always there had been a guard within calling distance, or an iron grating separating her.
She was not alone, she reminded herself. The Angel of the Lord encamped round about her. If the Lord had allowed the events of the past hour, it must mean He had heard her prayer for mercy for this man’s soul. The realization gave her courage.
Instead of approaching her, Quinn knelt down, his back to her. In the shadows, she heard him strike a flint and then saw a flash of light which soon grew into a flame as it caught the dry tinder.
Her glance strayed to the rest of the space. The cellar’s stone walls dripped with dampness. Light from the outside showed through a small, boarded-up window at street level. Above them, wooden planks, dark with age, formed a low ceiling, with gaps here and there where the wood had rotted through. The floor beneath her feet was hard-packed dirt with moldy straw piled along the edges and a few rumpled blankets heaped in a corner, as if it had served as sleeping quarters before now. A rough-looking table and a few wooden chairs were the only articles of furniture. How many undesirables, running from the law, had hidden here before?
The fire that now burned steadily between a circle of stones was the only cheerful thing in the room. Florence drew near its warmth. The heat of her exertion had passed, leaving her more chilled than when she’d stood in front of the gallows.
How long before the guards would find this runaway convict? He continued tending the fire. Her eye fell on the knife, now stuck in his belt, its steel reflecting the glow of the fire. The memory of its cold blade pressed against her neck rose in her mind, and she experienced the horror of those moments once again.
She shook away the thought. She was alive and sure God had a purpose for her.
After several minutes, when the man continued to ignore her presence, Florence inched to the fire. But as soon as she drew near him, she wrinkled her nose, noticing the sour smell of his tattered garments. She sniffed at her cloak, smelling him even there.
He stood suddenly, and she flinched. His broad back muscles strained against his filthy coat. His presence seemed to fill the cellar. His attention continued fixed on the small fire.
“Don’t think about leaving anytime soon.” His voice was a near growl, low and gravelly, as if he hadn’t used it for some time. “You just stay put till we see if those guards have lost our scent.”
“You couldn’t leave a trail more obvious than that one.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she bit her lip. Why couldn’t she be more like her brother, Damien, with his mild manners?
Quinn turned then. Dark eyes glittered at her from a swarthy face framed by an even darker beard. Thick black hair curled around his face, giving him a savage appearance, as she imagined Robinson Crusoe must have looked after his many years as a castaway.
She forced herself to hold her ground when he took a step toward her. He stopped so close to her, the heat of his brawny frame filled the space between them. “Think you’re a clever one, do you?”
Her experience at Newgate had taught her that to show fear was fatal. She jutted her chin out. “Do you really think you can evade your pursuers?”
His lips curled in a sneer. “Those red-coated fools? They’ll think twice ’fore venturing into this neighborhood. The Crown likely doesn’t pay ’em enough to risk their miserable hides in ’ere.” He fingered the knife’s haft at his side. “Besides, what do I have to lose?”
His merciless tone sent a shiver through her.
Noticing it, he gestured toward the fire. “Best get yerself warm while ye can.”
She blinked at the sudden change in tone. Was this the defiant brute who’d kidnapped her at knifepoint and now noticed she was cold? She rubbed the bruised spot on her arm where he had held it so tightly.
Keeping her movements careful and deliberate, Florence brought one of the chairs from the table toward the fire. The chair wobbled when she sat down. After assuring herself she wasn’t going to lose her balance, she removed her gloves and stretched her hands toward the blaze.
She heard a scraping noise and turned to see Quinn dragging the table closer. Then he placed the other chair in front of it and sat down. He opened a leather satchel thrown down by his companion and proceeded to remove its contents: a round loaf of bread, a few paper parcels and a bottle.
He unwrapped the first parcel, a wedge of cheese, and the second, a small joint of ham. With his knife, he hacked off a piece of cheese and immediately stuffed it into his mouth, even before proceeding to slice the bread and ham.
Those condemned to die were fed only bread and water for the last three days of their life, so he must have been famished. As he took the first bite of his rapidly made sandwich, his gaze fell on her. “Hungry?” he said through his full mouth.
She stared at his bulging cheeks, feeling a faint disgust, but surprised nonetheless that he had asked. “Yes.”
“Help yourself.” He cut off a few more pieces of bread and placed them on the paper holding the slices of ham and cheese.
“Thank you.” She noticed he didn’t leave the knife lying there, but stuck it back in his waistband after wiping it clean on his sleeve.
She moved her chair closer to the table and took a piece of bread, eyeing the dried-looking cheese. Quinn was halfway through his bread before she’d even finished arranging her meat and cheese atop hers. He reached across the table and took a swig from the bottle.
He caught her watching him. He lowered the bottle, setting it back with a thump before wiping his mouth with the same sleeve he’d used to clean the knife.
His eyes weren’t dark as she’d first supposed. No, they were bottle-green like the one on the table, reflecting the flickering flames of the fire, beneath thick black brows and curly, brushlike lashes. For a split second, staring into those deep-fringed eyes, she thought she read vulnerability, a lost soul needing a message of hope. The next instant, he blinked, appearing once more savage and ferocious.
She looked away and took a bite of her bread and cheese, tugging as delicately as she could at the dry crust to tear it free. Although the stale food made her thirsty, she refused to drink from the bottle. No doubt it contained cheap gin. She noted he didn’t offer her any but did leave the bottle within reach of them both. The chill in the cellar seeped to her very bones. What she wouldn’t give for a hot cup of tea.
The Lord would provide in His time, she reminded herself, more certain than ever now that He had a purpose in bringing her here.
The edge of her hunger abated, she folded her hands on the rough tabletop and formulated what she should say. Above all else, she was the Lord’s vessel. She licked dry lips. What would her brother do in her place? Damien was such a thoughtful man, so sweet of temperament. She slipped her watch out of the pocket of her dress.
Quinn was immediately alert, watching her movements.
Slowly, she lifted her hand. “It’s my watch.”
Relief darted through his hard expression and he looked back down at his food.
It was only half past eight. She found it hard to believe little over an hour had passed since she was standing at the gallows. She snapped the watch closed and stowed it away.
She cleared her throat. “How long do you plan to hold me here?”
He continued to chew. Finally he shrugged. “Until I figure out what to do with you.”
“You won’t get away, you know,” she said, ignoring the fear his words had sent through her. Would he keep her here the entire day? What of Damien? Had he noticed her absence yet?
Quinn