Devon Blackmon’s cell was not a cheerful place. Moisture dripped down gray stone walls blackened with splotches of mold. The odor of dampness mingled with a stink, rivaling the worst of London’s sewers. The furnishings lay sparse−a chamberpot and filthy straw strewn in the corner for a pallet to sleep. One small barred window yielded a view of the prison-yard, where Devon observed a drunken banquet to celebrate his departure into the unknown. Since dawn the street had been packed with people hoping to catch a glimpse of the damned. Unable to see their quarry, they were content to enjoy a vicarious thrill from the snatches of song and squeals of happy laughter that rose over the dreary walls.
His eyes roved over a sheet dividing his cell placed by orders of the master gaoler. Weighted down by additional chains, he squinted through swollen eyelids. Mr. Goad had arrived accompanied by two guards to hold Devon down. They claimed he needed a lesson in manners for a visitor. For their effort, one guard had received a broken nose, and the other, a pair of cracked ribs. If Devon’s stomach had been properly filled, the damage to them would have been worse. Chained to the wall with little room to maneuver, he slid down on his pallet and resumed his pastime of late, picking lice.
Under sentence of death, there were no advantages, Devon reflected wryly. No last meal or priest to comfort him. He was dressed in the clothes he’d been arrested in six months before, torn from the beatings he received from his captors. The lack of water to wash and shave created dismal grime far from the cleanliness to which he was accustomed. For the past three days he’d dined on nothing but a moldy slice of bread. God, he was hungry. Unable to stop himself from dreaming, he pictured a fat roasted goose baked crisp with all the trimmings: gravy, potatoes, and fresh baked bread with butter.… He dropped his head to his knees, feeling nauseous. His stomach, so empty, he could feel its sides clamping together, gave a harsh growl followed by a dry heave. He forced his mind away from the treacherous subject of food.
He sat huddled on the rough stone floor, arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees for warmth. His added chains clinked. One of the new indignities he received from the grinning guards who savored to beat and taunt him. The words, degrading and dehumanizing, were something he preferred not to think about, reminding him of the starved, half-crazed, filthy wretch he’d become. Oh, well, he thought with an attempt at black humor, he wouldn’t have long to worry about his misfortunes. His time was near.
What did keep his mind alive were contemplations entertained on wonderful bits of vengeance on King James and England’s aristocracy− for he was an innocent man.
Devon raised his head. His eyes drifted over the sheet, dividing his cell. He wondered what new humiliation the guards contemplated. They mentioned a visitor. All his relatives were dead. He’d join them soon enough. He bowed his head.
“Stand clear,” Mr. Goad shouted. The door swung open. The sun had set, and in the darkness the Master Gaoler hooked a lantern on the ceiling, light flowing into the shadows. Goad’s florid face appeared around the sheet. Cautious, until he saw how far Devon’s chains stretched, or rather, if Devon could get his hands upon him, he nodded, apparently satisfied his men had cinched him tight enough to the wall.
“Take heed,” said Devon. “It’s my rest you’re disturbing.”
Mr. Goad stood not amused. “Odds blood! Ye think I’m to bow to the likes of you rebels? There’s gallows awaiting you at Tyburn Tree with an audience to give their approval.”
“Faith, you mean it’s not time for my bath and bread-pudding?”
Mr. Goad considered him with a kindling eye then cocked his head, listening to the clangor of church bells. “I’ll not cater to the likes of you, you haughty traitor. Hear them bells? The bellman of St. Sepulchre’s never fails to sound the bells on the eve of execution day.”
“If your wit were as big as your voice, it’s the fine man you’d be.” Devon sneered, his fury dissolving into grim resignation.
Claire saw Mr. Goad’s jaw work up and down, listening to his dispute with the prisoner. She had waited hours with Lily in the prison office. Mr. Goad’s way of letting her know who remained in charge. Her nerves raw, she had been led down a maze of dark, clammy corridors. The rotting smells were so horrible she clamped a perfumed handkerchief to her nose. Almost worse than the smells were the sounds−heart wrenching moans of pain joined sobbing cries of misery. Her throat closed up, and her heart despaired for the humanity locked with these walls. Thank goodness she had left Lily in Goad’s office and spared her this ordeal.
“You may find me fine enough to hang you myself.” Goad’s scowl deepened. “It would be a great pleasure to stretch yer bloody neck.”
Something scurried over Claire’s foot. She squelched a scream and stepped into the cell. Was it a rat? She wished Goad and the prisoner would stop their bickering. She desired to marry the condemned man and leave.
“Certainly you have the manners and appearance of a hangman,” said the prisoner to Goad. “None but a fool or a savage would merit such an occupation.”
Despite the prisoner’s reckless defiance, a subtlety of intelligence lay defined in his tone and speech. Irish wasn’t it? With all the ferocity of a winter squall, he dared to quarrel with the Master Gaoler. Claire reversed her initial opinion. The prisoner was either insane or half-witted.
Her head jerked up at the sound of something hard hitting flesh. The Master Gaoler’s cruelty had struck her like a physical blow, forceful enough to rattle her bones.
“Enough of your bluster. Keep your bloody mouth shut,” Goad ordered.
“Stop.” Claire’s voice broke. She could not bear the thought of any man beaten. “Leave us, Mr. Goad.”
“I’ll not leave. Not ‘til this animal learns who his betters is.”
Mr. Goad’s obstinance rang eloquent. Claire took the hint, opened her purse and produced another coin. “Do not make me speak again.”
Mr. Goad wavered between his petty revenge and the coin dangled in front of him. The gaoler’s greed won out. He snatched her last precious coin like a cock at a worm, slammed the door and locked it. “It’s your neck, milady.” Goad pressed his face against the bars and laughed. “Don’t beg for me when ‘e gets his hands on you. I’ll pretend not to hear what he does to you.”
A cold knot formed in her stomach. Mr. Goad’s fear of the prisoner, and the fact that it had taken twelve of the King’s good men to hold him down caused her to rethink what she had just done. She glanced at the locked door then stared at the thin sheet between them. She had asked for the sheet because she did not want to see the prisoner’s face. She wanted no memories of him or his horrible demise to burden her future.
As Goad’s footsteps echoed down the hall, Claire bit her lip. Would the chains secured around the prisoner be enough? She hoped the bonds would not be tested. To invite the gaoler to return would result in unwanted intrusion. She desperately needed to talk to this man alone.
Beyond the sheet the prisoner rested, cast in stygian darkness. Did he think the arrangement strange? He did not indicate his thoughts. Claire closed her eyes to fight her panic. Her fears came in an onslaught of images. Visions of the terrors of her childhood caused her sides to trickle with perspiration, the tragic death of her parents, her near demise in St. Giles.
The image of a new hell awaiting her emerged. She laid in a bed, naked, the duke’s cold bony hands pawing at her breasts. The rumors surrounding the duke’s former young wives and their mysterious deaths plagued her.
Marriage to the felon was her only way out. Society would scorn her. She didn’t care for there remained no other avenue of escape. Summoning the strength and resolve of her will to survive, Claire opened her eyes.
“May I ask you your name, sir,” Claire began then twisted her fingers, upset with such a mundane question. “Mr. Goad did not inform me of your name.”
“When up against overwhelming odds, use your strengths to exploit your enemy’s weakness.” His voice boomed like a clap of thunder in the darkness.
Claire gaped. She listened to the clink of his chains. “Why-why do you say that?”
“Obvious deduction. You wouldn’t be here unless necessary. I sense a battle ahead.”
Claire was not prepared for this. Despite the fact he was to be hanged, he had the wherewithal to challenge her. Why should she be surprised? Did he not provoke Mr. Goad?
Claire swallowed, fighting the urge to call out for a guard and flee from Newgate. She drowned in doubt, swirling in uncharted territory. Was she mad? She steeled her determination. Now wasn’t the time to lose her nerve. She reminded herself of what she must accomplish this night. And what she intended to ask, God forgive her, was a lot. Gathering her courage, damning her unease, Claire moved to the sheet. “I request a favor.”
“It is the day for favors.” He laughed. His chains clinked again as he moved about.
Claire bit her lip, again. This was her only chance. Her whole future hinged on this one man. There was no time and no one to whom she could plead her case. “Will you marry me?” she blurted out. She heard his quick intake of breath and could sense his astonishment through the sheet. His silence gnawed away at her confidence.
“Ah, marry you. That’s the way of it. Marriage to the condemned can amend many a sin.”
She felt her face flush hot to the roots of her hair. “I have none of the sins you imply!”
“My, what a vinegary disposition. With what few remaining hours I have, why would I desire a shrewish wife?”
Claire had a basket of foods and a bottle of wine for him delivered to Mr. Goad’s office. “I could ease your burden in your last hours.”
“That’s quite a bold venture,” he grunted his approval. “My pallet is but filthy straw, not much to entertain a lady of quality.”
“How dare you even suggest−” Was he laughing at her expense? If he wanted a challenge, she would give it to him. The experience of her youth had taught her to confront all obstacles. She refused to be bullied by a condemned prisoner, to sink to his lewdness.
“The endeavor could be enlightening.” His voice dropped lower, aloof and confident.
Claire shivered at the rich, masculine tones of his wicked offering. The suggestion swept over her like a caress. Ridiculous. “There are some things best not learned.”
“Forgive me Madam, for taking up so much of your time.”
“Are you dismissing me?” This was maddening. “You can’t. I have to be married today!”
“Are you perchance in the family way?” He snorted.
Her toes curled in her slippers. “How dare you−”
“I just want to know who I am putting my good name to.” He laughed, and she could hear him settle down into a spirit of scorn.
Devon leaned farther. He had been studying her for some time through a hole in the threadbare sheet. Venus rising from the ocean had come to his filthy cell. Bright as the first light of creation she lit his dreary existence. Tall with a generous mouth and her hair, a coronet, shone like summer twilight. The sight of her well-shaped breasts and cinched-in waist had roused the heat in his loins and fried his wits along with it. Bloody Hell, of course he dared. She was the brightest spot of his ill-fated past, the hope of what was left of his ill-fated future. God, he could tear down the sheet and devour her in seconds.
“I dare,” Devon rasped. “If you desire a husband−then it is my name to give. Nothing more. Nothing less.” He hedged a bit, toying with her timing and her desperation. How far would she go? Unraveling inside him was the hard-edged part of his character, the one born on the roughest roads of life. By the quality of her dress and cultured speech he knew her to be a member of the aristocracy he hated.
“Impossible−” she faltered.
He felt her innocence in those words. “Impossible for you to be a woman?”
He stood then. As close to the sheet as possible. As far as his chains would allow.
He smelled her. He sensed her heat. He raised his hand, letting his fingers trail down the center of the flimsy material dividing them. He imagined running them over her sweetly curved breasts, rising and falling with each splendid breath. Devon wanted to cup each breast and to tease his tongue over each nipple−until it grew hard, to taste the salt of her skin. He laughed at the decay of his thoughts. Of the animal he’d become. He sank on his pallet. “Why is the sheet between us? So as not to remember the visage of your husband when he hangs. I suppose the experience would not be a romantic memory.” She cleared her throat, but before she attempted to say anything, he answered for her. “No apologies necessary. I guessed as much. And have you any curiosity about me?”
“I’m afraid I do.” Her voice pitched for a second, too complex to attribute to one single emotion. Guilt? Desperation? Fear? But why?
“I am not expected to explain the entirety of it to you?” he said, his own tone must have betrayed his reluctance to do so.
“My time is limited, but if you would supply me−” Her voice drifted off.
“You mean am I a murderer or some other vile character you’d attach yourself to? The answer is no. You are safe.” He leaned over, thanking providence for that hole. She stood in light. He sat in darkness. He watched her exhale. The tops of her breasts glowing in the light. Her scent heady to his senses. He sat torn between laughter, lust, and despair.
“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice soft, lilting.
“It was nothing but a grotesque, mockery of justice meted out by that jack-pudding of a brutally vindictive King.” He laughed and her eyes widened. His laughter shocked her. Did she wonder of his sanity?
“Are you so heedless of your punishment that you laugh at the threshold of an eternity you are about to enter?”
Was it possible she grew more ethereal in the lantern light? A feast for his eyes and torment for his body. Stuck in a dark cell for months, he counted the stones day in and day out. Her question taunted him, reminding him how he arrived at this wretched point in his life.
His sole ambition had been nothing more than retiring to the quiet existence of a country physician. Yet fate delivered a cruel twist. He had been dragged from his bed to perform a surgery on the Duke of Monmouth, the rebel leader responsible for the war incited against the King. The insurrection fell, crushed by the Crown. Too late for retreat, the rebels discovered the sovereign’s soldiers surrounded them. Including Devon. Despite his innocence, he stood guilty of treason against the King, his trifling connection with the rebels, fatal evidence. With bitterness, he recalled the unjust verdict handed down from a marionetted jury, pronounced by the King’s pasty-faced judge. By God, if he broke free, he’d have his revenge.
“Surely, it’s good I keep my humor to retain my sanity. For I am an innocent man whose only offense stemmed from practicing a charity. For my benevolence, I earned a rope about my neck.” Did he see her face soften? Did she believe him when everyone else had damned him? Why did he care what she thought? Somehow her understanding mattered to him.
There had been times in his life, he courted decency. Those glimpses of his past held treasured moments brought on by this beautiful woman who appeared at his darkest hour. Images of his long-dead mother, like an old dream, all the golden eternities of his past and all the living and dying and heartbreak that went on over and over in his head. In those flashes of sudden remembrance, the lack of being able to protect his mother and father plagued him. His hands shook…sweaty and helpless.
“There is no one you can plead to?”
It was a weak effort at sympathy. He gritted his teeth. He realized she knew her transparency the minute she spoke her words. “Good God! Are you not aware of the generation of vipers we live in? Unjust monarchs feed on us mere mortals, men so easy for slaughter. The moment they cease to be cruel is the moment they begin to be bored. There is no compassion for a soul like me, only damnation based on falsehood.”
She took a step forward and stared at the sheet like a queen. “So what is left of your remaining time? Bitterness? Vengeance?”
“Have you noticed it’s much easier to forgive an enemy after you get even?”
“Revenge is sweet upon your tongue, but the little time you have left, it will only taste bitter. I will not listen to your talk of treason.”
“A toast to our wonderful and just King James. As a member of his illustrious and devout aristocracy, why am I not surprised?” He directed the full blast of his hostility toward her. She represented the nobility that determined his fate. Was it a trick of his mind to expect empathy from her? “There is no passion of the heart that promises so much as revenge.”
“The fruit harvested from vengeance bears little.”
She studied the sheet with curious intensity, trying to discern him, still unaware he observed everything about her. There was so much expression in those eyes…as if she cared for his soul. His chains grew heavy, chafing at his flesh. Long ago, he would have respected those words. She was no different than the King and his well-bred aristocrats who destroyed him. “It would be a kind providence for the people of England, if the King would leave this earthly terrain, his passing heralding a public improvement.”
She inhaled. “You have not answered my question. You will marry me, won’t you?”
“Don’t count your eggs before they’re in the pudding.” She swiped at a tear. Devon reared back. Bloody hell. His chest ached with the vulnerability, the grief and fear in this beautiful creature’s eyes. What made him want to take her in his arms and comfort her? They were the same, prisoners in their own worlds. “Tell me,” he urged, but he had a difficult time tamping down the devil within. “Perhaps your countenance compares to a terrapin, or your figure resembles a bovine form?” The devil broke loose. He enjoyed this diversion. Her outrage amused him. He could imagine her tearing down the sheet to strike him. She reigned more beautiful than ever.
“You ask too many questions.”
“Will you answer then?”
“No,” she said, her eyes half veiled by tears, like golden water seen through mists of rain. What had reduced her to beg a felon? He wanted the truth. Every bit of her history. She was an enigma to him, a distraction from the hangman’s rope. Devon raked his fingers through his hair, shaken by his reaction to her. “Is there not someone you can trust with such a sacred vow?” He waited for an explanation.
Claire didn’t know why she had to explain herself to this man, a complete stranger, a felon who provoked her at every turn. She had no recourse than to be honest with him. Besides the engagement was to be announced tomorrow. Perhaps by telling him the truth, he would agree to marry her. Reason. That was it. It was her only alternative. Nothing but the truth, for he would see through any falsehood. “I was in love with someone. I-I mean I thought I was in love with someone− until this morning when I learned what a cad he was.”
“Go on.”
He had a pleasant, vibrant voice, tempered and muted by his Irish accent. It was a voice that could woo seductively and caressingly, or command in such a way as to compel obedience. Indeed, the man’s whole nature was in that voice of his.
She sensed he would listen. “I loved Sir Thomas Durham my entire life, but being shy and plain, I had no hopes of him looking my way.” The prisoner snorted but she ignored him. She had always yearned for some attachment from Sir Thomas, even a look her way, but never so much as a glance. “Being impoverished by society’s standards, I wasn’t good enough.”
Confessing to this stranger seemed to ease her pain. She felt looser, freer and comfortable in his presence. She marveled at her instinct. He was a man of contradictions. Contentious, arrogant, dangerous, but never did she feel at any time would he harm her. She did not know his past, but by all indications, he believed himself to have been wronged. If truth be known, and he was innocent, then she could well understand his rage. “I am being forced to marry a duke.”
“Faith, to marry a duke would be a hardship.” His ridicule was light in the wake of his surprise.
She put her hand up. “Not this duke. I have been informed he is a monster. Fatal consequences befall those who marry him. The engagement is to be announced tomorrow. I had no alternative but to ask the gentleman for whom I had a fond attachment if he’d marry me. He informed me my financial situation was not attractive. He has chosen a bride with more adequate prospects. However, Sir Thomas did offer that once he was married, he would set me up as his mistress.”
“Bring him by, I’ll be happy to give the scum a length of my sword,” he growled.
Claire smiled. She had found a kindred spirit. “I would hand you the sword myself.” He was her knight in shining armor. For a brief moment, she wondered about what if he were free from these sad conditions, and they had met under normal circumstances. Would they be friends? She dismissed the idea as absurd. “So you can see why I have sought you out. You are my last recourse.”
There was a deathly stillness in the cell as if he heavily weighed on her words. She had poured out her heart. Would he deny her? She steadied herself. “Oh, this is humiliating. Must I abase myself by begging?”
“I confess the proposal sounds very sweet. ‘Tis my misfortune to have so little. I regret your proposal comes so late, for a husband should fulfill the nuptial night with his bride. Unfortunately, I have other plans for the evening. After all, how can I deny that grave-snatcher, Goad?”
“Don’t taunt me sir. I haven’t much to offer, but−”
“So be it. I won’t be unreasonable. If there is to be a wedding, then a wedding it is. Call the weaselly hounds. Let the act begin as your ladyship wishes. For upon my honor, ‘tis my first time wed, and no doubt, will be my last. You’ll excuse me if I wed and run, my lady?” He laughed. “My friends look forward to me in the prison-yard, and my time is scarce.”
The ceremony began in his cell with the sheet dividing them. With her head bowed, Claire stood, oblivious to the garbled responses of the rite of matrimony dulled further by the monotone of the parson. The felon stood on the other side of the sheet, his presence much larger than she expected. Despite the abuse he endured, she could feel tremendous heat and energy−a force like a million burning suns. He was a man who made her long to bolt away.
“Milady?” He’d offered his hand from around the front of the sheet.
Staring at his hand, her fingers shaking, she accepted that which was offered to her.
She placed her hand into his.
And she quivered for it did indeed seem as if she set her touch to fire and steel.
Almost as if her destiny gave her clear warning.
She drew her hand away. He recaptured her hand and held it with his larger one. Which of them trembled?
“Do I frighten you?” he said.
“Are you supposed to?”
He laughed in a rich baritone she would always remember. Her hand lay trustingly on his, like a baby bird solaced by the nest. She marveled at this strange new feeling. A warm glow flowed through her. Her hand felt at home in his, like it should be, meant for all eternity. She studied his well-shaped fingers, filthy yet unlike the ill-born that had warped, claw-like talons. His hand was strong with fingers long and supple as a swordsman’s. Although chained, she sensed he wore his chains with solid indifference, his fearlessness allowing him to escape any tragedy. He was gallant for sure, for he had come to her rescue.
He turned her hand over, drawing a trail from her wrist, across the palm to the tip of the longest finger. Her fingers fluttered then curled inward. She smiled. Tenderly he folded her hand into a fist then stroked the crown of her knuckles. At once the palm uncurled, an intimation of trust as unconscious as her shiver of sensation.
He recited his name. Devon Blackmon. Strong and daring. It suited him. Claire followed with her own name. Oblivious to the interchange between them, the parson finished. After having them sign marriage documents, he made his excuses and departed. She had done it. She had married a felon. Before God she had sworn to be his wife.
He took her hand again, brushed it with his lips, and murmured a soft, “Madame Blackmon.” It was too swift a gesture to give her any warning. She had felt a curious streak of tremors at his touch and a hint of sentimentality. Heat rose to her face.
“Would it allay your fears if I told you, I was as frightened as you?” he asked.
“You?” It was an accusation. “You seem so…so self-assured.”
“You believe it to be impossible? Is this not my wedding day too? Well, you’re stuck with me, and you’ll eventually learn to accept defeat graciously.” He laughed. “But with visions of the gallows beyond, you do not have to worry long. Do you think I, a condemned man, would have any requests?”
She tugged her hand away, wary. “I’ll leave you a basket of pastries and meats to supplement your remaining time.” A thought occurred to her. “Are there loved ones who need to be,” she coughed, “need to be contacted?”
He snapped out a cold expletive. “I am alone in this world.”
Claire’s heart thumped. “Pray tell, what do you require?”
“One night of conjugal rights with my bride.”
She drew a deep breath, and then let it out, her words uttered in one long staccato. “I−I−had–had not been prepared for this eventuality.”
“Answer me. Would you deny me if our circumstances were different?”
Claire thought it an absurd question and felt safe in her answer. It was a request from a desperate and condemned man. Whatever she answered made no difference. His fate was sealed as much as hers. “No, I would not.”
“Is that a promise?”
She hesitated. Her mind spun with the importance of making such a promise. What if this man broke free? She had no doubt he was the kind of man who would hunt her down to claim what was due him. Yet his execution remained certain.
Claire held an incredible sympathy for him. A little white lie she reasoned would be a kindness to him. Besides, her nerves were overwrought. She did not have the fortitude to tell him any different. He had married her. He enabled her freedom. He had none. She owed him at least that. If mere words gave him comfort in his last hour, so be it. A twinge of guilt pawed at her breast from her insincerity. At the same time, something intangible nagged at her, warned her of the future, the price of a lie. She shook that feeling aside. This time she grasped his hand.
“A promise.”