Edith Layton (9 page)

“Let’s make it real,” he said fiercely. “Marry me, Gilly Giles. We’ll put the past where it belongs. It only matters to me because it helped forge you into the woman
you are—the one I want to marry and raise my family with. You may not be as convinced of it as I am—at least, not now, not yet. But you can’t deny you feel something toward me. I’m not being a peacock. We’ve gotten to know each other more in these past weeks than most couples do before they marry. But it’s not a thing we can debate. I was going to wait for the right time—and I think it’s come. Deny you feel anything, and we’ll end it here and now. Admit even a little—and marry me in truth.”

“T
ruth
? Oh, God!” Gilly said in anger and vexation, pulling her hands from his, beating one small fist on the seat, clenching the other tight. “Pardon my blasphemy, but damn and blast and…” She came to a decision. He saw it in her face, and flinched at the fury and pain he saw. “There’s more. And it’s worse.”

“Worse?” he asked.

“No.” She corrected herself. “The worst. I wasn’t going to tell you. But you force me…” She stood in one jerky movement and gazed down at where he was still sitting, noting his surprise. She tossed her parasol aside, her hands fisted at her sides. “Let’s have it over with and done,” she said, as a man might when he challenged another to a duel. “Get down from your high seat, Damon. Come with me. This is a thing I have to face, too. It
is
time. Find another eager lad to watch your carriage. The street’s too narrow for it where we’re going. It’s just a little way—there—in an alley down that street. It’s where Gilly Giles was
really
born. It’s a place I think we both have to see now.”

T
hey made a handsome couple, the slight young woman all in jonquil yellow, with her jaunty straw bonnet, moving like a lost ray of sunlight ready to illuminate the cramped and dingy side street. The gentleman in his fawn jacket, buckskins, and high shining boots, walking at her side. They’d have been remarked upon anywhere. They were gaped at here, where they looked like visitors from a foreign land.

Gilly held her breath as they entered the side street, and not just because of the stench from rotting rubbish in the gutters. She hadn’t come down this street in over a decade. When she’d lived in the district she’d gone blocks out of her way to avoid it. She couldn’t believe she dared come here again. But it was right for Damon to see and she was never a
girl to shrink from duty, however loathsome it might be. He said nothing, only looked around, and at her from time to time. His grim expression matched her own.

He didn’t know what she was doing, or why. But he knew it hurt her. And so it hurt him because he couldn’t protect her from whatever it was. The atmosphere was stultifying. It was a filthy byway in a sullen slum, the decaying houses around them huddled together, frowning down at them, blocking air and light. Not so very far from the traffic at the intersection, this street was leagues away from it in character. Narrow and crooked, it seemed deserted except for whatever ghosts Gilly was pursuing.

She finally paused midway down the street at the entrance to a dim alleyway between houses. It seemed to Damon that Gilly shuddered. She turned an ashen face up to his.

“Well. Here we are,” she said in an artificially bright voice. “I don’t know why I’m surprised it hasn’t changed. Nothing here changes but the people. I suppose I thought there ought to be a plaque or something.” She laughed unconvincingly as she glanced down the alley. Her eyes went flat and dark. “Well,” she said, “I’ll tell you what’s what. But first, I think we ought to go in there. You have to see what I have to say. I have to go, because I see now that if I don’t, I’ll never be able to get out of there—at least in my mind. I know it don’t make sense to you now. It will.

“Come with me, please. Mind your boots, though. Around here, good garbage is gleaned and sold. Only the worst kind remains. That’s what’s here. In every
way,” she muttered. She braced her shoulders and stepped into the dim passage.

It was wider than it had looked from the outside. At one time there might have been two fine houses here, with room between for privacy. But everything fine had left centuries ago. Now it was clotted with debris, muck heaped in the corners. The facing windows in each neighboring house were either boarded over, overlaid by dirt or decades of pigeon droppings.

But Damon wasn’t looking at his surroundings now. He was watching Gilly. She stopped halfway down the alley and stared at something near a wall, something he couldn’t see. When she spoke, her voice was low and rushed, gruff with suppressed emotion.

“Well, and there we are,” she said to the air. “Nothing much to see. I didn’t see much then, neither. See, I was only seven or so, and he was so big. Aye, Old Rot Guts was a fat man. See, we all knew to stay away from him, because he fancied kiddies. But one day I was thinking too hard to pay attention, and I ran past here on my own, a mistake, and he grabbed me. Well, he did me. Fast and hard, and he laughed all the while. And so that’s what it is.”

There was a silence as he tried not to understand what she meant, every particle of his being rejecting the terrible thought. She took a long shuddery sigh, and turned her eyes to him at last. Her voice was cool and contained now, though he could hear the pain beneath. “See, it isn’t just that I am no one, Damon,” she said in her usual accent, “or that I grew up here. I could deal with that—you say you could, too. So that may be a problem, but it isn’t the biggest one. It’s that
I’m not a virgin. A gentleman has a right to expect that of his bride.”

“What did you do? What happened to him?” Damon demanded, ignoring the rest.

“Oh, well, who could I tell? My ma? I told her I fell and hurt myself badly. But she called in a quack, and he rumbled it. I had to lay abed a week but I didn’t need stitching, so I was glad. But what could she do but cry? My word against his? And who’s to care? Just another slum brat despoiled, and so what? They sell girls cheaply down here. Unless they work at it, then it costs the gentlemen good coin to get themselves one at a brothel. But those girls have protectors. I had no one to fight for me. If I’d a father, or brothers, or a family, though…”

She shook her head. “But I did have friends, and they kept watch on him for me. Soon as I was up and around again, I got word. And for the first and last time in my life I went to the Runners and laid evidence against a man. He swung for it. Not for doing that to me, you understand. The law doesn’t work that way for those down here. But for nabbing a purse. I went to his hanging. I cheered so much, I tickled some young gentleman and he threw me a coin for it. I spent it on the best dinner I ever had. And threw it up right after, of course. A waste, all ’round. Then I got myself up as a boy, and never looked back.”

She seemed to recall herself. “But you must! Oh, look at me, Damon,” she cried. “R
eally
look at me! I’m like a bad apple, all polished on the outside, but rotten to the core inside. Not a fit wife for you.”

“Then for who?” he asked, deadly calm.

“For someone who doesn’t deserve the truth, I suppose.”

“But you will marry? This didn’t turn you against all men?”

She frowned, puzzled. “Why should it? What sense would it make for you to hate all women if one hurt you? Oh, at first, of course I was afraid and angry and I hated all men. But my mother talked to me. She wasn’t educated, but she was wise. She talked and talked, and I thought on it. My father had been a good man, hadn’t he? she said. The world was filled with good men. Old Rot Guts wasn’t a man, he was a beast. And didn’t I want children, and a home of my own one day? It made sense. It still does.

“If that didn’t do the trick of convincing me altogether, Ewen Sinclair did. He didn’t have to take us in, but he cared too much to fob us off on anyone else. He made me and Betsy his wards for no other reason but kindness. He and his father, Drum and Rafe, they taught me men are capable of great goodness as well as wickedness. I’d be a fool to let what happened to me at the hands of one madman rule me forever. And I’m not a fool. I intend to wed. But the thing of it is, Damon, that I have nothing to offer you. Because you deserve the very best.”

“Gilly,” Damon said urgently, “you are that. If I could I’d render time itself to change things…” He clenched his hands in impotent rage. “But I can’t. I can only deal with it, as you have. No—don’t speak now, only listen. A child was violated here. That child is gone as surely as that time itself is. You’ve changed inside and out. You’re a woman now. And what a woman doesn’t give
can’t be taken, not her virtue, not her heart. Not fit for me? When you match me heart and soul? Just because of one terrible moment in an alley a generation ago? Because you’re not a virgin? Oh Gilly, you’re more of one than many I’ve met!”

She frowned in incomprehension. He touched a hand to her cheek. “Yes, proper young maidens are supposed to be virgins,” he said, “but I assure you there are virginal young women in the highest reaches of society who are much more experienced at lovemaking than you are, Gilly Giles. You’ll understand one day,” he said, unable to restrain a crooked smile for her confusion, “but for now, trust me on that. You’re innocent in all that matters, visited only by violence.

“Hear me, Gilly,” he said, looking down into her eyes. “That man’s actions didn’t mark you, your triumph over it did. He didn’t desire a woman. Your lovely body takes my breath away, but it isn’t the one he wanted. That one vanished with the years. You’re no longer the child he violated, either. You’re a woman, untouched. I might not deserve you. But I promise you, I’ll try to.”

And there, in the filthy alley, he tenderly cupped her face in his two hands. Slowly, watching her carefully all the while—so as not to miss it if she drew away—he lowered his head and brought his lips to hers. He was thrilled at how that tentative touch bloomed into a real kiss, at how the warmth of her mouth slowly answered his, and touched beyond his experience at how she crowded into his welcoming arms. Until he tasted tears between their lips. Then he stepped back.

He smiled at her. “Will you marry me, Gilly Giles? Mind, it’s the second time I’ve asked.”

She smiled back at him. “I think,” she said mistily, “that we ought to wait another day or two, at least, so you can think it through.”

“Not so
you
can think it through?” he asked, locking his hands around her waist, pulling her up close to him.

He didn’t hear her answer if she gave one.

“Oh, lovely!” a rough voice hooted. “Look what we got, lads! Lovers snogging in the alley. R
ich
lovers, too! Well, boyos, what say we takes the gold, and then the blonde, eh?”

There were four of them. Four ragged men. The alleyway wasn’t wide enough to hold them side by side, so they stood in pairs. The two in front were leering at the couple they’d surprised, boldly assessing them. One held a length of lumber to use as a cudgel, the other a knife. The two behind them fanned out as much as they were able so they could watch, and so no one else could get in or out of the alley no matter how much noise was made.

Damon put Gilly away from him, refusing to think about how white-faced she’d gone. He stepped in front of her. He knew how it must look to the intruders. A fragile girl, a useless fancy gent. The men wouldn’t wonder at why they were there, they themselves were there to take everything they could. First money, and then whatever finery they could rip from their victims’ bodies. Then, the body of the lovely young woman. Damon would not allow it, he’d die first. But he knew his death would be of no use to her now.

He didn’t intend to die. He only wished he could assure her of that. But he had neither time or opportunity.

He faced them. Four against one. Not bad odds. He only needed luck, and skill. He had the skill. He had no time to pray for the luck. He carried a pocket pistol as many gentlemen in London did, and a knife in an inside sheath in his boot, from force of habit. But he wouldn’t be able to go for his pistol or stoop and flick out his knife fast enough to prevent them from charging him in a wild melee. He didn’t want that. Their careful formation was his best ally now. He put his legs apart and waited. Let them be on the move. The two in front were very sure of themselves. Good. The two behind were watchfully waiting; they weren’t leaders.

The two men in front looked at each other, grinned, and began to edge forward. The one with the knife half crouched, moving crab-like toward Damon’s right. The one with the club was swaggering toward him to his left, beating the weapon against his palm, to show his power. Good. Damon waited. They took it for terror and moved more confidently.

When the man with the knife was almost abreast of him, Damon moved. A gentleman fought with his hands. But Damon had fought with few gentlemen, at least not for his life. He ducked and swerved, kicking out strong with his high hard boot, catching the wrist of the hand that held the knife. As the knife went flying in a shining spiral, he spun, jabbing an elbow into the surprised man’s jaw, using his momentum to drive his arm forward as he spun round again and crashed his fist into the astonished cudgel-bearer’s face.

When Damon straightened from his crouch a second later he had his own knife in his hand and was slashing at the arm that held the club. He kicked the
wavering cudgel loose from its now bloody grip, and turned round again to throw all his weight behind his fist as he floored the teetering man on his left.

It was all done in three heartbeats. On the fourth, Damon narrowed his eyes to turn his attention to the men who’d hesitated, lagging behind their leaders.

One was open-mouthed with agony, holding a bleeding arm to his chest. The other was running back down the alley. And Gilly Giles was standing by Damon’s side now, a bloody knife in one hand, the cudgel in the other.

The men on the ground lay still before them, feigning unconsciousness.

“You!” Damon shouted to the bleeding man, brandishing his pistol. “Go now!” The man lurched away, vanishing down the alley.

Damon turned his attention to the men at his feet. He toed them with his boot tip. “Crawl away,” he snarled, “then, when you’re three body lengths away from us—and
only then
—run. Fast. I’ll give you to the count of five. At six, I fire. Turn back to look at us only if you want to look your last.
One…two…
”

They were gone, sobbing and panting, within moments. Only then did Damon look at Gilly again. He caught her around the waist. “Come. Keep the weapons, but let’s go.”

They didn’t speak again until they were in the carriage and heading west at a trot. “Are you all right?” he asked when the horses were well away.

“I’m fine,” she said, as she caught her breath. “I wasn’t in any danger. See, I grabbed the knife when it landed, and while those two fools were watching you, I
stabbed one and went at the other, and he broke and ran. I would have been in trouble if you weren’t so fine! You were wonderful!”

“I was not!” he growled, concentrating on steering around a barrow in his path.

“But four to one!”

“Those are no odds with such men,” he said, almost angrily. “I had every advantage over them. I eat good nourishing food. I sleep in a soft bed. I have no diseases I know of, because I can afford the finest doctors if I’m sick. They have none of those advantages. And I’ve fought with worse, at worse odds but with better tactics. It was the Americans who showed me the advantages of ignoring custom. Men in a row go down in a row. Surprise is everything. I was taught that a gentleman doesn’t use anything but his fists, a whip, a pistol, or a sword. They taught me a man uses his brains, hands, feet, and anything else he can find if he wants to live to be a gentleman again.”