His Beautiful Wench (9 page)

Amelia opened her eyes, staring into his. Love shone from him and she wanted so much to tell him how she felt, but the words wouldn’t come, halted by the lump in her throat.

I love you, Emmett Dray. Love you
…

Soon she would rise and douche, remembering she hadn’t had a chance to do so after they’d made love in the hayloft. But for now she would remain in his arms. Just for a little while.

* * * * *

The first thing Amelia saw when her eyes snapped open was cobwebbed rafters. Her frown hurt her forehead. Disoriented, she sat up. The wench dress lay in a heap beside her and she looked down at herself. Naked. She blushed and recalled the dream. How could it be so vivid? She had never experienced anything like it before moving to this place. Usually she had a sense she dreamed, knew she observed the workings of her mind as her body rested, but this? It was almost as if she had lived it before.

“Don’t be so stupid,” she muttered. Hugging her knees, she glanced out the window at the night sky.

A chill whispered across her feet, grew in intensity and spread up her legs. She shivered and rubbed her skin. It breezed over her torso, her back, and her nipples peaked. Lethargic, she stood and walked over to the window. The ocean looked black, the horizon invisible, the water and sky appearing as one. The image of the blond man from the ship flashed in front of her, his fall overboard, the wall of water around him. The vision vanished, replaced by her race through the forest behind Emmett. She stared outside at the same trees she’d dreamed of then focused on her feet. Dirt nestled between her toes and an ache throbbed on the side of her foot. She rested it on the windowsill and squinted in the semidarkness. A dark patch stood out and she explored it with her fingertip, gasping as a sharp stab pained her flesh.

Amelia lowered her foot and padded down to her bathroom, flicking on the light. She sat on the bath edge and placed her foot on the toilet seat, turning it so she could examine the side. A splinter had embedded deep, the tip of it sticking out of an angry red area. She reached to the sink and grabbed her makeup bag, unzipping it to retrieve a pair of tweezers. Gritting her teeth, she pulled the sliver out and held it up.

Well, if you will sleep on wooden attic floors
…

She sighed and stood, lifting the toilet seat to drop the splinter inside. Her foot throbbed, and if she didn’t clean her disgusting feet soon the small wound might become infected. Dropping the tweezers in her makeup bag, Amelia put the plug in the bath and set the water running. Bubbles added, she walked to her bedroom and found a pair of pajamas in a suitcase. Her bones and muscles ached, as did her head, and she rubbed her scalp. A knot protruded, tender to the touch, and the dream intruded again. The hayloft. The fire. Striking her head on cobblestones…

“Oh, stop it. You probably thrashed about while dreaming. And now you’re talking to yourself as though you’re someone else. Christ.”

Emmett says, “Christ”
…

She shook her head. Steam filled the room, reminding her of the smoke in the hayloft. The fear from her dream returned and she hugged herself, her hair stinking of smoke.

How is this possible?
She huffed out a breath and turned off the taps.
It isn’t. There has to be some other explanation. Maybe the smell of the attic floor is similar. Maybe… Oh, I don’t know! Maybe I’m just nuts.

Testing the water with her hand, she climbed into the tub and eased below the liquid warmth. Tension seeped out of her, and after washing her body and hair, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Yet again she had taken a quick nap without unpacking. What had she been doing, and why had she been in the attic again? Memories bombarded her with frightening clarity. The sugar spill. She’d heard noises. Someone had been in her cottage, had thrown the wench dress down the stairs. What the hell was she
doing
relaxing in the bath like this when a stranger could be inside her home?

She opened her eyes and sat up abruptly. Water sloshed over the side, the splash of it on the floor reminding her again of the blond man hitting the sea. Amelia blinked, her mind awhirl with what was real and what wasn’t—yet it
all
seemed real. Every moment of it. Heart thudding, she looked around for a towel, loosing a string of curses when she realized she hadn’t unpacked any.

A string of curses… “Bitch!”

Had she heard that, or was it only in her head? Freaked, she stood, almost slipping, and got out of the bath. She remained still for a moment, wondering what to dry herself with. Was it safe to go to her bedroom and find a towel? A breeze gusted against her, sharp, frigid, and she sucked in a breath, releasing it as a white cloud. Goose bumps popped out on her skin and she crossed her arms over her breasts, teeth chattering. Why was it so cold?

“Get back here!”

She gasped, surveyed the room, her gaze stopping on the wall mirror. In crude capital letters was the word ATTIC. Condensation made the writing look sinister. Her heart thudded so hard she thought she might faint and she whimpered, baffled as to why her dream infringed on her waking moments with such startling reality.

“Amelia. Listen, wench. Calm down. We have to go. Now.”

Footsteps stormed up the stairs—uncarpeted stairs—and she cocked her head, mystified because she had a carpet, goddammit! Frightened, she stepped to the door, readying herself for whoever appeared on the landing. Naked or not, she’d fight if she had to. The footfalls stopped. No one appeared.

“Christ,” she whispered. “What the hell is going on? Oh God. Help me now. If someone’s here, help me. Make them go away. Please.
Please!
”

Amelia gripped the doorjamb, her fingertips throbbing from the pressure. A thud came from downstairs, as though the front door had been shoved open and the handle had met the wall. Female shrieks rent the air and a male voice rumbled.

“Where’s Dray and his wench? Tell me now or I’ll shoot!”

The blond man? What the hell?

Struck dumb, Amelia remained in place, the air so damn cold.

“They’re…they’re not here!” a woman said.

Matilda?

“Don’t lie to me, bitch! You whores are all the same, protecting your own.”

Another female scream, then, “Please! I’m telling the truth. They aren’t here!”

“I’ll see for myself, if you don’t mind. Out of my way!”

She heard the unmistakable sound of skin slapping skin and a woman cried out. Harsh footsteps smacked the stairs and terror whipped through Amelia. A row of doors materialized opposite and one opened, fear-filled female eyes peering through the crack, a shock of long blonde hair trailing to cover the woman’s breast. Shadows rimmed her eyes and she lifted a clear glass bottle to her lips, sipping the liquid within.

“I’m Jessica,” she whispered. “And this is my room.
Don’t
forget that.”

Though startled and more than a little confused, Amelia held a finger to her lips and faced the top of the stairs. She had no time to ponder the insanity of the moment and backed out of the bathroom toward the attic doorway. Her fingers found the handle and she turned it, an electric hum zipping up her arm. Quickly, she pulled the door open, closing it quietly behind her, and lifted her foot to climb the stairs.

The bottom stair creaks
.

She took the second step and crept upward. A shaft of moonlight slanted across the rafters.

Shit! He’ll see me up here.

Amelia glanced around for a place to hide. Darkness shrouded the far corner and she headed there, snatching up the wench dress to hide beneath. The air grew icier and she hunkered down, draping the frock over her head.

“Stop!” shouted a woman. “You have no right going up there!”

Boots thundered across the landing.

“Do you want another slap, bitch? I’ll go where I damn well please!”

The attic door burst open and the bottom stair whined.

Oh Christ. No… Don’t let this be real. Don’t let this be real
…

Amelia shivered under the dress, the smell of old smoke filling the air around her. Feet pounded the stairs then stopped.

“Not here, you say?” the man shouted. “I see Dray right now, and his wench is huddling in the corner. You’ll pay for lying to me, woman!”

“Get out!” yelled Emmett. “This isn’t the place for this.”

Amelia bit her bottom lip, her heart thudding too hard, too fast. Her mind grew foggy. Why could she hear voices from her dreams? Was this cottage haunted? Her limbs weakened.

“It is the place because you’re both here and so am I. Your bitch pushed me overboard, and you…you killed Bates. I’ve come for what’s his, and while I’m here, I’ll have a taste of your wench—like Bates was supposed to.”

“You bastard!” Emmett breathed. “Leave my woman alone.”

A tumble of footsteps and scuffles filtered to Amelia. She snatched the dress from her head and found herself wedged between a double bed and a small cabinet. A moment of confusion visited before she laid eyes on Emmett and the blond man at the foot of the bed, then love, terror and their situation took over. She scrambled to her feet, threw her dress on the bed and rushed at the tussling men. She screamed and her gaze centered on a pistol in the blond man’s hand, and Emmett holding that arm up by the wrist. Without any thought for her safety, she reached for the gun, but the man held fast. Instinct took over and she grabbed the man’s cheeks, nails digging into his flesh. Pulling his face toward her, she sank her teeth into one of his ears.

He cried out and the gun toppled to the floor. Emmett released him and dashed toward it. He picked up the gun and pointed it at the man. Amelia edged away from them, breathless, her newfound courage liberating. Uncaring of her naked state, she backed to the window and sat on the wooden chest.

That man will have to kill me to get the sculpture
.

“Don’t be a fool, Dray,” the blond said. “Do you want another death on your conscience?” His scar whitened along with his cheeks. “Just give me the sculpture and I’ll go.”

“No, Crowe!” Emmett stepped closer to him. “I bought it in good faith. It belongs to me now. Maybe you should ask yourself why you sold it to me. Why
you
stole it from Bates. Or did you? Perhaps you and Bates planned it this way—except he didn’t expect to be shot dead!”

The man called Crowe jerked forward, arm outstretched. Emmett brought his pistol arm down against the other man’s wrist and a loud crack sounded. Crowe yelled in pain and clutched his arm, bending double.

“You bastard!” Crowe’s face reddened, making Amelia’s scratch marks vivid. He stood upright then took a step toward Emmett. “You’re going to pay for this, man. You
and
your bitch!” He swiveled and made for Amelia, hands flailing, face an angry mask.

The gun went off. Crowe screamed and clutched his chest, pitching forward. He fell to the floor, his head smacking the boards with an ungodly thump.

Females squealed and a woman screeched, “Go! Quickly! Don’t come back until I send word. And don’t tell a soul of what’s happening here!”

Amelia jumped up and peeked out the window. Young women streaked across the grass expanse, heading for the forest, their getaway painted by moonlight. She turned back to face the room. Crowe lay facedown on the floor. Blood seeped from beneath him, oozing into a circle of dark red. A whoosh of air left his mouth and his eyes fluttered. Hand to her chest, Amelia looked up at Emmett. His gun hand shook and his face paled, mouth an O. Adam’s apple bobbing, he struggled to speak but only garbled sounds emerged.

Someone came up the stairs, the footsteps light, and a redheaded female appeared. Madam. A livid pink handprint marred her cheek and her green eyes widened in shock. She appeared older than her forty years, the wrinkles beside her eyes deep gouges. Madam stood beside Emmett and gazed down at Crowe. Amelia followed suit. Crowe’s chest didn’t move. His eyes stared blankly at the wooden chest, as though he’d known in his last moments that the sculpture hid inside.

“Oh God.” Madam clenched her fists at her sides and her face leached of all color. Her hair, usually so perfect, hung in spirals around her face, her topknot askew. “Who is he?”

Emmett grimaced. “A rogue. Someone I encountered while at sea. He was…he came to take back a sculpture he sold to me. And he…he went for Amelia. I—”

“We can take care of it,” Madam said, unclenching her fists and smoothing her palms down her black dress.

“How?” Amelia asked, a sense of foreboding slicing through her as she tugged her dress over her head.

Madam bent down and grasped Crowe’s ankles. “Come on! Help me!”

“What are you doing?” Amelia asked.

“Grab his arms,” Madam instructed, looking up at Amelia.

Hesitant to touch a dead body, Amelia glanced at Emmett, who stood as though entranced.

“Don’t worry about Emmett,” Madam said. “I’ll deal with him in a moment. Hurry!”

Amelia stepped forward and stooped over, gripping Crowe’s wrists. She shuddered at the contact and breathed deeply, telling herself to do as Madam asked and think about it later. With a huge effort, together they hefted the body onto the end of a large square rug, one Emmett had brought back from a voyage to Asia. Madam kneeled and indicated that Amelia should do the same.