Page 103 of A Touch So Wicked

“Suit yerself, mistress,” Dooley said. “Enjoy yer stay with us.” The door closed behind him.

Elissa hissed out a grateful sigh after Dooley left. She had finally roused herself to the fact that she was freezing and needed to change her clothes before she became ill. A brazier would have been a welcome luxury, but she would happily freeze to death before selling her body to Dooley.

Retreating to a dark corner, Elissa removed dry clothing from her satchel and exchanged the damp clothes she wore for dry ones. Then she laid out her wet things over the table and stool to dry. Steeped in misery, she sat on the edge of the bed, pulled the blanket around her shoulders, and surrendered to despair. Tears began to flow when rats came out from their hiding places and sniffed around the bowl of cabbage soup she had sat on the floor when she’d spread her clothes out to dry.

Elissa allowed herself a few minutes of self-pity, then squared her shoulders and dashed her tears away. Succumbing to despair was not going to help her. She had to think positively if she hoped to survive. She had to believe Damian would come for her. If she lost hope she would lose herself, and she couldn’t…wouldn’t let that happen. Nor would she let those disgusting rats frighten her. She was bigger than they were, wasn’t she? She didn’t move from the cot, however, until necessity forced her to relieve herself in the nasty slop bucket. The rats finally scattered and she got up and dipped the cup in the water bucket. After drinking deeply, she dipped it in the water again and used it to wash her hands and face.

She sat in the dark a long time before finally dozing off. When she opened her eyes hours later, a square of murky daylight was seeping through the window. She greeted the dismal morning with diminishing hope and wavering spirits. Her legs were stiff and her hands cold as she moved off the bed, carefully folded the clothes that had dried overnight, placed them in the satchel, and removed her brush. She was trying to tame her tangled hair when Dooley arrived with breakfast. She glanced at the watery gruel and hunk of hard bread and promptly lost her appetite.

“Did ye sleep well?” Dooley taunted.

Elissa ignored him.

“Haughty little bitch, ain’t ye? I can make things better for ye.”

“I told you, I have no money.”

He stared at her breasts. “Be good to me and I’ll forget about the blunt.” He touched her hair. “I’ll bet yer a wild ‘un between the sheets.”

Shaking with indignation, Elissa slapped his hand away. “Donna touch me!”

Dooley glared at her. “Ye ain’t in no position to give me orders, missy. Ye’ll change yer mind, I’ll warrant, when yer cold enough and hungry enough. Eat yer gruel. ’Tis all ye’ll get till dinner.” He picked up the slop bucket and headed for the door, leaving Elissa to her morbid thoughts.

Elissa languished in abysmal circumstances for more days than she wished to acknowledge. The offensive odor of the food she was offered made her gag and push it aside, and when hunger forced her to eat, she lost it more often than not to the slop bucket. She was cold, hungry, exhausted, and utterly miserable. Dooley’s vicious taunting only added to her woes. He delighted in describing in detail the favors he expected from her in exchange for better food and physical comforts.

As the days passed, Elissa began to fear that the king had forgotten her and that Damian had abandoned her.

Covered with mud and sprouting a healthy growth of bristle on his chin, Damian reached London a full week behind Elissa. Though mindless with worry over Elissa’s fate, he saw to his men’s board and secured lodgings for himself above a tavern not far from Whitehall. Owing to the lateness of his arrival, it wasn’t feasible to seek an interview with the king, so he ordered a bath and some food and rehearsed the plea he hoped to present to the king on Elissa’s behalf the following morning.

What had happened to Elissa? he wondered. Was she still alive? He had stopped to question a hawker on his way through town and had been relieved to learn that no hanging had been held during the past week. That meant there was a chance Elissa was still alive. But in what condition?

After bathing and eating, Damian roamed the streets in search of information. A few people remembered seeing soldiers escorting a young woman through the streets of London, but no one seemed to know what had happened to her. Disheartened, he returned to his room and tried to sleep. He needed to be at his best tomorrow. Too many people depended on him to bring Elissa back to Misterly. Returning alone was not an option. Spending the rest of his life without Elissa was even less palatable.

The sun had barely risen when Damian entered Whitehall the following morning. He was forced to cool his heels in an anteroom until other petitioners began to gather. A short time later a scribe arrived to interview those who sought an audience with the king. When his turn came, Damian gave his name and stated his purpose for requesting an audience. The scribe wrote something down in a book and told Damian to wait for the king’s summons.

Damian waited in the anteroom for hours while others were escorted into the reception hall. The day was half gone when the scribe announced that the king had retired to his Privy Chamber to rest and the audiences were over for the day. The remaining petitioners were invited to return the next day.

Damian was so furious he felt like throwing caution to the winds and pushing his way inside the king’s Privy Chamber, demanding to be heard. Prudence prevailed, however, and he left without making a scene.

Damian returned the following day, and the day after that, growing angrier by the minute as his request for an audience was blatantly ignored. When he was finally summoned into the reception hall by Lord Pelham on the third day, his patience was all but shattered and his hope hung by a slim thread.

“Thank you for granting me an audience, Sire,” Damian said in a voice fraught with impatience.

“What are you doing in London, Lord Clarendon? You were instructed to remain at Misterly, were you not?”

It took a long moment for Damian to sort through the guttural accent with any kind of understanding. At length, he said, “Aye, Sire, but I was anxious about my wife. Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell me what has become of her.”

A feminine voice accosted him from the doorway. “I heard you were seeking an audience with the king, Damian. Hasn’t His Majesty told you that you have no wife and never did?”

Kimbra moved toward him like a ship at full mast. “Lady Kimbra,” Damian said, politely bowing over her outstretched hand. “I beg to differ with you. Elissa and I were married by Father Hugh after you left Misterly.”

“Shall I tell him, or will you, Your Majesty?” Kimbra asked sweetly.

Her pleasant manner did not fool Damian. A sickness built in the pit of his stomach.

Lord Pelham undertook the explanation. “Had you remained at Misterly, Lord Clarendon, you would have received a notice of the annulment of your marriage. Since you weren’t given permission to wed, His Majesty declared your marriage illegal. If you recall, the British Marriage Act forbids unauthorized weddings.”

The color drained from Damian’s face. “You cannot do that.”