The Wrong Bride Read online

  Winnie had never felt such sickness in her life. Her jaw burned with pain, one side of her head pounded like the very devil himself was pricking her with his pitchfork, and every muscle she was aware of ached. She lay still, hoping not to throw up but rather that she might die instead. It would be a mercy. A man’s damned feet were on her, but she hadn’t the strength to move them. Winnie shivered, her teeth chattered, and she couldn’t draw her scattered thoughts together. Dear God! Please let this be just a nightmare and please bring it to an end soon. Eventually with the rocking of the carriage and the pain in her head diminishing to a slow throb, she slept fitfully, waking finally when the man shifted and moved his feet away, hitting her nose in the process. Winnie felt the warm blood trickle past her nose to meet the sudden new tears that wet her face. She would have bawled, but that would have taken too much of what little strength Winnie had left. Still in the carriage, she wondered where it was. Blessedly, she fainted away again.

  When she woke, Winnie was in a bed, though, looking around, it wasn’t her own. Someone had brought her inside an unfamiliar house or inn and tucked her into a bed, and she must have been sleeping. A fellow was weaving his way toward the bed. “Who are you?” she asked with a croak, squinting at him, not seeing the man all that well. Her eyes wouldn’t focus for some reason.

  “I’m your husband, sweetie. You’re my wife…”

  “I cannot be your wife,” she managed, her voice a dry whisper. “I am not married.”

  “…and I am going to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance in that direction, if you get my drift.” His voice was familiar, enough so that Winnie realized she was still in her nightmare. And his voice wasn’t a happy one. She tried to wake up, could see things around her but only faintly. There was a window in the room, but its light was blocked by a drapery of some sort. And he was drunk still, or yet, or again.

  “But you cannot,” she pleaded. “Please take me home.”

  “You are home, little darlin’.” It came to Winnie with a shock that he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. “I’ve been waiting for my wife to wake up so’s I can love her the way I’ve dreamed for a week now.” His voice slurred, Winnie had trouble following the gist of what he was saying, but his words were full of frustration and unhappiness. It would do no good for her to protest further. After throwing back the covers and pushing up the nightshift she still wore, lifting her knees and pressing apart her legs, he came down on her. What happened next was more painful and bewildering and shocking than any torment, any torture she could have imagined. Winnie cried out and his mouth claimed hers. He went on, pushing and shoving himself deeper into the middle of her, tearing her apart until she wished, no, she prayed that God would take her then and there. Still mounted on her, she heard his nearly instant snoring after a loud, prolonged groan. Her movements to try to get out from under him caused him to shift partly off her, but he still had her bound with a thick arm across her upper body and a heavy leg draped over her lower part. She was trapped.

  Winnie had next to no sleep, though she had been unconscious part of the time. After this crazed night and day, then night again with little rest, she was so weary, her body so sore from all its misuse, her eyes closed against tears slipping from beneath her lashes. She felt nothing, not even his moving away from her, giving herself up to the death which might blessedly claim her. Winnie waited. But it wasn’t death that claimed her, but rather sleep.

  Her body still throbbing with all sorts of discomfort, Winnie finally woke, alone and in a good-sized bed, one she might appreciate under different circumstances. Looking about cautiously, but hearing nothing, Winnie rose on her elbows and studied her surroundings more carefully. Yes, it appeared she was alone. Sitting up tentatively and feeling a sensation of wet between her legs, she gasped, putting her hand there. She brought it out and looked. It was a watery, blood slick something, and she whimpered. I’m bleeding to death, she thought. Lifting off the covers, she rose from the bed, every joint and muscle complaining in the worst way.

  Winnie stood, swaying, making her way to the little stand which blessedly held a basin of water. She lowered her head to drink, relieving the awful thirst, after which she wiped her face with a cloth by the side of the basin. The cloth then went to that part of her that seemed torn and bruised. After that, she found need to relieve herself, sought out and found the pot and did so, her used flesh burning with the act. Through all her movements, she tried to be quiet so as not to bring the monster back to distress her mind and body once more. In a chair in the dim room, she found a pile of clothes, sorted through them by feel, and put on pantaloons, a shift, and a dress. The brown curling hair felt wild about her face, but she didn’t care. If only she could get out of here, find her way home! She promised never to complain about her narrow, child’s bed again. It would be heaven to be in it in her room now instead of in this chamber of hell. Winnie found a pair of slippers a mite small for her feet and like ones Miranda wore. Dear God. What would her sister think of her, of her adventure? And her mother and father? Perhaps by some miracle, they wouldn’t find out.

  Biting a lip, Winnie opened the door to the room painfully slowly, wincing in case it might squeak. Peeking past it, she discovered a corridor, a landing, the beginning of stairs down, and light. As quietly as possible she moved forward, her ears perked to hear any possible sound, but there was nothing. Winnie took a deep breath and one of her ribs pinched her. She licked dry lips and inched her way painfully down the stairs. So far, so good. She had almost made it to the front door, and then she would be out and free! But, where was she? No, no, she told herself. Having come this far, she mustn’t be stupid. She didn’t know where she was, would need food and drink for the journey home.

  Winnie turned, trying to orient herself. Was this house like hers, with the corridor on the right off the entry the one to the kitchen? She heard no one stirring and blessed good fortune as she made her way along. Now that she could see in the light streaming from one of the tall windows along the way, the house and its contents were shabby. And dirty. And not just slightly disordered like her own room at home sometimes, but it looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in ages. On the long wood table in the kitchen at the end of a turning in the hall, she found a bucket of water, and on a peg by the outside door of the kitchen there was a scoop. With scoop in hand, Winnie took a drink as she turned around in the room. A small door was against one wall. It might be the pantry and she was starving. But, would her luck hold out? She decided not to try lingering in this unremarkable house with its horror of memories. Sure of her decision, Winnie approached the door that must lead outside and opened it cautiously to step out, looked about, and saw no one. After turning to close the door, she stepped down from the step just as around the corner of the house an older man lifted his brows at the sight of a slight girl coming from the kitchen. He stepped on quiet feet behind her. “And who be ye?” he boomed. Winnie shrieked at the sound of the voice, whirled, her face turned white as chalk. “One of Master Lance’s doxies from town, per’aps?” His eyes widened as he took in the bruises and breaks on the pale face. “What on earth? Ye look as if ‘ve fallen down the stairs, lass.”

  Winnie backed up against the door, faced with another possible brute. “No…no, sir,” she stuttered, shaking like a leaf, fearing to faint again. But she’d done enough of that these last, this last day—good heavens, she had no idea how much time had passed since she’d been kidnapped. “And I assure you, I am no doxie,” she said, drawing herself up as best she could.

  She read the doubt on his unsmiling face. “So, then, whatever ye be, be on yer way.”

  “I shall, if you would be so kind as to let me know just where I am, sir.”

  The large man studied the girl in front of him. Good lord in heaven. She was too young for Master Lance to be foolin’ with. He’d give the fellow a stern lecture when he saw Lance again. “How old are ye, girl?”

  The man seemed somewhat reasonable to Winnie. Perhap
s he wasn’t the ogre she’d supposed he might be. “I’m sixteen, sir. And my family has a place in North Yorkshire.”

  “But, but,” he sputtered, “that’s miles an’ miles from here! How did you come here?”

  “I came by carriage.” Still afraid, she looked at the man more carefully, his blue eyes expressing concern, she was sure of it. “Your ‘Master Lance’ whoever he is, has kidnapped me, and, if you’ll be so kind as…”

  “Kidnapped ye, do ye say?” The voice boomed in the stillness of the day, and the birds Winnie had heard earlier twittering in the trees ringing the carriage lane were stilled. “It cannot be, lass.” He shook his head. “Not even that rash lad would do anythin’ so foolish. Ye’re surely mistaken.”

  “I tell you I am not.” They stared at each other gravely. The girl was swimming in a gown too large for her and certainly she didn’t look like a girl of sixteen. She looked a poor, distraught urchin of a younger age.

  He sighed. “I hadn’t planned it, but I will take ye home. But ye need lookin’ after. I must check the house anyway, so if you’d step inside, I’ll have a look-see at those bruises and cuts, see what we can come up with, an’ I have to think on it.” Fear invaded the deep-set blue eyes, and the face became even more pale than before. “Dear me, I wouldn’t hurt ye fer the world, girl. But,” he caught her as she swayed on feet pinched by the shoes, “come in, sit a spell, until ye’re feelin’ better. I jest need to make a quick goin’ over of the house, ye see. Are ye hungry?”

  The thought of food made Winnie swallow. “Yes, I certainly am. I haven’t eaten in…,” she said, the voice whispery again…, “I don’t know what day it is….”

  The man straightened. “It’s the lord’s day, child. Please, come in. I won’t trouble ye, and ye look as if ye might fall if ye don’t rest a bit.”

  “Al…alright,” she said, defeated, the voice small and nearly inaudible.

  “That’s a good girl.” He opened the kitchen door and ushered her in before him. Winnie sat on a chair before the kitchen table disconsolately, all her energy gone. She heard him rummaging near but didn’t care anymore. He came from somewhere and produced a piece of soft, light yellow cheese, a biscuit, and a mug of fresh cider. “It’s the best I can do at the moment,” he murmured with apology.

  “It’s quite nice,” Winnie said, suddenly remembering manners thoroughly taught long ago.

  “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” he told her. “Don’t go wanderin’ about on yer own, now. I’ll be happy to take you home, like I said.”

  Without looking up, she thanked him, bit into the cheese which practically melted in her mouth. She must remember to ask the man about it. It was quite wonderful. Almost through the cheese and biscuit, hungrier than she’d imagined possible, Winnie was halfway through the cider when she heard the man’s boots stomping through the house. His face was red when he came into the kitchen, his face and jaw set.

  “Might ye be one Winifred Alexander?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Why, yes. Yes, I am. But how did you know?”

  “It says so, right on this sheet of paper. Says ye’re married to Master Lance.”

  Winnie’s voice rose in despair. “But it’s a mistake, I tell you!”

  “No, I don’t think so.” His voice was slow and apologetic. He’d seen the sheets and winced, and the water in the wash bowl was stained with the evidence, too.

  “I was kidnapped,” she said helplessly, face forlorn and begging his understanding.

  “Hmm.” The man studied the paper. “Master Lance was besotted with a young woman with the last name Alexander. But the first name…” He scratched the lightly bearded chin, “doesn’t seem familiar somehow.”

  Winnie’s brain woke from its stupor, and she stared at him in horror. “It would have been Miranda, perhaps?”

  The man was thinking, plying his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger. “Yes, that’s it. Miranda Alexander. He’d written her name in countless letters he tried to pen before he tore them up. Found them in his little office when I went through some time ago.”

  “Dear God, that explains everything,” she breathed. “He came for her. But she was away, and I was sleeping in her bed.” Winnie looked up at the man. “You can see how all became mixed up.”

  “I shall thrash that boy within an inch of his life.”

  Winnie put her cider mug down carefully, uncertain. “Where is he?” She longed to be gone before the fiend returned.

  The man shook his head. “I’ve no idea. Headed for the nearest tavern, I suspect.”

  “Might we be on our way, then, please?”

  He looked at her pleading face. “I’ll have a look at yer wounds, first.”

  Winnie stood. “No, please, let us go sooner rather than later.”

  “Ah, lass, I would that I could, but I’ve only me own horse. The boy has taken the carriage and…”

  “But, but you said you would.” Her voice was rising in a kind of desperation.

  “Now, now, don’t fret. I made the promise, true an’ I will, yes. But I want to think about it, and I will have a look at those bruises, missy. It will cost a mite to send ye by coach, but that’s what we’ll do.” He smiled. “By the way, the name is Barnaby Jones.” He thrust out his hand and she offered hers, soon enveloped in his own larger hand. “D’you think your folks would pay me back fer yer passage?” He lifted his brows. “Sorry I am to ask, but I’m not a rich man.” Winnie sank back in her chair. Of course they would. Wouldn’t they? Or, the horrible thought entered her mind, would they want her back? It was the rare parent that allowed a girl to return to a house once she was married. She’d heard stories. “Well, allow me to have a look.” He came closer and bent down. Winnie stiffened but the exceedingly larger hands were gentle, and though it hurt, his poking and prodding, the salve he produced and rubbed gently on the scratches on her face was soothing, the touch reassuring.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Mr. Jones? They will take me back, won’t they?” His fingers were working salve into the cuts and bruises, and he stepped back to have a look. Apparently satisfied, he sighed and put the lid back on the little tin of medicine.

  “Oh, fer sure,” he said with a grunt. “What mother er father wouldn’t?”

  Winnie looked up. “I have been a sometimes-contentious daughter, and…I have heard stories.” She bit on her lip and regretted it right away. It was still sore, and she had just made it worse.

  “So have I, but blood be blood.”

  “Anyway, they won’t be home ‘til a week from tomorrow.”

  “Hmm. The time might give yerself a chance to heal up and look a mite more proper.” He smiled at the hopeful expression on the girl. “In the meantime, ye’ll need to collect yerself more, mebbe…” a finger rose to twirl in the air around his head, “fix yer hair, that kind of thing.” He paused as if considering. “Yer servants won’t be missin’ ye?”

  She shrugged. They rarely took notice of her. “They might conceive that I changed my mind and went with the rest.” Winnie told him the story of her sister and the suitor other than Master Lance. “May I ask, Mr. Jones, what is it you do here?”

  “Oh, I watch the place, mostly. Been with the family a long time. Aye, I’ve known little Lance since he was knee-high.” He bent down to place the side of his palm against his leg. “I live in the cottage at the edge of the north woods.”

  “If…if he comes back,” she said, swallowing nervously, “you’ll protect me from him, won’t you?”

  Jones pulled out a chair, turned it around to face her and sat down. “Would ye like to tell me what happened?” After staring at his frowning face for a moment and seeing only curiosity and concern there, Winnie slowly began her story, about how happy she’d been to be by herself for a while, to have the run of the house and surrounds, to be using Miranda’s more splendid bedroom for her own.

  In conclusion, she added, “They were drunk, before, during and after.”

  “An’, still ye end
ed up married to Master Lance.”

  “Yes, Mr. Jones,” she admitted, her color flaring, “though not by my consent, that’s for sure. I believe I begged them to take me home.” Winnie couldn’t bear to tell him the indignity of being chosen by straws of three drunken men.

  After the recitation, Jones rose. “Well, I would leave ye fer a spell, to go into town, see if I can find what happened to Master Lance. Will ye be alright on yer own, d’you think?”

  Winnie felt the blood drain from her face. “As long as that dreadful fellow doesn’t come back.”

  Barnaby straightened and frowned. “Can ye cook?” She shook her head. “Clean?” She repeated the gesture. “Heavens, girl, what can ye do?”

  Feeling suddenly small and useless, she replied. “I can sew a bit, draw, and read. I am an excellent reader, Mr. Jones. And I do sums quite well.”

  “Not much of a talent fer this house, that’s fer sure,” he said, his expression showing clearly how disappointed he was. “I would’ve hoped ye could scrape up a meal or two while ye’re here. I’m sick of me own cookin’.” A wry smile tugged at his mouth. “Perhaps ye might find a book on cookery in the little library, since ye’re a reader.” He shrugged. “It might give ye somethin’ to do fer a day er two whilst we decided how best to return ye home.”