Мериел Фуллер – The Damsel's Defiance (страница 3)

As the sun rose, the port began to wake up. Some of the fishing boats that had been out since the early hours were starting to return, the heaps of fish in their hulls gleaming slickly. They would unload farther upstream, directly beside the market, bumping and scraping their wooden hulls together as they jostled for the best position to pull up on the beach.

As Emmeline rolled back and forth on her toes in an effort to warm her feet, the massive cross-beam of the one crane at Barfleur began to swing round behind her, lifting the oak wine casks from two hulks that had tied up at the jetty. The barrels were so huge that only three could be fitted lengthways into the little boats. The two men at the one end of the crane grunted with exertion as they pulled down on the rope hanging from the end of the cross-beam to heave the wine cask from the rounded hull. Once the cask was level with the timber jetty where Emmeline stood, the familiar creaking began, the noise of the vertical wooden post pivoting in its stone turning-hole to swing the cask up and into the waiting cart.

Emmeline watched idly as the lighter boat holding Captain Lecherche approached the shore. She narrowed her eyes; the harsh brilliance of the winter sun dancing on the water made it difficult to see clearly, muddling her perspective. Captain Lecherche appeared much larger and broader than normal. But then maybe he’d padded himself out with warm clothes just as she herself had done. Normally he would have stayed until the last of the cargo was off the ship, usually as a safeguard to make sure there was no thievery from his crew. But his men were a trusted bunch, and Emmeline feared that he intended to tell her about some damage or other that needed to be fixed.

Her mouth dropped open as the boat tore up the loose stones at a cracking pace and two large booted feet jumped agilely onto the shingle. Perturbed, she scanned the horizon for another large keel ship, for this man was no Captain Lecherche! He must have come in off another vessel, but there was none to be seen! What on earth had this man been doing on her ship? It was her strict policy to never carry passengers; her captain was well aware of that.

Resisting the temptation to take a few steps back, she gaped as the man ran up the slipway and straight toward her, powerful strides carrying him forward with imposing momentum. He would stop soon, Emmeline thought, determinedly holding her ground. She had the briefest impression of fierce brooding eyes, a harsh aquiline face and hard, slashing brows before his heavy bulk smashed into her slight figure, carrying her several feet away from the edge of the jetty with the weight of his body, knocking her flat to the ground. Behind them, a wine cask crashed to the ground, splitting open with a shuddering violence to soak the wooden planks of the jetty with Gascony wine.

With her nose and mouth pressed into a woollen cloak that smelled of the sea, Emmeline spluttered furiously, trying hard to catch her breath. The vast body above her squeezed the air from her lungs, squashing her limbs into the hard wood of the jetty. With her arms pinned beside her, she had no way of levering this man off her, of pushing him away.

‘Get…off me!’ she managed to struggle out. The crushing weight rolled away with astonishing swiftness. Her bones felt mashed and bruised, her chest sore as she fought to breathe normally. Sitting up, hands shaking, she lifted one hand to rub the back of her head where it had hit the jetty on impact. Soft, silky locks slipped between her fingers. Her hair spilled down from her shoulders, looping traitorously down the front of her cloak. Where was her hood? Her fingers scrabbled for it at the back of her neck in a vain effort to preserve her dignity, but not before a livid blush swept over her face. Pulling the hood back over her head, tucking her hair viciously behind her, she lifted her eyes to meet the intense, mocking blue gaze of the man standing at her feet.

‘Methinks ’tis a little early to ply your trade, madame,’ he remarked drily, his glance immediately condemning. ‘Or is it still the night for you?’

Emmeline closed her eyes in shame.

Chapter Two

‘You have the devil of a nerve, monsieur, to speak to me like that!’ Vexed, she shunted to a sitting position, strands of pale golden hair falling forward from beneath her hood. Raising exasperated eyes to her accuser, she forced herself not to flinch at his overbearing size. He towered above her, this huge bearlike ogre of a man, a day’s growth of beard darkening the lower half of his face, a shock of cropped black hair falling vigorously over his brow. Caught in the stiff breeze, his cloak swirled about him, blocking the sun from her eyes to cast her into gloomy shadow.

Emmeline shivered, suppressing a leap of…what? Was it fear, or some other emotion she couldn’t quite pinpoint? She would not be cowed by this stranger, no matter what his opinion of her; he’s just a man, she reminded herself. After everything Giffard had done to her, hadn’t she learned anything about how to deal with the opposite sex? Have some courage! Her eyes travelled warily from the thick leather of his great sea boots, up the muscled length of his legs to a broad chest encased in a buff-coloured leather jerkin. His vast cloak, rippling out in the breeze, was of a rich blue, a colour denoting him to be a member of the nobility by the sheer expense of the indigo dye. The colour matched the fiery vividness of his eyes, an azure brightness so intense that her heart skipped in shock as her indignant stare locked with his.

‘Pray tell me, how else does one address a whore?’ The dispassionate nature of his voice enraged her, raining down on her head in hollow censure.

With sharp, angry movements, Emmeline began to tuck her wayward hair back into her hood. Her fingers moved over the back of her head; her skull ached. ‘I’m no whore, sire. Surely anyone with a whit of sense can see that!’

The stranger chuckled, a deep, throaty rasp. ‘Then I must have none. In my experience only a whore or an extremely foolish woman would come this early to the dockside with her hair unbound and not ask for trouble. Which one are you?’

‘’Tis none of your business!’

‘It became my business when I pushed you away from the falling wine cask. Count yourself lucky, mam’selle, for another man might not have bothered saving one such as you.’

One such as you. God in Heaven, he really does think that I’m a whore. ‘Then why did you?’ she asked out loud.

He shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Instinct, I suppose. No one likes to witness a life lost unnecessarily. You would have been crushed to death. That cask weighs at least six times your body weight.’ He looked down the arrow-straight ridge of his nose at her. ‘Most people would be thanking me by now.’

‘Thank you,’ she chanted, her tone faintly mocking, aware that the cold from the jetty began to seep through her clothes. Collecting her cloak and skirts about her, she pondered on how to rise with dignity, unwilling for this arrogant stranger to witness her disability. If only she had something to pull herself up with! The sooner she could escape this horrible man, the better!

‘Let me help you,’ he offered, grudgingly. She stared at the neatly stitched hide of his gloves, his hand reaching out to her from his great height to where she sat in a miserable puddle of skirts, her inadequate leather slippers and wrinkled stockings on show for everyone to see, and gritted her teeth. ‘I can manage,’ she mumbled, shaking her head at his offer.

‘’Tis your choice.’ The hand withdrew.

Around her, the men of the port had gathered, some concerned, some smirking slightly to see her humiliation. Annoyed, she flicked her skirts back down to cover her ankles, as one of the merchants pushed through to the front of the crowd.

‘Ahh, Mam’selle de Lonnieres, it’s you! A thousand apologies,’ the small man blustered, his fat little hands fluttering nervously before his mottled face. ‘I assure you, I checked the ropes thoroughly!’

‘Not well enough, it seems,’ the tall stranger remarked drily. ‘This woman could have been killed.’ The blue gleam of his eyes assessed the other man scornfully.

The wreckage of the cask lay before her on the edge of the revetment, splayed out in bits like broken bones. The red wine had soaked into the rough timber boards, winking in the sunlight as the gulls wheeled overhead, sensing the drama below, their shrieking calls piercing through her…

‘Mam’selle?’

She scarcely heard the stranger’s voice as a fierce trembling overtook her, the enormity of the incident becoming sickeningly clear. He grunted impatiently, before bending down to lift her up with two broad hands under her armpits.

‘Monsieur!’ she squeaked in surprise, eyes snapping wide as she realised the dangerous proximity of his large thumbs to the sensitive underside of her breasts. A peculiar, fluttering feeling coiled in the pit of her stomach, but she quashed it smartly, retreating hurriedly from his imposing build as soon as he set her on her feet.