Nicola Cornick - Forbidden

Henry raised his brows. “I saw that you had a copy of Mrs. Radcliffe’s book The Romance of the Forest in your reticule. I assumed that it was yours, unless you are taking it home for the admirable Mrs. Biddle.”

Margery was betrayed into a giggle. “Mrs. Biddle reads nothing other than books on household management,” she said. “She thinks fiction is frivolous.”

“We won’t tell her your secret, then,” Henry said with his slow smile. “For fear of damaging your future prospects.”

The music was becoming wilder still, the customers more raucous and amorous. One of the tavern wenches was enthusiastically kissing a tall fair man who had her pressed up against the plaster wall and looked as though he was about to ravish her there and then, in full view of the customers.

“He’s a scamp,” Margery said. “A highwayman. Jem says he works the Great West Road.”

Two men at the next table were coming to blows over a game of shove ha’penny. One planted a punch on the other; the table rocked and overturned and then they were locked in grunting combat. A knife flashed.

“Time to go, I think,” Henry said. He stood up, drawing Margery to her feet, one arm about her waist as she stumbled a little. “You may have a taste for dangerous company,” he said, “but I have more care for self-preservation.”

“I’ll protect you,” Margery said, smiling up into his eyes. She felt happy and a little dizzy and more than a little drunk. Fortunately, Henry’s arm felt exceedingly strong and reliable about her. It felt perilously right , as though she belonged in his arms, a foolish, whimsical notion that nevertheless she could not dislodge.

She turned toward the door—and found herself face-to-face with her brother Jem.

“Moll!” Jem’s voice snapped like a whip and the sweet, heady atmosphere that had held Margery in its spell died like a flame doused with water.

“Hello, Jem,” she said, disentangling herself from Henry, who seemed inordinately and provocatively slow to release her.

“Who’s the swell?” Jem said, cocking his head at Henry. There was an edge to his voice and an ugly look in his eyes.

“Henry Ward,” Henry said, stepping between them. He offered his hand. Jem studiously ignored it. Henry looked amused.

“Jem,” Margery said reproachfully.

Her brother flicked her look. “You should be careful, Moll,” he said. His gaze returned to Henry. “You can pick up all sorts of riffraff in here.”

“And you should mind your own business,” Margery said, furious now. She felt Henry shift beside her. She could sense the sudden tension in him, an antagonism that matched Jem’s except that Henry was watchful and controlled, appraising her brother with coolly assessing eyes. She remembered that Henry had been in the war and felt a shiver of alarm. Jem was hotheaded, a street fighter, but he was no match for a trained soldier.

The atmosphere was as thick as smoke now. The music had died away; everyone was watching, apart from the highwayman who was fumbling with the barmaid’s bodice, his face buried in her cleavage. Even the men from the next table had abandoned their fight in anticipation of one that promised to be more deadly.

Jem put his hand on Margery’s arm. “I’ll take you home,” he said. “Come on.” He nodded toward the door. “I’ll not have my sister treated like a fancy piece.”

“No,” Margery said stubbornly. “I’m not going with you.” She shook him off. She felt humiliated and upset; she wanted to cry because Jem had taken all the fun and excitement from her evening and torn it to shreds. Everything looked tawdry now and Jem was making her feel like naive fool and worse, like a whore whose favors were up for sale for the price of a mutton pie.

“Don’t confuse me with the sort of women you consort with, Jem Mallon,” she said sharply. “I’m no lightskirt.” She bit her lip against the sting of tears. “You’ve spoiled my evening,” she said. “I was having such a nice time.” She felt forlorn, like the little girl she had once been, stamping her foot with anger and hurt when Jem or Jed or Billy had broken one of her precious toys.

“For God’s sake, Moll,” Jem said contemptuously. “Can’t you see all he wants is a quick fumble down a dark alley and he’s just loosening you up for it?”

Henry stepped between them then with so much intent that Margery grabbed his sleeve in urgent fingers. The atmosphere had changed now. It was deadly.

“No,” Margery said. “Please.”

Her eyes met Henry’s. There was such protective fury in his that she was awed to see it. Something sweet and warm settled inside her. Here was a man who cared about her good name and would do all he could to defend it and her against the world. She had never felt so cherished before.

“Your sister does not want me to hit you,” Henry said, his voice lethally soft. “Out of respect for her, I will not. Don’t insult her again.”

There was an ugly look on Jem’s face. He would not back down. “I don’t trust you,” he said. “If you touch her I will kill you.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the inn, sending a glass tankard spinning to smash on the floor and pushing a drunk out of his way.

There was a long, heavy pause and then the music struck up again, raucous as before. The sound of voices rose above the din, and everyone moved, resumed whatever they had been doing and pretended that they had not been watching and hoping for a mill.

“I’m sorry,” Margery said. She was shaking. She felt Henry take her hands in his. His touch was very comforting.

“He only wanted to protect you,” Henry said. “I would have done the same.”

Margery gave a little hiccup halfway between a sob and a laugh. “I doubt you would have threatened to kill anyone,” she said.

“I might have expressed myself slightly differently, but the sentiment would have been the same.” His lips grazed her cheek in the lightest and most fleeting caress. “I’ll take you back,” he said. “Completely untouched, so that your brother does not come looking for me to slide a knife between my ribs.”

He took her bonnet and tied the ribbons beneath her chin with quick efficiency. His fingers brushed her throat. Margery repressed a shiver. She felt shaken and upset but beneath that was a deeper emotion, something so precious and tender she trembled to feel it.

The street was silent and dark, the leaning houses pressing together, their windows blind, their shutters closed. High above the sloping roofs, Margery could see a sky spangled with stars. She felt tired all of a sudden, as though the pleasure she had taken in the evening and in Henry’s company had drained away, leaving her empty. She sighed. “I did not want the evening to end like this.”

Henry stopped walking and turned to her. “How did you want it to end?”

The quiet words made her heart skip a beat. She glanced up at him but in the dark his expression was unreadable.

“I wanted to go to Bedford Square Gardens,” Margery said, in a rush. “I wanted to look at the stars and feel the breeze on my face and hear the sounds of the city at night….”

“We can still do that,” Henry said. “Since that is what you would like to do.”

Margery paused. They were alone and the night pressed in about them, silent and secret. Somewhere, streets away, a clock chimed the quarter hour. She could hear Henry’s quiet breathing and feel the heat of his body where it brushed against hers. He said nothing more. He was waiting for her to decide what she wanted.

A strange feeling swept through Margery, part excited, part fearful. Jem had been right; she had taken a risk tonight, but she trusted Henry. She knew that in all the drab repetition of her daily life this one evening would always sparkle as bright and exciting as a jewel. She did not expect it to happen again, but she wanted it to end well, not on the sourness of Jem’s intervention, spoiling the magic.