Authors: Sophie Dash
Home.
Ruth bunched up her skirts, picked up the pace and heard a snapping sound beside her, in sync with her footfalls, like another heartbeat. There was enough time to face him, the stranger, to see his eyes shining in the gloom like hot coals.
A rough hand caught her arm. A heavy bulk brought her to the ground, winded her, before a palm was slammed across her mouth – its keeper not knowing she had no air left in her lungs to even breathe, let alone scream.
Ruth
“Where can I find Isaac Roscoe?” A hot, stale breath reached her.
The man at her back smelt as though he’d left his grave mere moments ago – or was minutes from it. Rotten grime, old sweat, crusted filth. If Ruth’s dress was not ruined before, it was now. She heard a tear as she struggled to pull her ear away from that harsh whisper, half-muffled as he spoke into her hair.
“
Where?
”
He jolted her, pulling a high, pained grunt from her throat. If she screamed, the noise would not travel. Even if it did, could anyone help her? They would have to find her first and search the endless dark – they wouldn’t be quick enough.
“Why?” There was little use in struggling, for she was not strong enough. Ruth squeezed her eyes closed, tried to keep calm and think logically. “What do you want with him?”
A gruff growl, a voice too low to be natural, purposely distorted. “That’s my business.”
“It’s mine too,” she replied, not knowing if her next words would damn her or free her. “For I am his wife.”
The hold on her vanished, she fell forwards, palms scuffing the hard earth. A fervent apology was uttered and a hand was placed on her elbow, hoisting her up as though she were feather-light. Ruth jerked back, almost too far, to where the cliff edge waited, and the uneven ground gave way to loose rocks and grit.
The stranger had her, steadied her, and pulled her back. “Easy now. I am not here to hurt you.”
“Then you are here to hurt Isaac – is that it?” Ruth recovered swiftly, eager to distance herself from the figure, to get to the farmhouse, to call for Simms. “Does he owe you money? He has none, trust me on that.”
“God, no, I should think I owe him.” The stranger’s tone shifted, far warmer, softer, though there was a strain to it. He reached for her, a dim shape. “Are you injured? I did not mean to—”
“Do not touch me.”
“I did not know who you were. I thought it best to scare you, make you think I wasn’t – that I was after the man, not that I was a friend.”
“You’re Isaac’s friend?” Ruth’s voice was heavy with doubt. “I didn’t think he had any.”
“We were in the Navy together, a long time ago now.” Desperate, pleading, he added, “Look, we cannot talk here; it’s not safe.”
Her mind worked fast. “Safe for who?”
The stranger did not reply.
Ruth’s hands stopped on her skirts and felt a coldness, a tacky substance on her hand.
Blood.
She could smell the metallic, rusty scent.
“What have you done? Why do you need to seek my husband’s help?”
“It’s better if I explain indoors.”
“You are hurt,” she said, with no sympathy in her voice, no caring. Only a tactical, hard edge. “Will Isaac get hurt?” Another damning silence met her question. “Does you being here put him at risk?”
“It puts you both at risk,” confessed the stranger. “But I would not have come here if I had any other choice.”
And she could tell, by the hoarseness in his words and the redness upon her hands, that if she did not lead him into the house soon, he would not make it on his own. He would not make it all.
Isaac
Voices could be heard from within the farmhouse. Isaac clenched his jaw. One was a man’s voice. It wasn’t Simms. They didn’t have guests – hadn’t for years. No one had been welcome. The entire town knew not to come here. Isaac’s heart was in his throat and had been on the ride over, until he’d silently led the horse to shelter and found that Ruth had not gone home alone.
Dry leaves crackled underfoot, the dog stirred, a low grumble from behind the door.
Had she wanted to punish him? Was this a game? Had the drink and his harsh words forced her into the arms of another? His boot kicked a pebble, pushing a clatter along the cobblestones. The conversation inside stopped.
Unkind thoughts, unwelcome visions, swam in Isaac’s mind.
Their last conversation – his and Ruth’s – had ended poorly. The echo of her kiss was still on his mouth, but he could not trust Lady Mawes. Over the past week or so, he had come to know his wife better, to see beyond the first impressions and assumptions. And yet, at the prompting of his great-aunt, Ruth had reverted back to that unhappy, eager-to-please creature who would put herself at risk. Yes, he wanted her –
God,
he truly did – but not like this. Not until she wanted him back.
That will never happen.
When had those promises to himself, to never grow entangled with another, fallen to the wayside? He’d been a younger man then, naïve enough to think his heart would never change. To care was to open himself up to the worst the world could offer. Such pain, such loss, had stolen his father from him. Standing outside that farmhouse and contemplating what could be taking place within told him he did care, far more than he’d ever planned to.
Isaac drew back from the side door, towards the tumbledown outhouses. He knew this place as well as he knew himself; he knew what would be here. But he wasn’t sure he’d need it. Although the darkness was near impenetrable, he found the shovel’s dull glint and felt the rough wooden handle upon his palm. Light flooded the courtyard, blinding after so long with only the night. There was a shape in the doorway, a pistol’s outline.
Hell.
Isaac swung. He wasn’t fast enough.
“Christ,” came the other man’s shout, dodging out of the way by pure luck. “For God’s sake, Isaac—”
The spade chipped off a section of the doorframe. Ruth shouted at him. He didn’t listen. The man he faced shoved him back carelessly. Isaac held on, dragging the stranger with him. When Isaac went down, the stranger did too, tussling until Isaac was on top, the spade’s handle pressed down, close to his opponent’s throat. It was only then he realised who the unwelcome guest was. Sand-coloured hair, a wide mouth, blue eyes.
“William?”
“Jesus, yes, it’s me,” he croaked, before Ruth’s hands pulled Isaac away and went straight to the other man, drawing him onto his feet.
Jealousy lanced through Isaac’s middle, his mind still racing to catch up with all he’d seen, heard, suspected.
“What are you doing here?”
And what are you doing with my wife?
“I need your help,” replied William, straining as he limped towards the kitchen and Isaac finally saw the mess he was in. There was a steady worry upon Ruth’s face and a sudden relief – followed by embarrassment – that came when she met her husband’s eye.
Thank God you’re here,
it seemed to say, or did he only imagine it, hope for it?
Isaac helped William down to a chair by the fireside, to where blood-soaked rags sat in heaps.
“You have both undone everything I just did,” mumbled Ruth bitterly.
Isaac almost replied, until he saw the state of her in the fire’s glow. Why did he always force her into these positions? Blood under her fingernails, concerned lines drawn upon her forehead, sleeves stained copper.
Isaac wished he could still feel the port in his system, for the ride back to the farmhouse had shaken him into a cruel, wakeful sobriety. “Why are you here, Will?”
“I had nowhere else to go.” Now that William knew he had found safety, he seemed to deflate, weaken, all the fight leaving him for he no longer needed to run. He’d clearly journeyed for miles and miles, and yet now even holding his head up seemed a battle.
“They’ll kill you when they find you here.”
The statement startled Ruth, her fingers pausing at the deep gash, a pistol’s graze, along William’s leg. “What do you mean?” She looked between the two men and Isaac wanted to reassure her, wished he could spare her, but knew better than to lie to the woman. He’d learnt that particular lesson.
“William is wanted for mutiny,” said Isaac, watching her tending hands waver. “When His Majesty’s Forces find him, they’ll hang him – along with any others who dared to give him aid.”
***
Isaac knew every movement Ruth made within the room, until she instructed him, in a voice far too calm and measured, to find their new guest a change of clothes and more clean rags. When he returned with them, she did not look at him, though he made sure to have one small contact with her, their hands meeting, a fleeting, fickle thing.
It wasn’t an apology.
He was too angry with her for that, for putting herself at risk, and for his own actions. But he pushed all that aside to aid his friend. One he had thought he’d never see again. Not alive, anyway.
“That’s the best I can do,” said Ruth curtly, getting up from the floor and brushing off her dress – the action done purely to announce her departure, for it did nothing to push the stains from the material. “I trust you can take it from here.”
She did not say Isaac’s name, nor did she look at him, but he answered with a nod.
Ruth left, her steps creaking up the staircase.
A heavy, frustrated noise came from Isaac. It was as though his ribs had been heaved down in his chest and strung with weights.
William glanced from the now empty doorway to Isaac and said, “If you don’t go after her, I will.”
“You can’t even damn well walk without passing out.”
“I got here, didn’t I?” William let his head fall back, eyes closing. “Whatever has taken place between you two, best you go and apologise for it.”
“Who says I am the one who hurt her?”
“You’ve done something, Isaac. It’s always the same with you and women,” he replied. “Now undo it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
William did not look convinced. “How did you even end up with a woman like that?”
Isaac felt his hackles rise, arms folded across his chest, as he asked, “What do you mean by that?”
“She’s intelligent, resourceful, striking,” continued William. “How on earth did you convince a woman like that to overlook – well…” he gestured loosely to Isaac’s entire form “…and fall for you?”
Now that question was one his pride would not let him answer, eyes cast downwards. “I didn’t,” he muttered, knowing he had to follow her, had to make it right. “I won’t be long.”
“For her sake, I hope you are.”
With gritted teeth, Isaac went up to his wife. The bedroom door was open. She had her back to him, shaking out her hands, her gaze on the window that reflected their warped shapes back at them in the dim candlelight.
“You shouldn’t have run off like that,” he told her, not wanting to be overheard and yet unwilling to close the door behind him. That act would close them off and shut them alone together, at a time when Isaac knew he would not be able to hold back, would not be able to stop himself from taking her. “About what happened—”
“Don’t,” she replied, drying her hands on her ruined dress. There was a basin sat on a sideboard, the water no longer clear.
The room was smaller than he’d ever known it, for he had never really shared it with another. Never been this close to her with such an expectant, charged air.
“We do not need to speak of this tonight,” she said simply, though they both knew he would not let that subject lie. “We never need to speak of this.”
“You acted recklessly,” he said. “There could have been anyone on the roads tonight.”
“And I suppose you have never done a reckless thing in your life? You, the man who willingly lets himself get beaten to a pulp for profit?”
“It’s not safe out there for a woman alone and I will not let you do it again.”
“Why should my safety concern you?”
“Because you are my
wife
.”
“You could easily find yourself another,” she said, putting up a shield of logic, as though she’d boxed up her emotions and hidden them far away from herself, from him.
Damn her
.
After everything they were back to this farce, the hard rock between them that he’d been trying to wear down and break through.
Isaac took a step towards her, willing her to turn around, trying to read her cold expression in the window’s glare. “Why would I want another wife?”
“Yes, there is that,” she added, in a hollow voice. “Why would you want to condemn yourself a second time?”
“For God’s sake, Ruth,” he said, reaching for her, hand on her elbow.
She pulled back harshly, spinning around, cheeks flaming.
“I presume your friend is taking the study, so have this,” she said coldly, bunching up a coarse blanket and hurling it his way. “If the idea of sharing a bed with me is so unappealing to you, take the floor.”
He caught it, easily, as they both knew he would.
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“Then
go
and let’s pretend tonight never happened.”
“Not until I have said my piece.” Isaac levelled a hard stare at her. “I do not want you to think I am in the habit of taking unwilling women to bed.”
Ruth blinked. “You think I am unwilling?”
“I ruined your life. It is my fault you’re in this mess, so of course you’re unwilling.”
She pursed her lips, chin angled upwards. “You seem to know my own opinions more than I.”
“And now I have offended you?”
“By making up my mind for me, yes, sir, you have.” Ruth was smiling, oddly, a look that did not fit – that made no sense to him – a joke she would not let him in on.
And he’d thought he understood women.
“I will not have this – this – whatever you think has to be done. There is nothing more I would ever ask and I would never make you—”
“Make me?” Her voice grew quieter. “Is that what this is about?”
“Do not let Lady Mawes fill your head with nonsense.” Isaac pushed his hair back from his forehead, jaw clenched. “We won’t go back there; we won’t be a part of that. I won’t have her words come from your mouth.”