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Franny

Franny yanked the breeches from her trunk, one of the pairs she’d stolen from her brothers. She glared at the cracked black leather trunk covered in brown leather straps and gold fastenings. Still full of her belongings. Fitting she hadn’t unpacked her things. She was not long for Rutledge Manor, that was for certain.

Did he think she would put up with his tyrannical behavior? She had already been subject to one jailer growing up. She wasn’t going to be handed over to a new one and suffer for the rest of her life.

The only thing that got her through the isolation and the abuse all those years was knowing she would one day get to walk away. Walk away to Rupert, of all people. But still, she had thought he would be a million times better to live with than the Earl.

She had thought wrong.

It had been miserable growing up with that man. Miserable was too tame a word, really. But she would take a jailer who screamed at her, who beat her, who destroyed and took away anything she loved—one she didn’t care about—over one she…. Her eyes fell shut, her heart giving a painful thump.

I have dreamed of this.

Rupert’s admission came rushing back, unwanted and unbidden. And with it, the kiss in the hunting lodge. The first one and last one. One heady and hot and hungry, the other soft and soulful and sacred. The kiss in her chambers. The flowers. He dreamed of her. But it meant nothing—was merely twisted optimism spun by her own imagination. A lonely, pathetic woman’s desperation conjuring nothing into something.

You have never behaved as a proper lady ought.

This would all be so much simpler if you could just be an obedient wife.

I don’t know if I can even take you out in public without risking embarrassment.

Do you understand the humiliation you have brought to me and this family…

Franny shoved her legs into her breeches and shoved away her hurt, stepped on the pain and buried the heartache into the soft sage rug beneath her feet. She had tried. She truly had. But her trying? It wasn't good enough. She would never be what Rupert wanted her to be.

There was no “other man” to walk away to, now. No more chances. And he wanted to take away the only happiness she had left—her tenants.

She was done clinging to something that clearly did not exist. It was up to her. She just needed coin. She would figure out a plan of where she’d go after she had money.

Clearly, the Earl was not a feasible option. Nor were her brothers. They were made from the same ilk as their father. Their abhorrence made more sense now that she knew she was a bastard. They knew, had always known. The reason behind the gleam of disgust in their obsidian eyes, so much like the Earl’s, the reason behind them never acknowledging her presence in a room, even when she spoke directly to them, the reason they'd let their lecherous friends harass her, do what they wanted with her. Attempt to do what they wanted with her. But Franny had always been strong. She had always protected herself, saved herself. And she would again now.

Perhaps she could stay with her best friend, Phi, while she figured things out. She shook her head. Phi’s father would alert Lord Rutledge immediately, he would never harbor another man’s wife. Another man’s property.

Not a problem to worry about right now. Step one—coin. Step two—figure out the rest.

She grabbed her short stays that tied in the front, shrugged into it and hastily began tightening the ties. As tight as possible, Franny. Make those breasts of yours disappear.

She whisked up a lawn shirt from the trunk and glanced at the looking glass. Bare toes and calves, baggy breeches with the placket hanging open, shirt dangling from her hand, short stays rather feebly flattening her bosom. It was flat- ter. Franny threw the shirt over her head, wriggling her arms into the sleeves. She turned from side to side, inspecting for a hint of the curve of her breasts. She cocked her head. Nothing a waistcoat and wool coat couldn’t hide.

She studied her face in the mirror. There wasn’t anything she could do about her delicate features—her pert nose and thin brows. Her jawline was slender, her chin dainty. Feminine. The opposite of Rupert’s stern, heavy brow and rectangular, solid jaw. He was the hardness to her softness.

Her heart clenched, a fist latching onto it and squeezing with all its might, like how she currently fisted her lawn shirt. But, whereas, whatever gripped her heart succeeded in crushing the life from her, her fist was ineffectual in squeezing away the despair.

Time to decide your own fate, Franny. She set her jaw and stared hard at herself, black hair pulled back tight, soon to be hidden under her bicorne hat. Another item she’d filched from her brothers. She glanced down at the open trunk, no hat in sight. She winced. Most definitely crushed hat.

No matter. Where she was going, it was probably best she looked a bit…disheveled.

Franny pulled her bicorne hat lower over her forehead, attempting to shield herself more from the other guests who sat with her at the grimy card table in Scythe Tavern. Why do you never think things through, Franny ? She tossed down her last shilling.

“Minimum is two shillings,” the man dealing growled, his thick sideburns so bushy they were the same length as the hair on his head. In the dim light of the murky tavern card room, it made him appear to be a face floating in a circle of dark brown hair.

Her shoulders slumped. Luck was not on her side tonight. It seemed to have not been on her side for one-and-twenty years. Now she had one shilling to her name. Which meant she couldn’t possibly leave Rupert. Yet.

She swiftly grabbed her shilling and started to rise. A hand clamped down on her shoulder, and she collapsed back in her seat.

“Not to worry, Pretty Boy. I’ll spot you,” the man next to her said with a wide grin. Her stomach turned—unsettling grin.

She would have thought him handsome, with his perfectly styled blond hair and sharp jaw, skin lightly tanned from the late-spring sun. But every time he smiled at her, the hair on the back of her neck stood up and attempted to flee out the card room.

Franny glanced at him from the corner of her eye as he threw down two shillings. She hadn’t failed to notice him eyeing her all night. A moist breath of unease shivered over her skin, collecting in her palms. His gaze was…predatory. It did not feel at all the same as when Rupert looked at her like that.

“That is quite all right,” she said gruffly.

She had avoided speaking as often as she could without drawing suspicion. Based on Blond Man’s grin, she didn’t think her cover was working.

“He insists,” the man to her right said, clapping his beefy hand on her shoulder before she could attempt to rise again.

His large cheeks jiggled from the force of his slap. He smiled, crooked teeth flashing in his round face, flushed from drink. The evidence also apparent in the stale alcohol on his breath assaulting her nose every time he spoke. His mottled red flush clashed dreadfully with his coppery hair.

“As I’m not long for this area, I do not think it wise. I wouldn’t want to accept a debt I couldn’t repay,” Franny mumbled low.

She pushed the man’s hand off her shoulder, shooting him a glare, and rose from her spot at the card table.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, gents,” she added with a stiff nod.

She strode at a nonchalant pace, weaving through the other card tables, toward the doorway on the opposite side of the room, even though every muscle in her screamed to run. Those men’s stares were like a cluster of spiders crawling over her skin. She twitched. Her brothers hadn’t been lying when she had overheard them speaking of the kind of scum that frequented Scythe Tavern. They had always boasted how they cleaned house every time they played cards there. Apparently, Franny either didn’t have her brothers’ luck or lacked their skills at cards.

She slipped into the darkened hall that led to the back exit of the tavern. Franny had thought perhaps she was a deft hand at cards. The night she and Phi had snuck into a gaming hell in London, they had won a fair share before they had been caught. Nothing more than beginner’s luck, apparently. Luck that had quickly run out when Franny’s father had somehow found out. Her muscles immediately went tight, joints locking, her father’s words so clear it was almost as if he was there with her in the shadowed hall.

How dare you risk your reputation, this family’s name, the marriage contract? If Rutledge finds out and backs out of the contract, what you suffer tonight will pale in comparison to what I will do to you in the future.

He had always been rough with her. His grip tight enough to bruise. His voice and words as cutting as any whip. She’d faced the back of his hand too many times to count. But that night had been the first time he hadn’t held back. Her fingers lifted to her cheek, could almost feel the sting, the sharp jerk of her neck, like it was being torn from her shoulders, then the throbbing ache that followed. That had been the first time a blow had sent her to the floor. And it had been the last night she had been allowed to see Phi.

She may have delicate features, but she was anything but delicate. She lifted her chin. He didn’t break her. No man would. She survived. The memory burned, but it was a different burn now. A fire, one with flames of resilience. No matter how dark the shadows got, she wouldn’t break. She would fight until her dying breath.

Franny made her way to the back door, the thud of her boots barely discernible against the dirt floor. She let out a strangled, frustrated growl. All she wanted was to get out from under a man’s thumb. Under an oppressive man’s control. Tonight, she’d wanted to double her pin money. Then she could have come up with a plan, where she would go, what she would do to survive. She released a large breath, her entire body deflating. Her spirit deflating.

She’d have to save up more money and try again. She supposed at least now she’d have more time to formulate a strategy. Determine where she’d go once she had enough coin to keep her afloat for a time. Perhaps she could find an elderly woman looking for a lady’s companion. Maybe she’d write to Phi, have her search around—

Franny slammed into the wall. She sucked in a startled breath and lurched to flee, but found her arms pinned tight to the gritty hall wall, her legs scrambled frantically. Even in the darkness, she recognized Blond Man towering over her, Copper Head’s short form standing at his shoulder.

“Where you running to, Pretty Boy,” Blond Man cooed. “We weren’t done playin’ with you. Hurt my feelings, you did, rejecting my generous offer.”

Franny’s stomach roiled at his words. She didn’t know what he meant, but she knew she didn’t want to find out.

“Unhand me, sir. You will not like the consequences.”

Copper Head snorted. “You hear that, Lionel? Pretty Boy is threatening us. Maybe we take her out back and teach ‘er a lesson.”

Well, that answered that question. They saw through her cover.

“You know, Bert,” Blond Man—Lionel—said, “I think that sounds like a fine idea. But I’m thinking first we should confirm Pretty Boy is, in fact, no boy at all.”

Lionel reached up and with a swift flick, Franny’s hat disappeared from her head. His hands dug into her tightly pinned hair, one fist gripping her hair so tight she could feel the skin of her scalp lifting, screaming in protest as pins scattered in light thwumps against the dirt. She bit back the cry crawling up her throat. She refused to give these men any satisfaction.

With his hands distracted, she jumped on the fleeting opportunity, her heartbeat jumping with the same hope and desperation. She slammed her knee upward and shoved at his chest, throwing her entire body into it. He yelled out, cursing, doubling over against the opposite wall.

She drew out the small knife in her pocket and waved it at Bert, slowly stepping around him, breaths crashing from her, bouncing off the walls in the empty hall. She faced the corpulent man the entire time, and once her path to the exit was clear, she bolted. She flew through the door. A resounding crash and the splintering wood echoed into the night. Her lungs strained for air while her arms pumped, legs flying toward the stables. All she had to do was make it to her horse.

A large shadow stepped into her path, and she couldn’t slow down in time—she ran straight into it. Franny rebounded, her knife flying somewhere in the distance as she fell hard on her arse.

“Where you runnin’ too, darlin’?” the man growled out, not even fazed in the least that she had run full bore into him.

Franny’s eyes flew wide. The dealer. Footsteps beat against the ground behind her, and her eyes slid shut.

Trapped.

Her heart went awry, scrabbling against her ribcage, attempting the escape she had been denied.

“Good call on covering the exit, Arnie,” one of the men behind her said.

She hurried to rise, but a hand fisted in her hair, jerking her head back, and she grunted. She stared into the eyes of Lionel, the color of his eyes and his features indistinguishable in the dark. His teeth flashed in the moonlight, mirroring the glint of his pale blond hair.

“Since she’s already on her knees, gents, I say we take advantage.”

“Oh, I like that idea, Lionel.” The sound of hands rubbing together came from behind her. “Can I go first?” Bert asked eagerly.

The hand in her hair tightened. Oh, dear Lord. Oh, dear Lord. Acid burned down her throat, filling her insides.

“Considerin’ I am the one who took a knee to the groin, I think I will be the one goin’ first.” He tilted her head back farther, leaning closer to her. “Think my prick deserves some special treatment, consolation.”

“I never get to go first,” Bert grumbled, stepping up to her side.

Her eyes darted wildly between the three men, her pulse thundering just as wildly. How did she get out of this? How did she escape?

“You secure her arms, Arnie, and you hold her tight by her hair, Bert.”

She thrashed, she struggled, but it was fruitless. In a matter of seconds, the men took hold of her, rendering her immobile.

Trapped.

“Let me go. Please,” she begged. “You don’t understand who I am. I can…I can pay you! Any amount you wish. If you just let me go.”

Bert snorted. “Wasn’ she just sayin’ inside the tavern she couldn’t even afford a shilling?”

“Right’o, Bert,” Lionel said as he stepped in front of Franny. “Think it’s time for me to take that lying mouth o’ hers to task.”

The men chuckled, and Lionel started unbuttoning the placket of his breeches.

Oh my God. Her heart was doing a hell of a job trying to beat right out of her chest. Her breaths came short and choppy as panic seized her lungs and refused to let her take a full breath. Oh, please God, let me escape this. I promise I will never do another rash thing in my life. I’ll…I’ll talk things out! Talk first, act second. I will be the most biddable of wives to Rupert. Mostly biddable. As biddable as I can muster, I swear.

Dear Lord—Rupert. Did he even know she’d left? Would he even care? Tears streamed down her face. Which infuriated her. Her panic morphed into a rabid rage. Rupert would probably think she was about to get what she deserved. It was what one expected from someone who behaved as she did.

She bared her teeth and growled low in her throat. If they thought she’d sit here pliantly and not fight back, they were in for a surprise. She growled again.

Lionel laughed, the sound grating, making her ears itchy. “This one has some spirit, she does. I like a wench with spirit.”

The man’s placket hung open, and he reached inside. Then exposed himself before her. She went rigid, her insides sloshing violently. She had never been more grateful for the darkness of night.

Franny pressed her lips firmly together, her teeth clenched so tight her jaw ached. She just wouldn’t open her mouth. And if somehow that didn’t work. Well. She would bite him. She glared hard up at the man in front of her, which only made him grin wider, nothing more than a shadowed face with gleaming teeth, stroking himself lewdly in front of her.

“Now darlin’, are you goin’ to be a good wench for me? I don’t have to worry ‘bout you using them teeth of yours, now do I? Perhaps we need a little assurance. To be safe. Bert, I think a knife to her back would be wise.”

A knife wouldn’t stop her, though. The thing about having no hope left? Nowhere left to turn? One didn’t care about the consequences. She’d bite off the man’s cock, even if it meant a knife in her back.

“I would advise you to reconsider whether that is a wise decision,” a man cautioned, low, unyielding. Ominous.

Her blood crystallized in her veins at the threat in that voice, could feel the blade of it trail over her skin. Slowly, eyes sliding first, head following, Franny turned until her gaze settled on the obscure figure masked by the night.

Tall, towering, treacherous.

“An’ who in the bloody hell do you think you are?” Lionel scoffed.

“I am the Marquess of Rutledge.”