Page 2 of The King’s Man (Guardians of the Crown #2)

‘For your body.’ One hand slid down her bodice and the other caught her arm with such ferocity that she cried out in pain and pulled back.

His fingers tightened, drawing her towards him.

‘Half a crown,’ she said. Her attempt at bravado sounded pathetic even to her ears.

He gave a guffaw of laughter. ‘Half a crown for a tight, skinny little arse like yours? Sixpence is all you'll get and count yourself lucky!’

Sixpence would buy a wedge of stale bread and thin broth.

Thamsine nodded.

‘Got somewhere to go?’

The thought of plying her trade in the pathetic room that had been her lodgings for the past month horrified her more than the thought of what she was about to do. She shook her head.

‘Never mind. Down 'ere will do as good as any.’

Propelling Thamsine by the arm, he thrust her down a filthy alley. A small part of Thamsine's brain registered the irony that it was the second time in one day a man had dragged her down just such a laneway. This time the intention was real and there would be no escaping the consequences.

He pushed her up against the slimy wall and his mouth clamped onto hers, his beard rasping her skin. His tongue, hard and insistent, penetrated her mouth, thrusting inside her while his spare hand grappled with her skirts.

She felt his hand on her thigh. His vile, stinking breath, the taste of him, the insistent probing of his tongue began to suffocate her. Nausea rose in her throat and she tried to twist away but he held her too close. Her struggles were as useless as a reed against the wind.

He leered at her. ‘You're a tight little bitch. I reckon you need a bit of softening up.’

The blow came with such ferocity that she fell sideways, her head ringing, her world exploding into a thousand different-coloured lights. Hard fingers closed on her arm, hauling her to her feet.

‘Don't hit me. I'll do whatever you want.’

Her plea went unregarded and she sensed rather than saw the shadow of his hand ready to strike. She closed her eyes and with the last of her strength, she braced herself.

The blow did not come.

Instead, the man gave a strangled cry and released her arm, causing her to fall to her knees in the stinking mire. She cowered away, covering her face with her hands as her client said ‘Oi! What's yer game! There'll be plenty left for you,’

‘Leave the lady be.’

At the sound of the familiar voice, Thamsine felt tears prick the back of her eyes. For the second time in the day, the stranger had come to her rescue, completing her humiliation.

‘Lady … ?’

The sound of a fist on bone cut short the scoffing voice. A heavy body fell to the ground beside her. Through her fingers, she saw the man rise and heard the sound of feet scuffling and the grunts of a struggle in progress. Someone spat at the ground by her feet.

‘Take her! She's yours if you want her that bad, but you'll get no joy from her. Not worth a farthing.’

‘Get out of here!’ The words were followed by the rattle of a sword loosened in the scabbard followed by the clatter of running feet and then silence.

A hand touched her shoulder. ‘Let's see the damage.’

‘I can't,’ she mumbled into her hands.

‘Come on, lass, he fetched you a mighty wallop. You weren't much to look at before. I doubt your appearance has been much improved by his handiwork.’

She screwed her eyes tightly shut as he pried her hands away from her face and gave a low whistle. With surprising gentleness, his fingers probed along her right cheekbone. She flinched.

‘You've the makings of a truly spectacular black eye but I don't think anything's broken. Now, open your eyes and look at me! I'm not going to hurt you.’

With a supreme effort, she obeyed. Her saviour had crouched in front of her and surveyed her with his grey-green eyes. Nice eyes, she thought, with the lines of humour crinkling at the corners. But she saw no humour in them now, only pity, and pity was the last thing on Earth she wanted.

The shame overwhelmed her and the last of her rigid self-control evaporated. She lowered her head to her knees and began to weep, slow, silent sobs that wracked her thin body.

He made no move towards her; just let her cry until there was no more misery to expend. With a supreme effort, she choked back her misery, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her dress and forcing herself to look at the man who still crouched before her.

He had a sharp, clever face dominated by a nose that was slightly too long and a mouth that curled as if about to break into a smile.

His hat had fallen to the ground during the scuffle with the bearded man and a cowlick of dark hair fell over his eyes. He pushed it back and reached out a finger, curling a lock of her hair in a gesture that was more paternal than sexual.

He shook his head. ‘You'll be dead by week's end if you persist in this chosen vocation,’ he said. ‘Whoever you are, you're no whore by nature or, I warrant, necessity.’

‘You're wrong. I've no choice,’ she mumbled.

She wiped the back of her hand across lips that felt bruised and swollen. The vile taste of the man who had violated her rose in her mouth. She leaned away and retched onto the revolting cobbles.

Her rescuer picked up his hat and stood up, fastidiously brushing the mud from the brim. She expected to see him walk away but he remained standing, looking down at her.

‘Go away,’ she said.

She lowered her head, her hands hanging limply between her knees. She could debase herself no further.

‘When did you last eat?’

She looked up at him. ‘Yesterday.’

‘Come.’ He held out a hand to her. ‘At least permit me to buy you a decent meal. Take a moment to tidy yourself.’

With an effort she pulled herself to her feet, declining his proffered hand.

He strolled to the end of the lane and stood with his back turned as she re-laced her bodice and straightened her skirt, grateful for the time to collect her scattered thoughts.

Her head still rang from the blow and she put her fingers to her face, tentatively exploring the bruising.

Taking a deep breath, she addressed his back in a stiff, formal voice. ‘I thank you for your assistance, sir, but I beg you, leave me. I’m not fit company for you.’

He turned to face her. ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ A slow, sardonic smile crossed his face. ‘It may be that I’m not fit company for you.’

She regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Who are you? How do you come to be here? Were you following me?’ The questions rushed out.

‘As to the first, my name is Christopher Lovell, although my friends call me Kit.’ He swept her a bow. ‘Your servant, ma’am. As to the second and third questions … yes, I admit I was following you.’

‘Why?’

‘I was concerned for you.’

‘Concerned for me?’

He cocked his head to one side. ‘Are you so far lost that you don’t recognise genuine concern when you see it?’

It had been so long since anyone showed her any kindness that she viewed it with suspicion.

‘You don’t know me, sir. You know nothing about me.’ She brought her chin up and met his gaze.

‘True, but I’ve seen your like before. Unless I’m gravely mistaken, you are like me, the flotsam of war, one of the survivors. We’re what is left when our friends and our family have nobly sacrificed their fortunes and their lives for a lost cause. I am right, am I not, Mistress … ?’

‘Granville,’ Thamsine said, too tired to lie. ‘Thamsine Granville.’

Her teeth began to chatter and she drew her inadequate cloak tightly around her. It afforded little protection from the biting cold.

His fingers tugged at the cords of his cloak and he swung it around her shoulders. It settled on her thin frame, still warm from his body and Thamsine pulled it close around her.

He hunched his shoulders against the sudden chill and gave a deep, indrawn breath. ‘Mistress Granville, it’s cold and we’ve both had a trying day. I meant what I said about a meal.’

She looked down at the toe of her scuffed and leaking shoe.

There seemed little point in any more displays of stubborn pride.

For the first time in weeks, she had the prospect of warmth and food.

Only a fool would decline, and God alone knew she had already played the fool enough times in one day.

There may be a price to pay but at least this Kit Lovell presented a more attractive prospect than her previous ‘client’.

She raised her face and met his eyes. She inclined her head as if accepting an invitation to dance and he smiled and crooked his arm.

‘Mistress Granville?’

She accepted his arm and he drew her close, shielding her from the icy wind that blew down the narrow streets.

Through the sturdy cloth of his jacket, his muscles tensed at her touch and he placed a gloved hand over her cold, dirty fingers.

The simple gesture permeated her icy bones, thawing the cold places of her soul.