The Making Of A Gentleman. Ruth Axtell Morren

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      Though she was gasping for breath, the two men didn’t slow their pace, but dashed from twisted alley to alley that bisected the toppling buildings like a rabbit warren. She soon lost track of whether they were headed north, south, east or west. Perspiration trickled down her back, despite the cold air stinging her face.

      “Why—why…don’t you…let me go…now,” she panted.

      Quinn threw her a scornful glance. “What, give up my surety? They catch me, you’ll go down with me.” He waved the knife at her, his teeth flashing an instant before facing forward again, urging her on with another painful jerk to her arm.

      Her side hurt and her chest screamed with each breath. Just when she couldn’t bear it anymore, he pulled her into a courtyard. She had only a glimpse before she was plunged into a dark stairwell. She stumbled down rickety steps riddled with gaps.

      At the bottom, Quinn pushed her ahead of him into a low cellar. She leaned forward, her hands on her knees, panting like a hound after the hunt.

      Only as her breathing slowed did she straighten and dare to look around. The two men conferred a few feet away from her. Relief trickled into her when they ignored her. Would she be able to escape them? Her glance went to the wooden door. It stood firmly bolted.

      “Ye’ll be safe here for now,” the disreputable-looking guide told Quinn. “There’s some kindling and victuals in the corner. Stay low. After I leave, ye’re on yer own. The Boss doesn’t want any more involvement.” After a few more words, sprinkled liberally with oaths, and a slap on the back at their successful escape, the other man went to the door. He glanced back at Florence over his shoulder as Quinn unbolted it.

      “Don’t know what ye’re going to do about ’er. Mayhap have some fun ’fore ye leave.” His coarse laughter rang through the room as he climbed back up the stairs.

      The sound of the bolt falling into place made Florence jump. She was truly alone now. She dared a look at her captor, a man who feared nothing and no one, and remembered the other man’s words.

      Lord, protect me. Show me what to do. Show me Your purpose in bringing me here. Only Scriptures could allay the terror that threatened to paralyze her.

      She’d been face-to-face with many criminals since her work at Newgate, but always there had been a guard within calling distance, or an iron grating separating her.

      She was not alone, she reminded herself. The Angel of the Lord encamped round about her. If the Lord had allowed the events of the past hour, it must mean He had heard her prayer for mercy for this man’s soul. The realization gave her courage.

      Instead of approaching her, Quinn knelt down, his back to her. In the shadows, she heard him strike a flint and then saw a flash of light which soon grew into a flame as it caught the dry tinder.

      Her glance strayed to the rest of the space. The cellar’s stone walls dripped with dampness. Light from the outside showed through a small, boarded-up window at street level. Above them, wooden planks, dark with age, formed a low ceiling, with gaps here and there where the wood had rotted through. The floor beneath her feet was hard-packed dirt with moldy straw piled along the edges and a few rumpled blankets heaped in a corner, as if it had served as sleeping quarters before now. A rough-looking table and a few wooden chairs were the only articles of furniture. How many undesirables, running from the law, had hidden here before?

      The fire that now burned steadily between a circle of stones was the only cheerful thing in the room. Florence drew near its warmth. The heat of her exertion had passed, leaving her more chilled than when she’d stood in front of the gallows.

      How long before the guards would find this runaway convict? He continued tending the fire. Her eye fell on the knife, now stuck in his belt, its steel reflecting the glow of the fire. The memory of its cold blade pressed against her neck rose in her mind, and she experienced the horror of those moments once again.

      She shook away the thought. She was alive and sure God had a purpose for her.

      After several minutes, when the man continued to ignore her presence, Florence inched to the fire. But as soon as she drew near him, she wrinkled her nose, noticing the sour smell of his tattered garments. She sniffed at her cloak, smelling him even there.

      He stood suddenly, and she flinched. His broad back muscles strained against his filthy coat. His presence seemed to fill the cellar. His attention continued fixed on the small fire.

      “Don’t think about leaving anytime soon.” His voice was a near growl, low and gravelly, as if he hadn’t used it for some time. “You just stay put till we see if those guards have lost our scent.”

      “You couldn’t leave a trail more obvious than that one.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she bit her lip. Why couldn’t she be more like her brother, Damien, with his mild manners?

      Quinn turned then. Dark eyes glittered at her from a swarthy face framed by an even darker beard. Thick black hair curled around his face, giving him a savage appearance, as she imagined Robinson Crusoe must have looked after his many years as a castaway.

      She forced herself to hold her ground when he took a step toward her. He stopped so close to her, the heat of his brawny frame filled the space between them. “Think you’re a clever one, do you?”

      Her experience at Newgate had taught her that to show fear was fatal. She jutted her chin out. “Do you really think you can evade your pursuers?”

      His lips curled in a sneer. “Those red-coated fools? They’ll think twice ’fore venturing into this neighborhood. The Crown likely doesn’t pay ’em enough to risk their miserable hides in ’ere.” He fingered the knife’s haft at his side. “Besides, what do I have to lose?”

      His merciless tone sent a shiver through her.

      Noticing it, he gestured toward the fire. “Best get yerself warm while ye can.”

      She blinked at the sudden change in tone. Was this the defiant brute who’d kidnapped her at knifepoint and now noticed she was cold? She rubbed the bruised spot on her arm where he had held it so tightly.

      Keeping her movements careful and deliberate, Florence brought one of the chairs from the table toward the fire. The chair wobbled when she sat down. After assuring herself she wasn’t going to lose her balance, she removed her gloves and stretched her hands toward the blaze.

      She heard a scraping noise and turned to see Quinn dragging the table closer. Then he placed the other chair in front of it and sat down. He opened a leather satchel thrown down by his companion and proceeded to remove its contents: a round loaf of bread, a few paper parcels and a bottle.

      He unwrapped the first parcel, a wedge of cheese, and the second, a small joint of ham. With his knife, he hacked off a piece of cheese and immediately stuffed it into his mouth, even before proceeding to slice the bread and ham.

      Those condemned to die were fed only bread and water for the last three days of their life, so he must have been famished. As he took the first bite of his rapidly made sandwich, his gaze fell on her. “Hungry?” he said through his full mouth.

      She stared at his bulging cheeks, feeling a faint disgust, but surprised nonetheless that he had asked. “Yes.”

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