Jamintha Read Free

barely audible over the din. The coach driver stepped out of the post office with an empty bag. He climbed up on the seat and drove away to the livery stable. Still no one had come for me. I tried to still the trembling inside. The sky was dark now, and doorways and walls thronged with shadows as night approached.
    I waited, growing more and more apprehensive.
    The doors of the first pub across the street swung open and a tall man stepped out. He glanced at me without interest as the wind caused locks of unruly dark hair to tumble over his forehead. He was incredibly handsome with strong features and the build of an athlete. He wore highly polished black boots, tight gray breeches, a gray jacket that hung open to reveal an embroidered black satin waistcoat over his frilled white shirt. He had the arrogant demeanor of a cruel London rake and was as out of place here in Danmoor as I myself must be. He scowled, dark brows lowered, his wide mouth twisting with disgust. He was none too steady on his feet, weaving a little as he stood there, and I realized that he was drunk. He took a deep breath, chest swelling, and lifted a hand to brush his hair back from his forehead. I stared at him, fascinated and repelled at the same time.
    A woman came out of the pub behind him. She had dark blonde hair, and there was a worried look in her eyes. The bodice of her vivid green dress was cut indecently low, a frilly white apron tied around her slender waist. Pretty in a coarse sort of way, she seemed on the verge of tears. She put her hand on the man’s arm and looked up at him beseechingly.
    â€œCome on back in, duckie,” she pleaded. “You’ve ’ad a mite too much to drink. I’ll fetch you some coffee and later—maybe later—”
    â€œLeave me be,” he retorted in a sullen voice.
    â€œDon’t be that way, luv. I—I’m sorry I pulled away from you. You were drunk, an’ you lunged at me so suddenly—I didn’t mean no harm. I’ll let-ya come up to my room, duckie, sure I will, soon as you sober up. Let me give-ya some coffee—”
    The man glared at her with dark eyes. The woman smiled nervously, obviously afraid of him. She was struggling to hold back the tears, and the man seemed to enjoy her plight. He smiled a cruel smile. Unworldly as I was I knew that such men considered women like the barmaid their personal chattels to be taken or discarded at will. His brooding good looks only made it worse. Women must spoil him deplorably, I thought, and he was well aware of the power he had over them.
    â€œPlease—” the barmaid said. “I’ll lose my job, you see. If you walk out like this they’ll sack me. You’re our best customer an’—come on, luv. Be a sport—”
    The man grinned a devilish grin. He raised his hand and examined it, turning it over to study the palm with great interest. Then he slammed it across her mouth with such force that she stumbled back against the wall. I could hear the impact of flesh on flesh from where I stood. The girl sank to her knees, sobbing. The man strolled on down the pavement and stepped into the next pub, leaving the wooden doors swinging behind him.
    I was alarmed by what I had just seen and not a little frightened. I had listened to the girls chatter about sex. I had done extensive reading. I knew all the facts of life, but for eleven years I had been carefully sheltered against them. This incident which might have passed unnoticed by many seemed a raw, shocking display to me. Did men really treat women that way? The barmaid got to her feet and wiped away the tears and went back into the pub with a dejected air. I wondered who the man was. I wondered how anyone could be so thoroughly hateful. Not all men were like that, surely, but then not all men were so wickedly handsome.
    An empty farm wagon came rolling down the street, the driver a husky lad who held the reins loosely in his lap. The