The Devil's Surrogate Read Online Free Page B

something had happened inside her
head, something she could not explain and yet something for which,
in a curious way, she was grateful.
    It was as if
some part of her brain had simply shut down by refusing to accept
that any of this could actually be happening to her. Now she found
herself blessed with the ability to experience everything as if it
was happening to someone else, as if she was viewing it all
dispassionately through a smeared and smoky glass. It was not as if
she could do anything about it anyway. These terrible people,
whoever they were, had seen to it that she was kept in a state of
total helplessness ever since they seized her, wasting no time in
reducing her to a condition that was at best animalistic, and at
worst...
    She peered
down through the eye slits in her hood at her breasts, which bobbed
up and down as she trotted dutifully along, the early morning sun
occasionally glinting on the metal rings that now hung from just
below each of her nipples. They really did look quite pretty, she
mused, and then castigated herself fiercely for entertaining such a
thought. It was one thing to accept a certain inevitability about
her situation, but quite another to consider it anything but
terrible. And for a young lady to even enjoy the sight of her bared
bosom, especially one that had been handled in such a crude and
summary fashion, had to be a sin on a level no Christian woman
could begin to contemplate.
    So why did her
nipples tingle so pleasantly in the fresh, warm breeze? Why did she
continue to feel that heat deep inside her groin, the same heat the
brutal Ross had kindled and which refused to cool even though she
had since managed a few hours of very uncomfortable sleep? Why did
she, knowing that Ross would soon be thrusting into her again, not
view the prospect with terror and abhorrence? Why, she was forced
to ask herself, did she feel almost as if she were looking forward
to it?
     
    'Damn all of them to hell!' Thomas Handiwell slammed his
tankard down onto the bar of the Black
Drum and glared at the small assembled
company. 'Call themselves men and talk about freedom, yes,' he
sneered, 'but ask any one of them to go against their so-called
lords and masters, even when we have evidence of their guilt, and
they run and hide their faces!'
    'My men report
that at least four of them have joined up with this Crawley
fellow,' Captain Timothy Hart said quietly. 'It would seem they
respond to gold rather better than they do to duty, but then I
cannot really blame them, those who'll not join us, that is. The
Graylings are a rich and powerful family, by all accounts, and they
doubtless have rich and powerful friends.'
    'Aye, that
they are, and that they surely do,' Handiwell muttered, 'but I'm
damned if I'll stand by and let any man's supposed birthright or
wealth flout basic laws and human standards. They can't simply
snatch innocent people from the roads as if they were no better
than common slaves!'
    'And what of
your friend, this Mistress Merridew?' Hart enquired, blinking his
watery eyes as the first shaft of sunlight suddenly penetrated
through the east facing window like a bright sword shaft thrusting
into the gloomy barroom. 'Should we not have heard something from
her by now? I fear they may have taken her as well.'
    'Damn the
foolish wench,' Handiwell snapped, but there was a note of tender
concern in his oath. 'I warned her against the venture, and warned
her to stay back and run if there was trouble.'
    'Maybe she
tried and simply could not run fast enough,' Hart suggested.
    Sergeant Paddy
Riley nodded, sagely. 'Ain't easy fer a lady to run fast in skirts,
and not that much better if'n she wears breeches, I'd say. Running
ain't woman's work, that's what my ma used to tell me, anyway.'
    'Thank you,
sergeant,' Hart retorted a bit acidly, 'your homespun family
philosophy and wit are hardly called for here, I think.'
    'Maybe not,
sir,' Riley replied, unabashed by the intended rebuke, 'but there's
maybe a few