Wicked Loving Lies by Rosemary Rogers

Author:Rosemary Rogers
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-03-13T20:15:50+00:00

Chapter 31

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‘Where am I? What am I doing here?’ Marisa’s tired mind asked, but the blackened, oak-beamed ceiling and paneled walls of the room gave back no reply except for an occasional creak as the fire began to heat the small space.

Oh, she felt so exhausted! Her gown was still damp from sea spray, and there was a sour taste in her mouth. She had been sick, she remembered, on the tossing boat ride that had brought her from a secluded beach on the Cornwall coast to the much larger harbor of Plymouth. She remembered seeing what seemed like a forest of masts as tall ships from all over the world swayed at anchor with only their dim riding lights to guide the small boat she was on, as it slipped between them, silently cutting through the night-black water. By the time they had reached land and some rough stone steps at the end of a crumbling dock, Marisa had been almost insensible, she felt as if she had been turned inside out and didn’

t care if she dropped dead the very next moment.

There had been voices. A cloak was wrapped around her limp body, and hard hands dragged her up the steps. And then, suddenly, warmth and loud, raucous laughter and the smell of sour wine and ale and greasy food. And she had been carried upstairs and left here in a narrow, not-too-comfortable bed; she was still fully dressed even down to her ruined slippers.

So much for remembering. In spite of it, her mood of apathy persisted. Further thinking seemed too much effort, and after all, what was the point? She didn’t want to remember anything unpleasant; and at the same time she had the feeling that she had come such a long way—turning in a circle to where her real experience of living had begun. From fine lady to homeless waif again.

The door opened, and the heady aroma of food made her stomach cramp with hunger. A round-faced, harried-looking serving wench with straggly brown hair escaping from under a dirty cap set a tray down on the only table in the small room.

“It’s only boiled beef and potatoes, with some fried fish on the side. It’s all we got. And a bottle of wine, because the water here ain’t fit fer drinking. It’s been paid fer, so you kin eat as much as ye want.

An‘ I can’t stay, because they’re all hollering and cussing downstairs for me already.”

In spite of her tiredness, Marisa sat up. And a minute later, she was wolfing down the food which was already growing cold—the fat concealing on the edges of the thin, watery gravy. It didn’t matter. When had she last eaten? The food went down, filling her empty belly, and the tepid, sour tasting wine sent streamers of warmth along her chilled limbs.

With some food inside her, she began to feel human again, but she was more tired than ever.

Grimacing with defiance, Marisa finished what was

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