A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [614]
He laughed again.
“Oh, now, sweetheart. For a sore arse? Consider it a repayment—in part—for my left ball.” He chucked her under the chin, and went toward the table where the tray with the decanters stood. “Ye’ve earned a drink. Brandy or porter?”
She ignored the offer, trying to keep her rage in check. Her cheeks flamed with furious blood, and so did her outraged bottom.
“What do you mean, ‘auction’?” she demanded.
“I should think that clear enough, sweetheart. Ye’ve heard the word, sure.” Bonnet gave her a glance of mild amusement, and pouring himself a tot of brandy, drank it off in two swallows. “Hah.” He exhaled, blinking, and shook his head.
“Hoo. I’ve two more customers in the market for someone like you, darlin’. They’ll be here tomorrow or next day to be having a look. Then I’ll ask for bids, and ye’ll be off to the Indies by Friday, I expect.”
He spoke casually, without the slightest hint of jeering. That, more than anything, made her insides waver. She was a matter of business, a piece of merchandise. To him, and to his goddamned bloody customers, too—Mr. Howard had made that clear. It didn’t matter what she said; they weren’t at all interested in who she was or what she might want.
Bonnet was watching her face, his pale green eyes assessing. He was interested, she realized, and her insides curled up into a knot.
“What did ye use on her, Manny?” he asked.
“A wooden spoon,” the manservant said indifferently. “You said no marks.”
Bonnet nodded, thoughtful.
“Nothing permanent, I said,” he corrected. “We’ll leave her as she is for Mr. Ricasoli, I think, but Mr. Houvener . . . well, we’ll wait and see.”
Emmanuel merely nodded, but his eyes rested on Brianna with sudden interest. Her stomach everted itself neatly and she vomited, absolutely ruining the fine silk dress.
THE SOUND OF high-pitched whinnying reached her; wild horses, rioting down the beach. If this were a romance novel, she thought grimly, she’d make a rope from the bedclothes, let herself down from the window, find the horse herd, and, by exercising her mystical skills with horses, persuade one of them to carry her to safety.
As it was, there were no bedclothes—only a ratty mattress made of ticking stuffed with sea grass—and as for getting within a mile of wild horses . . . She would have given a lot for Gideon, and felt tears prickle at thought of him.
“Oh, now you are losing your mind,” she said aloud, wiping her eyes. “Crying over a horse.” Especially that horse. That was so much better than thinking of Roger, though—or Jem. No, she absolutely could not think about Jemmy, nor the possibility of his growing up without her, without knowing why she had abandoned him. Or the new one . . . and what life might be like for the child of a slave.
But she was thinking of them, and the thought was enough to overcome her momentary despair.
All right, then. She was getting out of here. Preferably before Mr. Ricasoli and Mr. Houvener, whoever they were, turned up. For the thousandth time, she moved restlessly around the room, forcing herself to move slowly, look at what was there.
Damn little, and what there was, stoutly built, was the discouraging answer. She’d been given food, water for washing, a linen towel, and a hairbrush with which to tidy herself. She picked it up, assessing its potential as a weapon, then threw it down again.
The chimney stack rose through this room, but there was no open hearth. She thumped the bricks experimentally, and pried at the mortar with the end of the spoon they’d given her to eat with. She found one place where the mortar was cracked enough to pry, but a quarter of an hour’s trying managed to dislodge only a few inches of mortar; the brick itself stayed firmly in place. Given a month or so, that might be worth a try—though the chances of someone her size managing to squeeze up an eighteenth-century flue . . .
It was getting up to rain; she heard the excited rattle of