Chapter 103 - Hundred And Three
The tavern was a noisy, dimly lit place, thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and sawdust. George Pembroke sat alone at a sticky wooden table in the corner, nursing a large mug of beer. He took a long, bitter gulp.
"Those two," he muttered to the empty chair across from him, "must be having the time of their lives right now. Consummating their marriage." The image of Delia and Eric together, as husband and wife, sent a fresh wave of jealousy and self-pity through him. He slammed his empty mug down on the table. "Another!" he called out to the barman.
As he waited for his refill, he scanned the rough crowd. His eyes landed on someone sitting alone at the bar, a mysterious figure completely enveloped in a dark, heavy cloak. The person had just finished a full bottle of wine, a drink far too expensive for a place like this. It was an odd sight. From the slender build, he could tell that it was a woman, but what was a woman, let alone one who could afford good wine, doing in a dive like this all by herself?
"Your beer, my lord," the barman said, setting a full, frothy mug in front of him.
George smiled weakly and tossed a few silver coins onto the bar. The man’s own smile widened as he pocketed the generous tip and continued his work.
George took his mug and turned in his chair to get a better look at the mysterious cloaked figure.
Just as he did, the person slid off the barstool, their movements slightly unsteady. As they turned, they collided with a large, drunk man who was stumbling through the crowd. The cloaked person quickly bowed their head in a gesture of apology and tried to leave quickly, but the man’s hand shot out and grabbed their arm.
"Hey, where do you think you’re going?" the drunk man slurred, his grip tightening. With his other hand, he yanked the hood of the cloak back.
George, who had just taken a large mouthful of beer, spat it all out in a spray of shock. The face revealed under the hood was Anne Ellington’s.
"Anne!" he gasped, his mouth still dripping with the remaining beer. What in God’s name is she doing in a place like this? He stood up from his seat, his own drunken haze evaporating in a rush of adrenaline, and started to push his way through the crowd to rescue her.
The drunk man smiled, a lewd, ugly expression on his face. "Well, well. What’s a pretty little flower like you doing in a dirty place like this?" he said, his grip on her arm like a clamp. He brought his nose down to her neck, inhaling deeply. "Is this the scent of your perfume, or your own sweet skin?" His hot, foul breath was warm on her skin. "You know, I just love the smell of roses. They intoxicate me."
He looked at her with a wide, predatory grin, his eyes raking over her fine, silk dress. "I guess I’m going to have some fun with a real noblewoman tonight."
Anne struggled to leave his hold, her face a mask of fear and disgust, but it was futile. His grip was as strong as iron.