Her Husband's Harlot by Grace Callaway Read Free Book Online Page B

marine-and-refuse perfume of the river. The physical release did nothing
for his guilt, so he breathed in deeply, taking comfort in the elixir of damp
salt air, tar, and coal smoke from the metal works downstream. The tang of the Thames might make others cover up their noses, but to him the complex odors spoke of new
beginnings, of possibilities open to any man with the determination and drive
to improve his station in life.
    Nicholas
rose, and, looking down, winced at the wet stain. He went to the cupboard to
withdraw clean garments. As he changed, he looked out the large window behind
his desk. At this time of morning, the Thames resembled a sunburned forest,
with red ochre sails fluttering from hundreds of masts. Lighters jostled
irritably against one another, vying for space within the walls of the West
India Dock. Vessels fortunate enough to be moored wharf-side were being
unloaded by teams of porters who moved as tirelessly as ants between dock and
warehouse.
    Nicholas
felt as always the pull of the river's energy. For sixteen years, he'd
routinely arrived at the warehouse on the Isle of Dogs before the break of dawn
and left in similar darkness. In his early years with the company, he'd heard
the snickered comments of the other clerks. Toad-eater , they'd called
him, disparaging his work ethic as a ploy to get in the good graces of the
owner, Jeremiah Fines.
    Nicholas
had ignored the jibes and worked harder. It was true that he sought to re-pay
Jeremiah for giving him the opportunity to work at the company. But soon the
need to please his mentor was eclipsed by something else, a deeper desire. Working
became his lifeblood, success his sustaining breath. The snickers faded into
the distance as he rose through the company ranks.
    But
lately work had lost some of its powerful appeal. The money he made, the
successes he accumulated—nothing seemed to satisfy him. As he stood looking out
over the dockside world that had defined him, Nicholas did something he rarely permitted
himself to do. He stopped and reflected.  As he did so, a sense of emptiness began
to gnaw at his gut. The feeling grew and intensified. Fragments of the past
began creeping in, insidious images that pounded against his temples and dampened
his palms.
    Looking
down, he saw the hands of a man who'd clawed his way up from the gutter. His
knuckles bore the scars of countless brawls, his fingers and palms the calluses
of crude labor. And that was only the surface. Beneath the thickened skin lay
deeper disfigurement: the secret cuts and burn marks sustained by a boy who'd
cleaned chimneys to survive. Who'd welcomed the days in soot-choked stacks
because they were a bloody sight better than the nights spent cowering in fear.
    Fear of
the squealing hinges that heralded the opening of the master's door. Fear of
the black-bearded man who emerged and blocked out all the light. Fear that Ben
Grimes' small, dark eyes might land on him that night. And the trembling,
paralyzing terror of that crooking finger, the whizzing of the crop, that
squalid room with flea-eaten sheets, he would not go there again, he could not —
    With
a harsh breath, Nicholas slammed the door on the swirling darkness. His hands gripped
the edge of the desk as his heart continued to thump like a trapped rabbit. It's
over. Grimes is dead. He repeated the words until he could breathe again.
Until he could remember who he was and what he was now. No longer a helpless
boy, but a man. A tide of anguished rage broke over him. Aye, he was a man—but
what kind of a man?
    One who
harbored a despicable secret. One whose blood was tainted, whose bestial nature
dictated his destiny. His eyes shut. Bloody hell, last night he'd fornicated
with a whore—and compounded his sin by pretending she was his wife. He pictured
the real Helena with her shy smile and innocent eyes, and his stomach churned
with self-disgust.
    "Forgive
me," he whispered.
    "For
what?"
    Nicholas
jerked around. It took his frozen brain