important issue. The fact is the Lord has given you a reprieve. You would have been condemned to a fate worse than mere death if you had swung on that gallows today.”
His eyes registered surprise for a second. Then he threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rough guffaw. “Worse than mere death?” he mimicked her cultivated syllables. “I beg your pardon, madam, but it’s easy for you to call it that since you haven’t had a rope strung about your scrawny neck.”
“I may not have stood where you stood today, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t watched enough souls go to their grave to understand the seriousness of their eternal destiny.”
He leaned in close, his green eyes glittering with mockery. “Are you one of those who like to watch a man swing from the gallows? It shows how little fine manners separate the scum o’ the Earth from those born to wealth.”
She jerked back. How dare he accuse her of enjoying the sight of someone strangling at the end of the rope? Before she could think of a suitable retort, he had turned away from her as if tired of her conversation.
He swung out his knife again. She flinched, but relaxed when she saw he used it only to pick his teeth.
Florence shifted her attention to the fire, which had burned low. “May I replenish the fire?” she asked softly.
He grunted. Taking it for assent, she stood.
There were only a few sticks of wood left. She used one to stir up the remaining embers and laid what was left atop them.
Damien, I pray you don’t worry about me. By now, he may have heard something about the escape. As far as she knew, no condemned person had ever slipped the noose.
“Did you know you would be rescued today?” she asked into the silence.
“No.”
She drew in her breath. The enormity of his reprieve took her breath away. The Lord had indeed heard her prayer for mercy. “You were prepared to die today?”
He laid down his knife and looked at her. His expression was flat and unreadable. “As ready as a man ever is.”
“You refused to kneel and pray.”
He turned aside and spit on the ground. “What, kneel for the benefit of a jeering crowd and play into the hands of that cleric so he can use it as a lesson to hold over the other poor prisoners?” He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. “Yes, dear people,” he mocked the pious tones of the ordinary. “Witness here a dying man’s repentance for a crime he never committed.”
She had no words to reply to that. She knew the man he was referring to and could hardly refute what he was saying.
Not knowing what else to say and feeling stiff from kneeling by the fire, she stood and shook her skirt out. Although the chill had left her limbs, she felt exhausted. The night’s vigil and the day’s excitement were taking their toll. She sat back down and recommenced praying. The Lord surely had a plan, and she needed to know what He would have her do next.
Instead of showing signs of fatigue, Quinn seemed to grow restless. He stood and began to prowl about the low cellar. He investigated every corner of it. Then he checked the door. Finally, he came back, spread out a dirty blanket on the hard ground next to the small fire, and lay down.
“Remember, if you try anything, I have the knife right here.” He patted the blade, which rested beneath his hands on his broad chest.
She sniffed. “It’s not up to me to turn you in. The Lord spared your life for a reason.”
He turned his back on her.
After a while, she heard the deep, even breathing that told her he was asleep. She began to recite Scripture. She felt her own lids grow heavy. Finally, able to fight the fatigue no more, she rested her head on the pillow of her arms and shut her eyes….
Chapter Two
Jonah opened his eyes. He tensed, as he’d done every morning in his solitary cell in Newgate. The fire pit in front of him brought reality back in a jumble of images.
The feel of the rough hemp about his neck. The cap over his face blocking out the sea of faces in front of him.
He was going to die, and he didn’t know if he’d disgrace himself before the crowd. How they loved a good show. Would he suffocate quickly, his short, insignificant life snuffed out, or would the rope prove uncooperative and leave him swinging there for agonizing minutes?
Before he’d been isolated in the condemned man’s cell, he’d heard richly detailed stories from other prisoners of how chancy a clean death was. Often the hangman would have to pull on a prisoner’s legs so he’d die the quicker. A rare prisoner even survived the hanging, his throat raw and bruised, only to have to face the rope the next day.
Jonah didn’t think he could go through such a proceeding twice.
Despite his bravado, he’d been terrified. He’d stared at the dank, stone ceiling of his cell as the hours ticked by, and contemplated his demise. What would the morrow bring? Where would his soul go after the rope cut off the breath from his body? Or would his life be ended for good?
He passed a hand in front of his eyes now, wiping away the last horrible memories. His shoulders ached from his position on the floor, though he was used to a hard surface from the wooden pallet in his cell. The fire had long since gone out. His feet felt numb.
Quiet breathing alerted him that he wasn’t alone. The prison lady.
She—he didn’t even know her name—still sat on the chair, but now her head rested on her arms and it was obvious she slept. She looked peaceful and harmless. He laughed inwardly, thinking how little the image reflected the reality. The woman’s words were like barbs, pointed and skillfully aimed at a man’s weaknesses.
They’ll flush you out like a partridge. Her pale eyes had taunted him, her tone as self-assured as the presiding judge’s at the Old Bailey. You would have been condemned to a fate worse than mere death if you had swung on that gallows today.
What did she know of his life? Who was she to judge? Had she ever been accused of a crime she didn’t commit? How would she have responded to a rope around her neck? Would all her preaching help her then? Not for a moment had she truly noticed the man in front of her.
He observed her in her sleep now, her back rising and falling in an even rhythm. A strange curl of something snaked through his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in so long. Then her cutting words rose again and he saw her for what she was. His prisoner.
The tables were turned. He, the prisoner, with a prisoner of his own. He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t let her go once he was away from Newgate. Surety against the soldiers? Perhaps. Although he doubted the value of one woman’s life to the soldiers. Especially such a scrawny one. He remembered how slight she’d felt when he’d half dragged, half carried her along the streets.
He shrugged. It no longer mattered. He’d let her go soon. She was of no use to him now. He’d have enough trouble keeping his own hide in safety. Two would be nigh on impossible.
He stood and listened but could discern no noises from the street. If the soldiers hadn’t ferreted him out here,
