Chapters (50)
- Cover
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- The Pengarron Sagas
- The Harvey Family Sagas
Philip’s face fell closer against Clem’s chest and he died. Clem bent his head over him and wept like he never had before.
‘Clem!’
Bartholomew realized that Clem would not help him if he could. He was going to die! He was being sucked down into a thick, wet darkness. The peat would seep into his nostrils and down into his lungs, choking him, suffocating him.
‘Oh, God, help me!’ he cried as the mud closed over his mouth.
Clem looked into Bartholomew’s eyes, they were filled with abject terror.
Bartholomew twisted his neck vainly in an attempt to gain a little height, a little more time. Then he was drawn under millions of years of rotting vegetation, to a deserving death.
Forty-Four
Luke lifted his head off the plump, silk-covered pillows and stared up at the canopy over the bed. Extravagant, lustrous drapes, gold and orange and red in colour, flowed down out of sight.
Where was he? With a struggle, he sat up. He was groggy, his head ached, his throat felt like parchment. Then he remembered where he had gone with Bartholomew last night, but after arriving here in the brothel he remembered nothing else.
He groaned. He had not meant to get so drunk. He had a host of goodbyes to get through this morning before he went home and spent one more day and night at Polgissey, and he wanted to start his long, important journey to London with a clear head. He was thankful, at least, to be alone in the plushly furnished room.
Once dressed, he tossed some coins on a table to join a profusion of spirit bottles and glasses.
‘My dear Mr Pengarron. My dear Luke. There’s no need for that. Your cousin has paid most handsomely for both of you.’
‘Eh? Oh, Mrs Nansmere. Frances. Good morning. Forgive me, I’m having a little trouble coming round.’
The proprietor of the establishment, wearing a flimsy negligee, floated across the thick carpet of her own bedchamber towards him. Graceful, beautiful in an unrefined way, and once well-connected to one of the county’s foremost families, Frances Nansmere curtseyed to him, then fluttered her fingers up to expertly bind his necktie.
‘It’s long past morning, Luke.’
‘Damn! Not that I don’t enjoy lingering here.’ Luke massaged his muzzy brow, but could not help grinning manfully. ‘My cousin and I had a riot last night?’
‘Indeed, you did. I should say, your cousin knows a thing or two, he slipped a little something into your wine to make your night… a little more interesting. And you know I’m honoured to have you here, sir, at any time.’