Ragamuffin Angel by Rita Bradshaw Page B

ring, but such was the force of her emotion that Sadie found she couldn’t move. She was aware of a big man at the side of her – a Swede or Dutchman by the sound of his accent-asking her if she wanted a drink, but still she couldn’t take her fascinated gaze from the satisfied dark one across the room. And it drew her. Like a lemming towards a cliff, like a moth towards a flame, it drew her, and then she was standing in front of him and listening to him say, his voice cocky and sure of itself, ‘Sadie. Sadie Bell isn’t it? It’s been a long time, lass,’ and she knew he still wanted her. The lascivious desire was plain to read in his face.  
    ‘Hallo, John.’  
    She had never called him by his first name before – at the warehouse he had been Mr Stewart, the eldest son and someone to be instantly obeyed – and his eyes narrowed for a second. But then they cleared and Sadie knew what he was thinking. She was a whore. One of the dockside scum and brazen with it by the look of things, and he was going to have her tonight.  
    Over her dead body.  
    ‘What you drinking then?’  
    There was a note in his voice that told her he was pleased she’d been seen searching him out. She was still beautiful; she hadn’t yet been reduced to having to accept any and every customer, and she still charged more than most and got it.  
    For a moment Sadie didn’t trust herself to speak, and then she said, her voice low and steady, ‘Port and brandy.’ She had progressed to that from stout and golden ale after just a few months, finding the strong liquor helped what followed.  
    ‘Port and brandy it is, lass.’  
    That John was aware of, and relishing, the covert nudges among his group of companions was evident in the lilt to his voice when he turned and ordered the drink, and then he swung back to her, his voice overloud as he said, ‘How about you and me taking a little walk this evening, eh? There’s money in me trousers and something else you’ll like.’  
    She didn’t have a chance to answer before the barman tapped John on the shoulder and handed him the glass, but as John passed it to her he said again, ‘How about it then?’, his eyes making no secret of the fact that he was already stripping the clothes from her body.  
    It was a waste of a good drink but it couldn’t be helped, and never had she got so much pleasure and gratification from a measure of wine and a measure of spirit as when she watched it hit John Stewart’s grinning face. He was absolutely still for a good three seconds and then he shook his head violently, drips of deep red liquid flying in all directions, as she hissed, ‘I’d have to be dead before I consented to scum like you touching me.’  
    The torrent of foul abuse that sprayed out of his mouth coincided with the punch at her face, and although she had been expecting the blow she wasn’t quick enough to avoid it altogether. His clenched fist struck her on the right side of her head, making her ear ring, but she was still on her feet when she saw his friends grab him and restrain him as he struggled to get free.  
    ‘Here, come on, I’m havin’ no rough stuff the night.’ The landlord was there like a shot. ‘I’ve had the law pokin’ around twice this week already an’ that’s twice too much. Out, the lot of you. You an’ all, Sadie. Go on.’  
    It was taking four of his comrades to hold John, and now he was screaming unintelligibly, enraged at being prevented from reaching the object of his fury. He was fighting mad, they could all see it, and the brief moment of enjoyment his friends had felt at seeing the bumptious little upstart – as they all privately thought of John Stewart – being brought low by a whore, a whore, was swallowed up by their concern at what he might do if they let go of him.  
    ‘Get yourself away! Go on! We can’t hold him forever.’  
    In spite of the shouts being directed at her Sadie remained stiff and silent as she continued