entered this too in her notebook, but as
she bent her head, the sweat ran down her brow and into her eyes, and the smell
pushed its way into her nose, the back of her throat, even her head. She had a
sudden, very real fear she was going to faint.
She saw
Morninghall regarding her, coolly disdainful yet meditative, as though he knew
her plight and was reveling in it. She shot him a look of pure loathing and
took a few hesitant steps away from the ladder.
Down here, the
air was so heavy that the few lanterns that penetrated the gloom did so with
the same effect of a ship's light in a heavy fog, making it appear fuzzy, hazy,
dim. Gwyneth, gagging, could only take in desperate, pinched gasps of it.
Each tiny breath brought her near to retching. Her eyes watered. Her nose
burned, her stomach began to roil, and the heat, emanating from hundreds of
sweating, unwashed bodies crammed into such a small space, pressed against her
senses, her clothes. A fly buzzed around her eyes and she batted at it, only
to have it come back; she batted at it again, harder this time, feeling
hysteria and a mad urge to flee this hell of hells beginning to overpower her.
She tried to stand up, bumping her head on the low deck overhead, and as she
instantly recoiled, near to sobbing, she saw a dead rat underneath a bench, and
more flies crawling across it, some of them rising to move lazily through the
humid, unmoving air.
And still, those
devils' eyes of Morninghall's, watching her.
The fly came
back, and with a little cry she swatted at it, backing up to where the marquess
waited.
"Seen
enough?" he asked harshly.
She shot him a
look of pure disgust that he could let things be so bad down here, and saw the
shame, the embarrassment, in his gaze before he turned his face away, his jaw
hard.
"No, my
lord," she replied, her voice trembling with anger and determination.
"I feel as though I'm going to be ill, my head is dizzy, and I am near to
swooning for lack of air — but no, I'm not ready to leave. I would ask,
however, that since this wretchedness does not appear to be affecting you as it
is me that you be gentlemanly enough to stay close to me, perhaps take my arm,
in case I become unsteady on my feet and finally succumb to that which I see
and smell around me."
Damon stared at
her, momentarily disarmed and struck dumb. The woman was as pale as a sheet,
perspiring, swaying dizzily — yet she was not about to abandon her quest. She
had nothing to gain personally from doing this, yet she was still able to put
aside her own physical discomfort for the common good of something greater than
herself, able to overcome her disgust and fear and find compassion for these
filthy men who had taunted and insulted her. It was total selflessness, and in
contrast he felt small, mean, unworthy. Something hurt inside of him, as
though a crack had split his heart, and a wave of admiration for this plucky
little woman's spirit and courage swept through him. He reached out, as she
had humbly asked him to do, and steadied her elbow. "Very well, then. If
you wish to see more than you might as well see the Black Hole as well."
She choked on
another breath. "The Black Hole?"
The marine piped
up. "Where the prisoners are punished, madam. We keep 'em down there for
ten days at a stretch when they're behaving particularly bad."
Her face went
gray. "Yes, yes, of course. Just lead the way."
With
Morninghall's hand firmly supporting her elbow, Gwyneth thrust herself toward
yet another hatch, this one so dark and forbidding that it yawned out of the
gloom like an empty grave at midnight. Morninghall went down first. Slowly,
his shoulders, his head, disappeared into that black rectangle.
The marines
waited behind her. Lightheaded, nauseous, and growing more and more
distressed, Gwyneth followed the marquess.
Down into the
hold they went, into darkness and stenches that made the upper decks smell like
a rose garden in
she bent her head, the sweat ran down her brow and into her eyes, and the smell
pushed its way into her nose, the back of her throat, even her head. She had a
sudden, very real fear she was going to faint.
She saw
Morninghall regarding her, coolly disdainful yet meditative, as though he knew
her plight and was reveling in it. She shot him a look of pure loathing and
took a few hesitant steps away from the ladder.
Down here, the
air was so heavy that the few lanterns that penetrated the gloom did so with
the same effect of a ship's light in a heavy fog, making it appear fuzzy, hazy,
dim. Gwyneth, gagging, could only take in desperate, pinched gasps of it.
Each tiny breath brought her near to retching. Her eyes watered. Her nose
burned, her stomach began to roil, and the heat, emanating from hundreds of
sweating, unwashed bodies crammed into such a small space, pressed against her
senses, her clothes. A fly buzzed around her eyes and she batted at it, only
to have it come back; she batted at it again, harder this time, feeling
hysteria and a mad urge to flee this hell of hells beginning to overpower her.
She tried to stand up, bumping her head on the low deck overhead, and as she
instantly recoiled, near to sobbing, she saw a dead rat underneath a bench, and
more flies crawling across it, some of them rising to move lazily through the
humid, unmoving air.
And still, those
devils' eyes of Morninghall's, watching her.
The fly came
back, and with a little cry she swatted at it, backing up to where the marquess
waited.
"Seen
enough?" he asked harshly.
She shot him a
look of pure disgust that he could let things be so bad down here, and saw the
shame, the embarrassment, in his gaze before he turned his face away, his jaw
hard.
"No, my
lord," she replied, her voice trembling with anger and determination.
"I feel as though I'm going to be ill, my head is dizzy, and I am near to
swooning for lack of air — but no, I'm not ready to leave. I would ask,
however, that since this wretchedness does not appear to be affecting you as it
is me that you be gentlemanly enough to stay close to me, perhaps take my arm,
in case I become unsteady on my feet and finally succumb to that which I see
and smell around me."
Damon stared at
her, momentarily disarmed and struck dumb. The woman was as pale as a sheet,
perspiring, swaying dizzily — yet she was not about to abandon her quest. She
had nothing to gain personally from doing this, yet she was still able to put
aside her own physical discomfort for the common good of something greater than
herself, able to overcome her disgust and fear and find compassion for these
filthy men who had taunted and insulted her. It was total selflessness, and in
contrast he felt small, mean, unworthy. Something hurt inside of him, as
though a crack had split his heart, and a wave of admiration for this plucky
little woman's spirit and courage swept through him. He reached out, as she
had humbly asked him to do, and steadied her elbow. "Very well, then. If
you wish to see more than you might as well see the Black Hole as well."
She choked on
another breath. "The Black Hole?"
The marine piped
up. "Where the prisoners are punished, madam. We keep 'em down there for
ten days at a stretch when they're behaving particularly bad."
Her face went
gray. "Yes, yes, of course. Just lead the way."
With
Morninghall's hand firmly supporting her elbow, Gwyneth thrust herself toward
yet another hatch, this one so dark and forbidding that it yawned out of the
gloom like an empty grave at midnight. Morninghall went down first. Slowly,
his shoulders, his head, disappeared into that black rectangle.
The marines
waited behind her. Lightheaded, nauseous, and growing more and more
distressed, Gwyneth followed the marquess.
Down into the
hold they went, into darkness and stenches that made the upper decks smell like
a rose garden in
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