Blossom of the Brothel Ch. 01

Romance, nothing but romance! Destiny and circumstances are calling for an unlikely couple of passionate lust, troubled pasts and bittersweet present while a carefully woven web of interest threatens their happiness. Will they be able to find love amidst it all? This is a story consisting of 10 chapters. I will submit one every week and hope that you will enjoy reading as much as I loved writing it.

Prologue

Noise had woken him at night. Shouts, angry, demanding and desperate crying echoing through the corridors of his home. Alarmed and frightened by the strange sounds he climbed off the bed and tiptoed quietly to the door. His Nanny was nowhere to be seen, yet the shouting only grew louder as he carefully felt his way around in the darkness of the night. He sensed that something was wrong and wanted his momma.

He saw her before he could have reached her chambers, located just at the other end of the corridor.

"No! Please .... please don't do this, please don't!" she had pleaded helplessly while struggling against the men trying to lift her unwilling body from the cold marble floor.

It took a moment until he realized that the tormented woman in the single white nightgown with her long blond hair flowing around her frame like liquid gold was the same mother who had kissed him goodnight with a radiant smile that very night.

"Momma! Momma!" He rushed to her side desperately, his tiny fists banging against the thighs of the men trying to take her away.

"My baby!" she had cried out with her heart breaking at the sight.

He closed his eyes and pounded the men with all his might until a firm grip around his waist lifted him from the floor and took him away. Away from the cries and the struggle, away from his mother. When he opened his eyes again his father was looking at him with an angry face.

"Momma! They are hurting her!" he exclaimed, tugging at his father's arm, wanting to pull him along.

His eyes remained hard and untouched by emotion.

"No, my son. Your mother is ill, very ill. Those men are not hurting her, they are taking her away. It is best this way."

He had cried himself to sleep that night. Praying the way she had taught him for his mother to become healthy again and come home to them. He couldn't have been more than four, yet many years later, in his dreams, he still struggled against the dark clad men.

The mother he had known, with her radiant smile and beautiful golden crown, he never saw again.

***

Sunset bathed the snow-covered hilltops in a golden glow as the last warm rays withdrew their caress from the valley below. Even the chilly wind that had started to rise form the North couldn't spoil Emmeline's mood. It was her favorite part of the day. Most afternoon guests had already left and the patrons of the night were still enjoying their dinner at the tavern.

She had been tending to the small vegetable garden behind the kitchen for many years now, her slender fingers digging into the earth with great care. Back in the days when Emmeline was but a toddler, her mother had planted the garden in hopes of providing more variety for her cooking. Years later her daughter still cared for the vegetables with the same tenderness as for her late mother's grave.

The melody she hummed while pulling the stubbornly anchored weeds from the soil brought back pleasant memories of days long gone, pushing aside the worries of the present. The Golden Mane was the only home Emmeline had ever known and while not the most ideal place for a child to grow up at, her mother always did her utmost to make her feel safe and cared for. She used to hold her at night, when the thin wooden walls didn't keep away the guttural sounds from upstairs. Her mother would sing quietly, ancient melodies that soothed away her little girl's fears, rocking her gently to sleep. Valentine also had a sweet laughter, a warm, special smile she only gave to her daughter and no one else.

She often worried about Emmeline's future as the child started to blossom into a young woman men would take notice of without doubt. Emmeline had inherited much of the exotic beauty that had sealed her mother's fate a long time ago.

Her delicate features and the humble meals the owner provided gave her youthful charms a fragile, almost vulnerable look, despite the hard physical work she had been accustomed to since her early childhood days. Her chocolate brown eyes matched her mother's perfectly and sparkled when she smiled in ways that made the widow Carmichael accuse her of being a witch more than once. Her most striking feature was probably still her smile. A mirror image of the pure love and warmth of a child's trusting heart who had never known deceit nor the cruelty that could dwell in other human hearts.

"Unnatural things lie in that child, Valentine. I tell ye, evil has touched her hair and eyes," the widow Carmichael would vow whenever she saw the cook brush her daughter's hair. Emmeline's dark ebony tresses flowed like liquid silk between her mother's fingers, the light of the fireplace casting mysterious shadows around them.

Valentine would tell her daughter not to mind the old widow's foolish beliefs and taunting words.

"Envy is gnawing at her heart. Because you are so pretty and young and she is but bitter and spiteful. Nothing makes more ugly than an ugly heart."

Valentine had done her best to keep her daughter always by her side, working in the garden, helping her in the kitchen but while completing her chores, Emmeline would still occasionally bump into a patron. When her mother realized that the tightly braided hair and the ragged clothed were still not enough to make a young woman in bloom invisible to the hungry eyes of the leering patrons she started to make arrangements for Emmeline to become a laundry maid.

The respectable women of the village, however, seemed anything but eager to employ a girl with her background. Thus Valentine wandered into a nearby village, half a days march away on foot, seeking employment for her daughter in a respectable household. She returned two days later with high fever and a promise of consideration from a kind hearted widow of humble means, who had taken pity on her. The storm that had caught Valentine on her way left her feverish for many days. With Emmeline reluctant to leave her sick mother's side, young Mr. Tucker, the owner of the house, started to complain how neither of them was paying for their keep. The widow Carmichael overtook the kitchen but her cooking didn't seem to appeal to the guests. Again Mr. Tucker cursed and complained about the money he was loosing because of Valentine's foolishness. When Valentine requested to speak to him in private, Emmeline didn't like the idea at all.

"You are still so weak, mother. Here have some soup." But Valentine insisted on sending for the fuming man.

Mr. Tucker's uncle had been a kind hearted man albeit with little sense for business, as his nephew would often claim. When almost two decades earlier a young woman of stunning beauty showed up in his tavern with a baby on her arm he made sure they were well taken care of, lacking nothing. When Valentine started to ask around about employment possibilities old Mr. Tucker was helpful and didn't ask questions aside from her skills and the arrangement she had in mind. Valentine explained that she had worked as a kitchen hand and later as a maid to a noble family but was made to leave once her circumstances started to show. Mr. Tucker only nodded understandingly, her story was one and a dozen among the young maidens in the country. In most cases, some sort of compensation for their "circumstances" and silence was arranged by the household they were leaving, even though this didn't seem to be the case with Valentine. Mr. Tucker thought it a pity for such a delightful beauty to go to waste and offered the young woman and her daughter room, food and a humble payment for kitchen service. Valentine was grateful for the opportunity and with her experience as a kitchen hand soon became an excellent cook.

Emmeline had been working alongside her mother by the time old Mr. Tucker passed away and his nephew and only heir overtook the business. Young Mr. Tucker was eager to make as much profit as possible and cut down on any expenses he considered unnecessary. Within a years time the quiet little tavern at the end of the village had turned into a loud brothel, despised by the people around and still blooming because of the many travelers and visitors that frequented it even from the neighboring villages.

Not wanting her only child to become a victim of men's unbridled lust, Valentine tried to convince Mr. Tucker even in her illness to send her daughter away. The greedy man was unmovable, only complaining about the financial loss Valentine's condition was already causing to his establishment. How could he afford losing another employee now? The desperate woman vowed to pay him back everything if only he would let Emmeline go to serve the widow Blacksmith, even signing a contract of her intentions. Mr. Tucker had finally agreed and wished her well before leaving.

Valentine Dawson passed away during that night, content and hopeful that she had spared her daughter the fate that had become her undoing. If nothing else, Emmeline was something she had done right in this world and she left with hope in her heart that she would grow up to lead a happier and better life.

Three years later Emmeline still worked the small vegetable garden behind the kitchen, her dark hair covered by a faded head scarf, her soiled face and dirty hands hardly igniting desire in anyone who passed her. The grief she felt over the loss of her mother bore down on her lively spirit and extincted the spark of laughter from her eyes. What remained was the sorrowful expression of a young woman. Valentine made her promise that she would never sell herself short, never yield to tempting offers of an easy life or flattery rather lead the virtuous life of a hardworking woman.

"Devil's child, ye come hither or I shall make ye!" The old crow's shouting tore Emmeline from her reminiscence at once.

Since her mother's death the widow Carmichael seemed to find fault in whatever she did. There was no chore too heavy for the devil's child, neither a task completed to the old woman's contentment. She seemed to draw her only delight from talking down on Emmeline and punishing the little beast to her heart's delight, for the girl's own good, as she would claim.

"The Sir wishes to have a word with ye. Hurry for he won't be kept waiting!" The old lady barked.

When Emmeline wiped her hands in her dirty apron the widow took her by the arm roughly, yanking her to the basin.

"There is no way in heaven or hell that I let ye walk around in the house like that. What do I have ye scrub the floors for? Filthy brood of devil, wash up!"

Emmeline stumbled and her shoulder crushed against the hard wood of the basin when the widow tossed her aside, cursing under her breath as she wiped her hand in her apron with obvious disgust.

With a deep breath the young woman washed her hands and face, taking her time. Talking to Mr. Tucker couldn't mean anything good in her experience. There was just something about his smile, the way he looked at her, that unsettled Emmeline, no matter how charming his words might have been. The eerie feeling wouldn't leave her around the man so she did her best to get out of his way whenever possible.

On the rare occasion when they spoke, Mr. Tucker seemed eager to taunt her, tease her in ways most inappropriate and delight in the embarrassment that showed so readily in her pale complexion. He made it no secret that he had plans for Emmeline to entertain the guests once she has come of age, yet apart from the embarrassing compliments never seemed to pressure the matter.

"You wished to see me, Mr. Tucker Sir." Emmeline courtesied somewhat awkwardly.

The door of the study was wide open, she had been obviously expected. Rupert Tucker sat at his desk with a smug grin on his face.

"Ah, there you are. Good, good. Come in girl and have a seat."

Emmeline walked into the room with a nervous flutter in her stomach, her eyes never leaving the man in front of her. The content smile on his face made her wonder most though.

"I have delightful news for you, Emmeline," Mr. Tucker started out enthusiastically.

"I have been taking care of you, your welfare for three years now. As you know, I spared no expenses when it came to taking care of your mother in her sickness either. I have watched you blossom into a young woman underneath of those rags of yours."

He grinned lasciviously while watching the girl fiddle with the torn sleeve of her gown. His eyes delighted in the embarrassed blush blooming in her cheeks. Emmeline understood what was expected of her, she swallowed the lump in her throat and forced a small smile.

"I know, Mr. Tucker Sir. And I am very grateful for all you have done for me. Me and my m... mother."

Obviously pleased the man nodded.

"Very well, Emmeline. The time has come when you can show your gratitude truly. I am sure you have heard that Mary has left us?" He stood from behind his desk, walking towards her chair with a slow, leisurely stride.

"Y .. Yes, Mr. Tucker Sir." Emmeline replied, hating the way her voice broke and the ugly suspicion that made her heartbeat flutter in concern.

Mary was one of the prettiest girls from upstairs, a favorite of many regular patrons. Why or how she had left two days earlier no one seemed to know. Mr. Tucker told them that she wished to leave and return to her family. The girls upstairs whispered that Mary had become ill from drinking too much of the herb brew the widow Carmichael made for the girls regularly to prevent them from conceiving a child.

Mr. Tucker's voice was soft, a seductive tone one would talk in to a frightened wild animal.

"I am looking for someone to fill her position. Someone men would easily desire, someone who would be smart enough to make them lose not only their mind but also their money. Someone ... like you Emmeline."

The young woman rose instantly, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment, only to find herself pushed back onto the chair by the owner's iron grip.

"Mr. Tucker, I really can't ... I ... just can't do that." Emmeline stammered in protest.

Her mother was likely turning in her grave in shame.

"Emmeline, dear! What unbridled passion of youth! But worry not, I know you are probably nervous, so won't punish you for this ugly outburst. Not yet anyway. But you must understand that this is not an offer I make you here. You will take Mary's place. Unless, of course you can offer another acceptable way of paying your dept."

With his breath upon her cheek, the smell of ale clinging to his skin, Emmeline found it impossible to think straight. Fear and disgust made her stomach knot tightly. The protest that left her lips turned into a nauseous moan that made her hand fly to her mouth to cover it.

"Was that a yes, Emmeline?" he inquired with the gleam of a predator in his pitch black eyes.

"No!" the girl managed to get out weakly, before regaining her composure.

"Mr. Tucker Sir, I want to pay, I honestly do. I will work for you in the kitchen, I can cook and do the laundry and every chore around the house. Please, Sir, let me repay that way, I have been always working hard for you, Sir."

Her eyes pleaded with a merciless gaze. He shook his head in mock sadness.

"Emmeline, Emmeline, I was truly hoping that we would be able to reach a ... friendly understanding on this matter."

He reached back for a piece of paper onto his desk to wave it in front of her face.

"I take it you recognize your mother's signature?"

Emmeline starred at the obligation dully. She had seen it before. The day after her mother's funeral when the widow Blacksmith had sent her son to pick her up for her service at the neighboring village her mother had arranged. Tucker had shown then the document to Emmeline and the young man. Valentine's signature was weak but still recognizable on the obligation that stated that she owned Mr. Rupert Tucker more money than she would have made as a cook in an entire life time. Tucker had graciously offered the girl as a maid to the Blacksmiths, provided they pay her dept beforehand. While the old widow had taken pity on Valentine's fate, she neither had the money nor any interest in paying so much for the service of a bastard raised in a brothel.

It was one of the few days when Emmeline wished old Mr. Tucker had never taught her or her mother to read and write.

"Am I right to assume that you don't wish to come into deptors' prison? I am sure they would enjoy having a sweet little thing like you ... of course without the protection I can offer you in my humble establishment."

He felt her shake under his hands, her breath coming in wary little puffs. When she finally closed her eyes and shook her head no, Tucker let out a triumphant growl.

"Very well then. I knew you were a reasonable one, Emmeline. Glad that we could reach a friendly understanding in the end."

He put the paper back onto the desk and looked her over from head to toe, shaking his head.

"My, my ... what a frightened little deer you look. Some like their amusement that way but those are few. Of course we will have to get you out of those filthy rags. Strip, girl." He ordered her curtly, leaning against his desk and folding his arms in front of his chest.

"Sir?!" Emmeline's eyes grew wide, her pale skin glistening with a thin line of cold sweat that broke out on her worried forehead.

"You have heard me, Emmeline. Now be a good girl and obey before I get my cane!"

The sweet, seductive tone was completely gone form his voice. What remained was a cold, commanding snarl that made a shiver of fear run down the young woman's spine.

She stood slowly, setting her jaw tightly while fighting hard to suppress the sobs that threatened to erupt. She suspected Mr. Tucker would be hardly moved by her feelings anyway.

***

Evening fell upon Remington Hall with a quiet grace, respectfully paying its tribute to the noble line which had ruled over that part of the country, as far as the eye could see. Time had taken its toil on the proud nest of noble generations, advisers to kings and mothers to heirs of the throne. High on the hilltop its impressive outline still hovered over the valley and the villages below, though no longer bearing but faint resemblance to the majestic glamor of the past.

Lord Remington was a man of high ambitions and considerable power. Barely shy of a minister's position, his influence at the court was envied by many despite the scandalous burden he had been blessed with. His son and only heir had been a troublemaker even at child's age. While most of the court's golden youth seemed content with a few carefree seasons of sinful indulgence, Duncan proved to have an insatiable and quite eclectic appetite of his own when it came to the pleasures of the flesh. His flaring temper and rebellious heart often got him involved in fights at the most common taverns on his late night rides, while his devilish charm and good looks gained him invitations into the bedrooms of the purest blossoming flowers of the court. Outraged fathers, demanding marriage and compensation for their ruined daughters and dishonored family name, were not an unusual sight in Lord Remington's waiting room.

Duncan seemed perfectly resistant to any reasoning about changing his way of life. He refused to serve his time in the royal army, neglected family responsibilities and lived a life of rebellion, almost as if he was intent upon ruining the family's good standing, along with his father's political aspirations.

The exact circumstances of the scandal that had banned him from the court could only be guessed by the commoners of his land. Rumors spoke of the young Lord's dark passions, his fancy for inflicting pain upon maidens, dungeon plays and hedonistic orgies where blood spilled from the globes mixed with the finest red wine. Some whispered of an illness of the mind that had befallen him as a punishment from God for all the ruthless abandon he devoured life with in the days of his youth, a theory which was supported by the shepherds spotting the old Doctor Layman's carriage on the road to Remington Hall many a night. Servants of the mansion reported at times of rustling chains and tormented cries of pain tearing through the darkness of the corridors. Yet few had actually seen the young Lord since the day he retired to a quite exile within the walls of the castle three years previously.