To Catch the Candid Earl: Regency Historical Romance

by Eleanor Keating

  “Letters in his hand say otherwise.” John Howard glanced around the great hall again. “May we have the benefit of your hospitality, my lord? Food and rest, and then we will be on our way.”

  “Yes, you may. Sir Richard will see to your needs.”

  The men bowed, then followed Sir Richard from the hall under the curious stares of the henchmen and servants. Sorcha leaned toward her father as he turned to her.

  “They speak the truth,” she said, “insofar as that is what they believe. Could Lord Garstonshire be in league with Philip of Spain?”

  “Not on your life, child,” Henry replied, frowning. “The man’s bloodlines are loyalty to crown and country, as was his father’s, and his father before him.”

  Gazing at the backs of the queen’s agents as they vanished through the far door, Sorcha nibbled her lower lip. “He is on his way here, Father. He will come.”

  “I expected it, and your words merely confirm what my gut tells me. When he does, we will offer him what aid he requires.”

  Henry suddenly glanced at her. “What else does your sight tell you?”

  “At the moment, Father, nothing. I just know that the winds of fate are changing, and our lives will be caught up with his.”

  “That can either be good or ill,” Henry murmured. “Let us pray that it is to the good.”

  Sorcha did not see the agents again save when they rode away later that afternoon. She stood atop the battlements, the wind over the moors whipping her gown and her snood, threatening to seize hold of the frail silk and send it over the Irish Sea. They rode south, not to the Garstonshire lands, but toward London. Perhaps to report their failure to the queen.

  They vanished between one hill and the next, tiny black figures against the green and purple of the heather. Lifting her face into the wind, Sorcha breathed in the scents of the moors—the heather, the trees, the grass. Then she saw him. Almost as soon as the queen’s agents vanished, a rider on a horse trotted down a hill toward the castle.

  The guards on the walls immediately sent word of his approach, but Sorcha remained on the battlements until he passed under the portcullis. A man with yellow hair to his broad shoulders, tall and strong, he gazed up at her before he disappeared under the castle’s walls, and instantly she knew.

  For good or for ill, this man would have a profound impact on her life.

  Leaving the battlements, Sorcha hurried through the door and down the stone steps, suspecting Griffith of Garstonshire would meet with her father in the great hall. Her curiosity piqued, she recalled that despite his father and hers being close friends and allies, she had never met the son.

  Father’s instincts for people are seldom wrong. If he says Lord Garstonshire is innocent, then he must be. The henchmen and servants she passed bowed, but she hardly noticed them. The guards at the great hall doors opened them for her, and she finally slowed her headlong pace.

  Griffith of Garstonshire sat beside her father at the high table, speaking earnestly as Henry listened. Neither glanced up at her approach, so intent were they on their heated conversation. Growing closer, she heard snippets—received word from Sir Riordan Jones, warned in time, have no one else to turn to.

  Her father saw her and turned his head toward her. Instantly, Griffith of Garstonshire ceased speaking, and also looked. Her eyes met his: an odd greenish-brown, half-hidden by his wild tangle of yellow-gold hair. He impatiently pushed it back. Though he was handsome in a feral way, Sorcha had met many handsome men. Yet, something about him stood out. It may have been his full lips thinned in worry, or the inner strength she saw in his eyes.

  Either way, Sorcha knew this man was like no other she had ever met.

  “My daughter, Lady Sorcha.”

  Henry held his hand out, beckoning. Sorcha curtsied before she approached, then accepted her father’s hand to seat her on his left. “Sorcha, this is Lord Griffith Blackstone, the son of my old friend.”

  “My lord.” She inclined her head.

  “My lady.”

  His lips twitched in a brief smile, and Sorcha recognized the appreciation in his eyes, not of lust or greed, for her looks. But of the simple way, a man looks at a woman of beauty and likes what he sees. She offered him a small smile in return and then cast her eyes demurely down to her lap.

  “You may speak freely in front of her, Griffith,” Henry stated firmly. “She is completely trustworthy.”

  “As your daughter, my lord, I thought nothing less.”

  Feeling his attention on her, Sorcha lifted her face to find him still smiling.

  “May I offer you a compliment, my lady?” he asked.

  “If you wish.”

  “You have such incredible blue eyes,” he said. “An uncommon shade, and I have never seen their like before.”

  “You are most kind.” Sorcha felt a tingle of delight cross her flesh, a mysterious thrill when a random, there and gone, thought flew through her mind. Love, are you come?

  “She takes after her mother,” Henry commented, patting her hand in affection. “Beautiful as well as wise. My wife was an Irish witch, God rest her soul. Had the gift of foresight, and passed the trait to Sorcha.”

  Half expecting Griffith to exchange his smile for an expression of horror, or to make a sign to ward off evil, Sorcha met his gaze with defiance. Instead, Griffith inclined his head in respect, his countenance admiring, not condemning.

  “I wish I had such a gift,” he remarked. “Then I might not be in such a precarious position with the queen.”

  “What, exactly, happened?” Henry asked.

  “Sir Riordan said the queen’s spies in Philip’s court intercepted letters, in my hand, my seal, offering support to Philip.”

  Henry rubbed his chin. “A plot to overthrow our monarch? And replace her with whom? Philip?”

  Griffith nodded. “That’s ridiculous, of course. Such is an impossibility. He would have no support among the nobles. A Catholic king from Spain ruling Protestant England?”

  “If this plan is to have you arrested and executed, who wants you dead?”

  Griffith picked up his goblet and drank from it, his face tight with worry. “I wish I knew, my lord. As I rode here, I had time to think and ask myself that same question. But I don’t know.”

  “I myself have heard no whispers of animosity toward you,” Henry went on slowly. “No talk of hatred, or machinations against you.”

  “Could someone have held a grudge against my father?” Griffith asked. “And now directs that resentment against me?”

  “Your father was exceedingly respected by the queen and his peers,” Henry replied. “I hardly think anyone in the realm would carry such a hatred toward him or you.”

  Griffith banged his hand on the table in frustration, making the goblets bounce. “S’truth! How can I prove my innocence to Her Majesty? It’s not as though I can kneel before her and proclaim my loyalty.”

  “No, you would be arrested and executed before you could present yourself. Without the benefit of a trial.” Henry glanced at Sorcha. “What does your sight tell you?”

  “Nothing at the moment, Father. The visions come when they will.”

  Sorcha met Griffith’s level gaze. “For good or ill, I will not keep from you what I see.”

  Chapter Three

  “You are welcome to remain as long as you like,” Henry said. “Somehow, I feel you will prove to Her Majesty’s satisfaction that you have not done this deed.”

  “And you have my gratitude, my lord,” Griffith replied, some of his tension easing with Henry’s declaration. “I ordered my henchmen to meet me here. They should arrive soon.”

  “They will be housed and fed for as long as you remain.”

  “Again, you have my thanks.” Griffith took another drink from his ale, thinking of the risk to his host with his presence in his castle. “I may remain a few days only, as I have no desire to bring the queen’s wrath upon you, nor Lady Sorcha.”

  “Yes, I suppose there is some
risk in harboring you, Griffith.” Henry held his goblet in his hand, staring out over the nearly empty hall. “However, I’ll not regret assisting my old friend’s son.”

  “With your blessing, then,” Griffith went on, “I’ll remain only a few days, and perhaps obtain provisions for my men and me.”

  “You will have them.”

  Appreciating Lady Sorcha’s stunning beauty and the keen intelligence he observed behind her calm eyes, Griffith smiled. “Perhaps you will permit me to spend time with the lovely lady.”

  “That is up to Sorcha, of course,” Henry answered without any obvious reservations about a man wanted for treason paying attention to his daughter.

  Lady Sorcha inclined her head gracefully. “I would like that, my lord.”

  “My horse must rest awhile,” Griffith said, oddly happy she wanted to spend time with him. “Perhaps your father might loan me a horse if you care to ride with me.”

  “I am certain my father will have a few issues with that, my lord.”

  Nor did he. A short time later, Griffith rode a dapple grey gelding out of the bailey beside Lady Sorcha. She had chosen to ride a long-legged chestnut mare with four white stockings climbing her legs.

  “She is built for speed,” Griffith remarked, eyeing the horse’s fine lines.

  “Indeed she is,” Lady Sorcha replied with a smile. “I bred her myself from my father’s stock.”

  “Then, my lady,” he said with an appreciative grin, “you have an excellent eye for horses.”

  “Thank you.” She returned his grin. “It is nice to receive so many compliments from you.”

  “My Brutus, however,” he went on, gazing around at the rolling moors they crossed, “is a grand racer. Hasn’t lost a race yet.”

  “A stallion?” Lady Sorcha watched him with speculation. “I do not recall seeing him. You must show him to me.”

  “I will.”

  Trotting their mounts over and down hills, across shallow valleys, Griffith found they had common ground in their mutual love of horses as they talked as though having known one another for years. Lady Sorcha rode with light hands on the reins and a natural balance in her saddle, something Griffith had rarely seen in a woman.

  “You have been riding since you were a child?” Griffith asked. “You are a skilled rider.”

  “My father has no sons,” she replied, rubbing the mare’s neck under her mane. “Thus he taught me to ride and shoot a bow. While I cannot be his proper heir, I could and did receive a son’s training.”

  “When did your mother die?”

  “Five years ago now.” Lady Sorcha’s smile faded, and she, too, took a careful glance around the country they passed. “She was a healer and cared for many of our people. Unfortunately, she could not heal herself from the illness, and she succumbed.”

  “I am so very sorry.”

  Lady Sorcha offered him a wan smile. “She taught me her healing skills, so now I care for the people.”

  “You are young for such a heavy responsibility,” Griffith commented, admiring the way the sunlight danced upon her long lashes.

  “It is not the burden it seems,” she told him with a light laugh. “And I enjoy it.”

  Though he had fled from his castle only the night before, Griffith’s troubles seemed so far away and unimportant as he rode beside this fascinating and extraordinary young woman. “Had I known Henry of Harpton had such a beautiful daughter, I would have come to make your acquaintance far sooner.”

  Lady Sorcha laughed. “Sometimes I think my father wants to keep me a secret. So suitors do not come calling.”

  “I can understand why.”

  Griffith glanced at the sun as it dipped toward the west and the length of the shadows on the ground. “We should head back to the castle, I think.”

  “Yes. I would not want my father to worry.”

  Griffith gauged they had ridden south and west from the castle and reined the gelding to the north. “I hope my men arrive soon,” he commented, searching the horizon for Sir James and the henchmen. “Though I fear I may lay the yoke of false accusation upon them by riding with me.”

  “When you leave here,” Lady Sorcha asked, “where will you go?”

  “I don’t know yet,” he replied honestly.

  “Perhaps I may make a suggestion.”

  Taking his eyes off the surrounding country to look at her again, he replied, “Tell me.”

  “Ride northwest to Cumbria,” she replied. “Seek the Marquess of Dunstable. He is close to our queen, and perhaps may be persuaded to intercede for you.”

  Griffith frowned slightly. “But will he be willing to receive me, and listen? No doubt word of me is spreading across the land. He may be charged with arresting me.”

  “But if he does not, Scotland is not far away, my lord. You will be safe enough among the Scots until you can find out who is responsible for this.”

  “True, I can hide in Scotland,” Griffith replied slowly. “But it will be much more difficult to regain my name if I do.”

  “I think one question that must be resolved is this.” Lady Sorcha gazed at him gravely. “Just exactly how did these letters arrive in the hands of the queen’s spies in Spain?”

  Griffith reined his horse into a stop, stunned. “You are right. If I truly wanted to send such treasonous letters, I would make sure they were placed in Philip’s hands.”

  Lady Sorcha also halted. “A trusted courier would hardly let such damning evidence to fall into the wrong hands. And how many spies does the queen have at the Spanish court? I do not believe in coincidence, and sincerely question how such a thing could come about.”

  “Let’s just say, for the sake of argument,” Griffith went on, “that my courier wasn’t trustworthy. Why go all the way to Spain to hand my treasonous letters to spies? Why not take them to Elizabeth’s court?”

  She grinned. “Exactly.”

  Griffith nudged his grey into a walk, heading back to the castle. “Perhaps I should travel to Spain,” he said. “Find these alleged spies myself, and have a talk with them.”

  “Yes, that may bring you more information,” she agreed. “But England and Spain are on the brink of war. You may be killed.”

  “I speak fluent French,” Griffith replied with a grin. “I can pass as a Frenchman.”

  “That could work.”

  Suddenly, like a hound catching an elusive scent, Lady Sorcha lifted her head to the light wind, her eyes wide. She gazed around at the hills surrounding them, her lips tight with tension. “We are in danger.”

  “From what direction? Do you know?”

  “No.”

  She set her heels to the chestnut mare’s ribs and urged her into a canter. Griffith followed suit, yanking his sword from its sheath, and tried to watch everywhere at once. “A pity you don’t have a bow and quiver of arrows.”

  “Indeed, yes.” Lady Sorcha half-turned in her saddle. “Hand me your dagger.”

  Though he hesitated, wondering at the wisdom of getting her involved in his troubles, Griffith obeyed. Pulling it from its sheath, he flipped it around and presented her with the hilt as they cantered between two low lying hills. “I am guessing whoever is out there is after me,” he commented.

  “But I will fight at your side.”

  Griffith flushed at both her words and the look she sent him—one of a fierce and savage devotion that made him wonder how he could have earned such in a very short time. “You should not involve yourself.”

  “It is much too late for that.”

  Chapter Four

  How and why her feelings for Griffith of Garstonshire had grown and expanded so quickly baffled Sorcha. Her sight informed her he was in great and terrible danger, and yet she refused to stand by, and permit him to fight on his own. For good or ill, I must remain by his side.

  The three riders burst from around the base of the hills in front of them.

  Sorcha reined her mare in so hard the horse reared, front legs curled, her neck
arched. Griffith’s grey slid to a halt a few strides in front, Griffith’s horse and body protecting her from the men she now recognized as the queen’s agents. John Howard held his own blade’s hilt in his hand, and his companions yanked theirs from sheaths.

  “You are under arrest for treason, Garstonshire,” Howard snapped, glaring. “Drop your sword.”

  “I think not,” Griffith replied coldly. “You know the charges are false.”

  “I know nothing of the sort.”

  Howard peered around Griffith at Sorcha, his upper lip curling in a leer. “I see Harpton’s wench fancies you. If she interferes, it will be her head on the block beside yours.”

  Her fate now tied to Griffith’s, Sorcha refused to regret her actions. “He is innocent, Howard,” she said, edging her mare up beside Griffith. “I am a witch, and my sight tells me so.”

  His leer faded. “A witch? Then you will die, woman.”

  With a wild cry, he kicked his horse toward them in a reckless charge, his companions following. Griffith never hesitated, and shouted his own battle cry, spurring the gelding into the fight. Having never fought in her life, Sorcha surprisingly felt little fear and waited for her chance.

  Griffith ducked a wild slash from Howard’s sword, the blade whistling over his head, then clashed steel to steel with the rider in front of him. Howard instantly reined around for another charge, ignoring Sorcha. The third agent made her his target and rushed her, his sword held high over his head.

  At the last second, Sorcha ducked as Griffith had, and danced the mare sideways. Both horse and rider missed her, but he, too, spun his mount to try again. A dagger was no match for a broadsword, but Sorcha needed cunning on her side, not strength of arms. She shot a swift glance toward Griffith, seeing him hacking at the man’s blade while keeping his opponent between himself and a furiously yelling Howard.

  Focusing her attention back on her own enemy, Sorcha also kicked her mare into a charge. Bracing herself, she knew she would have to time this perfectly. If she failed, she would be dead within moments. The agent’s arm lifted high to bring his heavy blade down upon her when she rode within reach.