Summer at Dorne

by Mira Stables

  Considered as a rescue party, they were a sorry crew. Oliver had been harried into changing his sodden clothes, but since Bateson had insisted on annointing his hurts with some much-vaunted ointment he wore a dressing gown over his shirt and breeches. Both Dominic and Murdoch had spent long hours in the saddle as well as enduring anxieties that could scarcely be assessed, while Geordie Crawford had done a long day’s work in the harvest field. All of them showed it. And all of them showed in a far greater degree a marked determination to make someone pay for the damage that had been done. When it presently emerged that the young groom who had suffered the most in the attack was Crawford’s cousin, they seemed to be linked more closely than ever in their common aim.

  “Let’s have your report first then, Murdoch,” began Dominic crisply, “since you seem to have noticed more than the rest of us.”

  “Nay. ’Twas what Geordie said that set me to thinking,” demurred the steward. “His uncle keeps an inn, a quiet sort of place, mostly used by the herds and drovers and a few farm folk. Not a house that’s patronised by the gentry. But a gentleman did stop there – ’bout three weeks back, Geordie reckons it would be. His uncle can tell us for sure. He didn’t stay above an hour or so – just asked if the goodwife could dish him up some kind of a meal and a bite for his man. Which she did, though not accustomed to such. Only while his chops were broiling, the pair of them strolled out down the lane and were gone half an hour so that the meat was scorched. Geordie’s aunt was in a rare taking, because, she rates herself a good plain cook. Why couldn’t the gentleman have sat in the coffee room and drunk a tankard of home-brewed like a Christian, she wanted to know, instead of stravaiging about the lanes while good food spoiled. Then, just a week ago, back comes the same carriage and the same coachman, though no gentleman this time. The man – Perkins, Geordie says he’s called, or something like that – says can the landlord house the carriage and stable the horses for a few days. He has business in the neighbourhood, but it’s with the outlying farms where there’s no carriage roads so shanks’s pony will have to serve. Geordie’s uncle agreed to it and even offered him the loan of his old garron, but the fellow said he was no horseman and would manage as best he might. They’d have thought no more of it, but Geordie chanced to see him coming away from the tinklers’ camp and wondered what sort of business he could have there. ’Twasn’t till I happened to say to Geordie that they were a queer sort of tinklers that were camping in the glen that he said, ‘Aye. And they keep gey queer company,’ didn’t you, Geordie lad?”

  Drawn thus into the centre of the stage, Geordie crimsoned but nodded vigorously.

  Dominic waited patiently. Best let the pair come at the story in their own fashion. If he tried to hurry them they might get flustered and omit some vital detail. And that queer sixth sense of his was telling him that they were on the right track. “And then?” he said steadily.

  Murdoch rubbed his lean jaw ruminatively. “Two days agone that was,” he decided. “And tonight, as I was turning on to the coast road, a strange carriage passed me, coming from Glenluce. And by what I can make out it sounds the dead spit of the one that Geordie spoke of. A neat plain job, painted dark blue, and nothing to distinguish it from a dozen others, but drawn by a well-matched pair of Cleveland bays, just such as the lad described. I couldn’t make out the driver in the darkening, but it took the Wigtown road.”

  Dominic sprang to his feet, scarcely able to believe that the first throw of the dice had fallen their way, and equally unable to contain his urge to be off at once in pursuit.

  “The tinklers’ camp first,” he planned aloud. “If they were the ones who attacked the stables, they’ll be gone. Then to your uncle’s inn, Geordie. Could you undertake to recognise that carriage again, even if they’ve changed horses?”

  Geordie shook his head dubiously, but was understood to say that he’d do his best. “It had green silk curtains with a yellow and white fringe,” he suddenly remembered, and brightened considerably.

  “If we can get near enough to see those, I’ll not cavil at the colour scheme,” said Dominic grimly. “Can your father spare you to go with us? I’d not ask it, so busy as he’ll be while the good weather lasts, but you are the only one of us who has actually seen the carriage by daylight.”

  Geordie was quite sure that his father would raise no objections to his joining in the hunt. He clearly felt that he had fallen in with high adventure and was not disposed to miss any of it.

  Oliver said slowly, “You’re not fit to set out tonight, Nick. None of us is.” And at the impatient jerk of his brother’s head he smiled a little sadly. “And well I know you can’t endure to wait. Well – here’s a notion for you. Take the carriage. Oh yes – Pegeen as well, of course. And a couple of hacks if you can lay hands on them. Geordie’s father’s got a useful sort of hunter that’s the right style. Remember they’ve a long start, even if we’ve guessed right. This is going to be a gruelling chase, and it won’t just be a case of pounding hell for leather after them. Heaven knows where they’re heading for, so we can’t be sure where they’ll turn off, but we can lay to it that they’ll use by-roads where they can. We’ll need all our wits about us if we’re to pick up their trail. In the carriage we can take it in turns, one to drive and one to rest, while the others scout ahead and to the sides. We can’t keep a close formation – the carriage is bound to fall behind if the riders are on a hot scent, but it can catch up when the horsemen check.”

  It was a sensible plan. It might slow them down a little but it would give them a wider field of search. And Oliver’s careless use of hunting terminology put Dominic in mind of another possible ally.

  “And Jester,” he said. “She can’t track a carriage. But they’re bound to stop somewhere, and if Chantal is allowed to set foot to ground, Jester will tell us. And she can rest in the carriage in between whiles.”

  Murdoch also lent support to the plan, pointing out that in the carriage they could carry a supply of food so that they need stop only for the necessary changes of horses, and Dominic, recalling the theory of a famous soldier that an army marches on its stomach, rather reluctantly consented to the further slight delay.

  He made one attempt to persuade his brother to stay behind. Oliver gave him a wry grin. “If you could persuade me that I would be a hindrance, you should have your way,” he said quietly. “As it is, remember that I can drive as well as any of you, even if I do have to be lifted on to the box. And it was I who gave her into the hands of her enemies. Do you still want to hold me back?”

  And Dominic yielded without further argument and went to look out his pistols. Half an hour later they were on their way.

  Chapter Eleven

  Perkis finished counting the money and stowed it away in an inner pocket.

  The Honourable Giffard Delaney fumed in impotent fury. “Satisfied?” he demanded in biting tones. The insolence of it! The fellow actually checking to see that he had not been bilked. As well that this pair were bound for the Americas where such revolutionary notions might be tolerated.

  Perkis nodded sullenly. He wished he dared voice his opinion of his employer. A fine one he was to be putting on superior airs, and him kidnapping his own cousin. Reckoning to rape her, too, and force her into wedlock that way, unless Perkis missed his guess. Why else should he have appointed a rendezvous at this lonely spot, and never another soul in the house? Not that he’d any sympathy for the girl. She was another of the high-nosed kind. But still!

  “Then you can take yourselves off. You’ll need all your time. The Irish packet sails on the evening tide. You’ll be met in Stranraer as we arranged so that you can hand over the gig. Your family will also join you in Stranraer, Kennedy,” he added, turning briefly to Rab. “And I would advise you both to forget that you ever saw Glenluce or the island of Dorne. Your future lies overseas. It would be, shall we say, unhealthy, for you to contemplate a return to your native shores.”

  The voice was practically expressionless, bu
t neither man doubted that he meant what he said. They did not linger over their departure. Only Rab Kennedy spared a pitiful thought for that poor lass whom he had helped to deliver to the mercies of such a man. But what choice had he had? He decided that at the first opportunity he would burn a candle to Saint Jude on her behalf.

  The Honourable Giffard, meanwhile, busied himself with certain domestic duties to which he was completely unaccustomed. The girl would keep. Indeed she would be all the better for keeping. A salacious smile curved the loose mouth as he imagined the mental torment that she must even now be suffering. She was safe enough, locked in that small closet that had a window so narrow that not even a child could have forced an entry. And the key was in his pocket. He patted it lovingly.

  He proceeded to make up the fire and to push a shabby couch in front of it. The house which he had hired was cold from long disuse, the bedrooms so damp as to be unfit for habitation. No matter. This one room would serve. For both of them, he reflected, gloating.

  He set bread and cold meats and wine on a table whose polished surface was marred by the bloom of damp, and drew up two chairs. Having surveyed the result of his labours, he added a basket of fruit before pulling out his watch, since the clock on the mantel shelf did not go, and deciding that his hour had come. His captive would be exhausted and frightened and weak with hunger since he had been told that she had eaten practically nothing all day. Well – she could eat now, if she’d a mind for it. And he would explain to her exactly how matters stood.

  Chantal followed him into the firelit room quietly enough. She had explored the closet as best she could in the dark and had realised that it offered no possibility of escape. Nor could she endure the thought of being dragged out bodily like some cowering animal if she disobeyed. But she refused to sit down and declined her cousin’s offer of refreshment.

  He shrugged. “As you wish, my dear. You’ll be glad enough of rest and food presently.”

  She managed to repress a shiver. “Shall I? What do you propose to do with me, cousin?”

  He smiled and poured himself a glass of wine. “Oh, come now! You’re not so innocent as that,” he mocked, sipping appreciatively. “I think you know very well the delights that are in store for us. Here we are, just the two of us, in our love nest with none to hinder us or intrude upon our bliss. The furnishing is a little Spartan, I grant you, but I promise that my ardour shall make amends. By tomorrow, my love, I think you will gladly consent to our marriage. For your own sake one must hope so. Obduracy would be unwise. This is a lonely spot. There would be no one to hear your – er – protests, should it prove necessary to school you to submission as I do my horses.” He nodded significantly at the whip that lay on the mantel shelf. “For the ceremony itself there is no particular hurry. Illicit delights are sweetest, and you have much to learn before I carry you to Gretna, where we shall be wed in the most romantic fashion. Is not that a delightful prospect?”

  It was a prospect that made Chantal feel physically sick, and it was all the more bitter for that careless mention of Gretna and the remembered happiness that it evoked. And so far as she could see there was no hope of rescue or escape. Her cousin might not have the physique of a Rab Kennedy, but he was quite strong enough to force a girl to his will. The best she could do for herself was to delay the inevitable as long as possible. With shaking hands and a pathetically white face she seated herself at the table. But though her coward body might betray her, her spirit was still unbroken.

  “It seems I shall have need of all my strength, cousin,” she told him steadily. “The prospect of such favour is almost too much for me. So perhaps, after all, I will take wine with you.”

  He tittered, a greedy note in the unpleasant sound. “Brava!” he approved condescendingly. “That’s more like it. I prefer a filly with spirit. I daresay we shall deal extremely together. I shall teach you how to please me – an exacting task, for I am not easily satisfied, but there is no need for haste. I was a little annoyed with you, you know, for putting me to so much trouble and expense. It was very foolish of you to run away. I am not so easily thwarted. Now you must pay forfeit for your wilfulness. It will be most enjoyable,” he told her dreamily, gazing into the ruby heart of his wine glass. “In fact when I recall all the discomforts I have endured this month past, I feel it may well take some time to purge you of your naughtiness. It is a sad pity that, in the end, I shall be forced to marry you. You understand, of course, that only the need to secure your fortune drives me to so extreme a measure. But you shall beg me to do so. Yes. That is it. By the time I am done with you, you shall beg me, on your knees, to legalise our union, just as you shall learn to bring me the whip and acknowledge that you stand in need of correction.”

  She sickened anew. Somehow she forced herself to raise the wine glass to her lips and sip a little of its contents. It would not do, though, to be drinking too much of this potent stuff without eating, even if she had to choke down every mouthful. She drew the dish of meat towards her and made a careful selection.

  Eating was even more difficult than she had feared. She managed to swallow a mouthful or two, pushed the rest about on her plate and crumbled a piece of bread. Presently, with a deep, unconscious sigh, she pushed the plate away and took a peach from the basket of fruit. Perhaps that would prove easier to swallow. She made a long business of peeling and quartering it. Cousin Giffard, his own meal long finished, sat and watched her and secretly exulted. Let her employ her delaying tactics. They would not serve. And every moment of delay would only increase the fear and the tension that she was striving so hard to conceal. Small clumsinesses betrayed her. He smiled when a piece of fruit slipped from her shaking fingers and when she spilled a few drops of wine.

  But this satisfaction soon palled. He wanted to see terror start in her eyes as she realised that her fate was inevitable; to feel the slim warm body struggling hopelessly against his greater strength; to hear her whimpers for a mercy that he would not grant. He got up abruptly, regardless of the forms of courtesy, and strolled over to the hearth, his fingers playing suggestively with the thong of the whip.

  Chantal’s heart leapt in sheer panic. She had seen already that there was nothing in the room that she could use as a weapon. There were the table appointments, but with his eyes upon her there was no hope of secreting a knife, and little use, either, since they were of silver and far from sharp. Nor were there any fire irons. It was a log fire and needed no poker. There was the whip on which his fingers were resting. If she could get hold of that – trick him into thinking her so sunk in terror that she had no thought of attack – she might be able to bring down the butt on his head with sufficient force to stun him. The door was not locked. Perhaps she could escape from the house and hide in the darkness. Any scheme, however wild, was better than waiting here in helpless dread.

  She put down her wine glass and rose, and Giffard came forward with mock courtesy to draw back her chair. Chantal crossed to the hearth and stood with one hand resting on the mantel shelf and the other stretched out to the flickering flames. He came to stand beside her but he did not touch her. Instead he permitted his glance to rove over her slender body, savouring the delights in store. Even in her fear and her dishevelment – for she had been granted no opportunity to tidy her person since she had been snatched from Dorne – she was very lovely. Perkis had taken away the travelling mantle before he handed her over to his master, and the diaphanous evening gown that she wore had been designed to draw attention to its wearer’s femininity. It left the white throat and beautifully moulded shoulders exposed to that greedy stare, and gently emphasized the delicious curves of breast and thigh. Giffard heaved a long shuddering sigh of rapt anticipation and stepped forward to take her in his arms.

  She took a pace backward, and her fingers touched the thong of the whip, but before she could grasp it he had seized her in a crushing embrace, one arm holding her pressed against his body while his free hand caressed her throat and shoulder and slid down her s
pine to stroke and squeeze her thigh and his mouth fastened rapaciously on hers so that she could scarcely breathe.

  She twisted and writhed in his hold but it was useless. It was not until he himself slackened his grasp a little that she was able to turn her head away for a moment. She caught at the edge of the mantel shelf so that her fingers brushed the whip stock, but allowed her head to droop dejectedly and drew long, gasping breaths, feigning a weakness and giddiness that drew a triumphant laugh from her cousin.

  “Too hot for you, my love?” he jibed. “That is because you are over-dressed for the business and may soon be mended.” He caught hold of her dress at the shoulder and ripped the fragile fabric from neck to waist.

  “That’s more like it,” he said a little thickly, and the predatory hand fondled her bosom.

  Chantal snatched up the whip and brought it down with all her strength. She aimed to strike him on the head, but alas! As the blow descended he stooped to kiss her again. The whip stock slid harmlessly past his head and struck him a painful blow on the shoulder, while the lash flicked back across his face and cut his cheek. He sprang back, releasing her for a moment as his hand flew up to his face, then closed with her again, wresting the whip from her grasp and tossing it on to the couch.

  “That was not wise,” he said softly, venomously. “Such forward behaviour merits sharp punishment. But it poses a pretty problem. Shall I administer that punishment at once, or shall I possess you first? I think perhaps, on the whole, the punishment will keep.”

  “Now that is just where you are mistaken,” said Dominic quietly from the doorway. “The punishment is just about to begin.”

  He was across the room in two fierce strides to seize Chantal’s assailant by his beautifully tailored coat collar and swing him away from her, while the girl herself was overwhelmed by the recognition of a delighted Jester who had sought her long and patiently.