When her mother had died and they had shut her away in the blackness of the Atwood family vault, the sun had gone out of Eleanor’s life. But now she was going back to Hollymead—a safe haven in a dark world. A quiver of excitement raced through her and she felt Tilda respond as though she had transferred her feeling to her mare. Freedom, that’s what she wanted. Freedom. Exultant, she wanted to take off her hat, throw it in the air and shout for joy, and it was only the grim faces of her two companions that kept her hat clamped on her head.
But William was not unaware of her change of mood. Slowing his horse he glanced sideways at her, cocking a handsome brow as he gave her a lengthy inspection. ‘Why, Mistress Collingwood, I do believe you are smiling.’
Looking across at him, she was unable to prevent her happiness bubbling to her lips and letting her laughter flow free. ‘You would, too, my lord, had you been under my stepfather’s rule for almost four years. Free of his restrictions, I feel reborn and I’m already enjoying the adventure, which is stirring the life within me and I’m sure will carry me forward to some exciting future—what, I have no idea, but if it is up to me it will not be dull.’
Her enthusiasm brought a smile to William’s lips and a gleam of admiration in his eyes. ‘That is an extremely daring proclamation.’
‘Prior to this, the most daring thing I have ever done is answer my stepfather back. My rebelliousness and disobedience almost made him have a seizure. This will probably kill him—God willing,’ she cried joyously.
William’s smile broadened at her exuberance, his teeth gleaming white from between parted lips. ‘It will take more than the disobedience of an eighteen-year-old girl to kill Frederick Atwood.’
She looked at him curiously, thinking how incredibly handsome this man was. The tanned flesh of his face gleamed with the health of one who has enjoyed freedom in a tropical country. Where had he been, she wondered, these past three years, and why had he disappeared from Catherine’s life so suddenly?
‘How do you know how old I am?’
‘You were five years old when my father took me to Hollymead. I was fifteen at the time—I remember because my father had presented me with a horse for my fifteenth birthday the week before. I rode it that day.’
‘Your memory is better than mine. How strange it is that I don’t remember.’
‘Our meeting was brief and you were intent on playing a game of shuttlecock with your friends.’ Falling silent, he continued to look at her. ‘Were you really planning to travel to Hollymead alone?’
‘Yes. That was what I intended.’
‘Do you not understand what could happen to you? The bands of thieves and miscreants who roam the countryside would see you as easy prey.’
‘Then it’s fortunate for me that I am well armed and that you allowed me to accompany you, Lord Marston.’
‘You needn’t be so formal, Eleanor,’ he teased with a devilishly wicked grin. ‘You may call me William or Will as you please. ’ Tis a good many miles to York, so it is better to be easy with each other. We got off to a poor start, but there is no reason why we cannot be civil to one another.’
Putting aside everything she held against him for the time being, Eleanor agreed—but only for the time it took them to reach their destination, she was quick to tell him. Men like William Marston found it easy to manipulate a woman’s heart and she wanted nothing to do with any of that.
The journey would prove to be long and tiring and an entirely new experience for Eleanor. Two hours into the journey and her euphoria had diminished somewhat as her shoulder began to ache with grinding insistence, from which she could find no ease as she galloped along at a gruelling pace and struggled to keep up with her companions.
At midday they stopped for refreshment. Providing a reasonable standard of food and service, the coaching inn was not short of customers. They were from all walks of life, of every description and travelling in every direction. Eleanor’s temper was on short rein as she ate her kidneys and beef, washed down with ale.
William observed her closely, studying her face as she shoved her food around her trencher. He had seen her wince as she had dismounted, holding her arm close to her chest, which told him she might be injured. She had told him that Frederick Atwood had been violent towards her when he’d found her leaving—how violent had he been?
On leaving the inn, he heard a muffled groan of pain escape her lips as she mounted her horse and her face was pale and drawn.
‘Wait,’ he said sharply, looking up at her as she was about to turn her horse in the direction of the road. ‘You’re hurt.’
‘A mere twinge,’ she lied. ‘It’s nothing, truly.’
William was determined. ‘Get down.’
Eleanor’s eyes struck sparks of indignation. ‘What?’
‘I said, get down.’ Without waiting for her to obey, he reached up and clamped his hands tightly about her slender waist, and she was seized from the saddle as if she were a child. ‘I can see your shoulder pains you. Before we go any further, I’ll take a look.’
‘You most certainly will not. The devil take my shoulder! Kindly let go of me and please don’t fuss.’
Ignoring her remark and her glare of indignation, he grasped her elbow and marched her back inside the inn and into the privacy of a small room the landlord quickly put at his disposal.
‘Show me,’ he demanded.
‘You want me to take my clothes off?’ she retorted, shocked at the mere thought. ‘I most certainly will not. This is quite outrageous.’
‘I agree, but if you won’t help yourself, then someone else must do it. We have only just embarked on an exceedingly long journey and I want to be assured that you’re up to it before we go any further. Now, let me see your shoulder.’
Seeing he was deadly serious, on a sigh Eleanor removed her doublet and pushed the shirt and flimsy undergarment down off her shoulder, just short of uncovering her breast.
Seeing the ugly bruise that stained her delicate skin like spilled elderberry juice, William uttered a violent curse and his angry gaze settled on her face. The cold fire in his eyes bespoke the fury churning within him. He held himself on tight rein until the rage cooled. What was left was a gnawing wish to see Atwood dangling from the end of a rope. He was not a man, but a rabid beast with a twisted mind who had abused the daughter of Edgar Collingwood.
There was a silence for a while as deftly William’s fingers began to examine Eleanor’s shoulder. At first her skin began to prickle with outrage, yet at the same time she felt alarmingly vulnerable and exposed. Something stirred in her breast, making it suddenly difficult to take a breath. Every nerve in her body piqued at the feel of his touch, which was like a brand of fire against her skin, and a searing excitement shot through her breast. She felt overpowered by his nearness. Her whole body throbbed with an awareness of him, but she would not give any hint of her weakness.
His snug-fitting leather jerkin and high boots accentuated the long lines of his body, and she noticed again the incredible silver-grey eyes intent on her shoulder. It was impossible not to respond to this man as his masculine magnetism was dominant in the room. Little wonder Catherine had been enamoured of him and, Eleanor suspected, was still in love with him.
His face was creased with concentration, his fingers strong and soothing. His touch was impersonal, as if he were examining an object, yet it was gentle and Eleanor did not feel like an object—far from it. She felt cosseted. There was something agreeable in his touch, almost sensuous. Her whole body felt as if it were unwinding, growing weak with the pleasure of his ministering. Vividly conscious of her close proximity to him, she abruptly turned her thoughts away from this new and dangerous direction and averted her head, before he could realise just how much he affected her.
She had everything mapped out and did not want complications, especially not of this kind, and, she suspected, neither did he; she was almost ashamed to acknowledge her feelings as she watched him. What kind of man are you, Wil
liam Marston? she wondered, and realised she had no idea at all.
‘Catherine,’ he murmured unexpectedly. ‘Is she happy?’
Eleanor turned and looked at him as he continued to examine her shoulder. ‘Is every bride not happy on her wedding day?’
His eyes were chilled. ‘You prevaricate, Eleanor. I asked you if she is happy.’
Eleanor nodded, her gaze focused on his bent head. She felt the sudden urge to shove back the heavy lock of his hair that had fallen forward to better see his features. It was evident that Catherine mattered to him, which made her wonder at the depth of his feelings for the woman he had left. If he still loved Catherine, then she could only imagine how desperate he must be feeling, and that he was handling it the best way he knew how, but there really was no excuse for the pain he had caused her.
‘I thought she was, before you arrived and disrupted the wedding celebrations. Now I have no concept of how your reappearance will have affected her. Henry Wheeler is a good man, but he was not her choice of husband. She—was to have married you. I can understand why you are concerned. Why did you leave without a word?’
As he towered over her, William’s lean, hard face bore no hint of humour. His lips curled with bitterness and a coldness entered his eyes. ‘For the answer to that question, Eleanor, you will have to ask your stepfather. He holds all the answers in his twisted mind. One thing I would like to know,’ he said, holding her gaze steadily, ‘is did he turn Catherine against me?’
‘No,’ she replied harshly. ‘You did that all by yourself when you disappeared without a word to her. Why did you?’
William looked her squarely in the eye, his own glinting like hard metal. Anger roiled through him. What did she expect? For him to reveal all, to bare his soul to her? He may have agreed to take her to Hollymead, but he needed neither her respect nor her kind regard.
‘Whatever poison Atwood has filled your head with, Eleanor, I never meant to hurt Catherine, so let that be the end of the matter,’ he reproached curtly. ‘I am not a man to start a quarrel with you, but I will give you this word of advice. If you persist in baiting me with your tongue, you’d best get on your horse and head right back to Fryston Hall. Your barbs are beginning to irritate me.’
Eleanor’s eyes were blazing as if they had a fire behind them. ‘I will not go back. I do not care for your company, but I am stuck with it and glad of your protection. Threaten me all you like, but do not think I am afraid of you.’
‘Then you should be,’ he mocked, his tone caustic. ‘And perhaps you have cause. Where I have been for the past three years has frayed my courtly manners and I often forget how to behave like a gentleman should. So, if you are to continue to ride with us, do you agree to declare a truce for the time it takes us to reach Hollymead, where we will part company with good grace, I hope? Come, Eleanor, surely we can benefit from a surface friendship on the long journey north.’
The colour drained from Eleanor’s cheeks as his words sank in. A light blazed briefly in his silver eyes, then was quickly extinguished. She was deeply conscious that his easy, mocking exterior hid the inner man, and as she gazed into those fathomless depths of his eyes, some instinct warned her that his offer of a truce could make him more dangerous to her as a friend than he had been as her enemy.
There was a withheld power to command in him that was as impressive as it was irritating. If she agreed to a truce, she was determined he would not get the better of her. She would not let him reach her, for by shielding her innermost self from the touch of another human being she would always be strong and complete and in control.
His brows lifted in mocking challenge. ‘What do you say?’
Gnawing on her bottom lip as if she could not quite make up her mind, she nodded. ‘Very well—but only for the time it takes us to reach Hollymead,’ she was quick to add.
‘Agreed. Now, as far as your shoulder is concerned, there is nothing broken—just badly sprained. I’ll ask the landlord for some witch hazel to apply to the bruising—and it should be bound.’
‘And you would know how to do that?’
‘My years as a soldier taught me many things, one of them being that a soldier may owe his life to his knowledge of tending wounds.’
‘I’d rather not have it strapped. I can’t possibly ride with one arm.’
‘Then we’ll ride at a slower pace so you don’t suffer unnecessary discomfort.’
‘No. I don’t want to hold you back.’ She sighed with capitulation when she saw the determined gleam in his eyes. ‘All right. I’ll ask for help when I think I need it, so there, does that satisfy you?’
When he unexpectedly smiled broadly, Eleanor noticed how white and strong his teeth were and how the tiny lines at the sides of his sharp eyes creased up attractively. He really was so handsome, so well made, so perfect to look at. Little wonder the women of the Court pursued him.
For a moment she was confused and found herself striving for normality. It was difficult to organise her thoughts when those amazingly silver-grey eyes were focused on her so intently. Before the rogue thoughts could progress further, she lowered her eyes, quickly shaking off the strangeness of the moment that had caught her unawares. What was she thinking of? This man was practically unknown to her, and yet just for a moment she had felt drawn to this handsome, desirable stranger. Men like William Marston found it easy to manipulate a woman’s heart and she wanted nothing to do with him.
Turning on his heel, William strode to the door. ‘Perfectly. I’ll go and get some witch hazel and then we’ll be on our way.’
Never had Eleanor spent so much time in the saddle. Her thighs and bottom were sore and her back ached, but, trying to ignore her discomfort, she rode on uncomplaining. When they stopped for the night she looked and felt fit to drop, although now she was out of the wind she rallied a little, but not enough not to long for a bed.
‘I can’t eat anything,’ she told William wearily. ‘I must go to bed, otherwise I shall fall asleep on my feet.’
‘As you like. Just make sure you eat a good breakfast before we set off in the morning.’
Eleanor followed a serving woman through the busy, smoky taproom where men were drinking, playing dice and calling for more ale. They went up a narrow flight of stairs where the woman stepped aside for her to enter an extremely small chamber beneath the eaves. Unable to resist the little bed, she stripped off her clothes and slid naked beneath the coarse sheets, so tired she was insensitive as they chafed her flesh. Soon she would be at Hollymead, safe inside its strong walls, where there would be warm scented water to bathe in and smooth Holland sheets to lie between and rest her sore and weary body.
Arriving downstairs the following morning and finding Godfrey tucking into a hearty breakfast alone, after fifteen minutes and still no sign of Eleanor, William went to see what was keeping her.
When there was no answer to his knock, William went in and found her still snuggled deeply into the covers, with the sheets covering her nakedness, her hair tumbling about her, and her eyes closed in sleep. With the full tender curve of her mouth, her face softly flushed and naked, she looked like a child—young, vulnerable and defenceless.
Growing aware of a firm hand gently prodding her, struggling to open her eyes and clear the fuzz in her head, Eleanor glanced up and saw William standing over her. Resentful at being disturbed, sighing crossly, she turned her head away and pulled the covers up to her chin. ‘Go away,’ she mumbled sleepily. ‘Leave me alone. It can’t be time to get up yet.’
William chuckled softly. ‘I didn’t expect to see you still nestled in so cosily, Eleanor. I apologise for disturbing your sleep, but it’s way past time to get up. Come. There’s time for some breakfast before we leave. The food smells good. It will set you in good stead for the day.’
‘All right,’ she conceded with a deep sigh, pulling herself up, pushing the heavy curtain of her hair off her face and rubbing her eyes. Realising that she was naked beneath the sheets, she kept tight
hold of them. ‘I feel as if my body has been tortured beyond endurance.’ Looking with longing at the pillow her head had just parted from, she sighed. ‘Don’t let me keep you,’ she murmured softly. ‘Give me a few minutes and I’ll join you.’
Seeing where her attention was directed and suspecting she would go back to sleep as soon as he left her, suppressing a smile and adopting a stern countenance at her, William leaned against the door and casually folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’ll leave when you’re out of that bed and not before.’
With a sigh of irritation, Eleanor shuffled to the edge of the bed and stood up, careful to keep tight hold of the covers. Stretching her long limbs, she gave vent to a prodigious yawn. ‘There. Are you satisfied now?’
William’s smouldering gaze casually caressed her as if the bed covers did not exist, his eyes resting on the twin orbs of her breasts swelling above the top of the covers, and he could well imagine the softness of her flesh beneath the sheets. Surrounded by a frame of honey-gold tresses, vibrant and glorious, the harsh planes of her face retreated and her eyes grew soft, her cheeks taking on a fragility like hand-blown glass that could be easily shattered by a careless move.
In fact, she appeared remarkably younger. He hadn’t expected that without her male attire and the loosening of her hair to change his perception of her to such a degree and an unexpected rampant desire speared him.
‘Will you stop looking at me like that?’ Eleanor whispered, feeling devoured by those burning eyes. She looked up into his face and for a long moment she could not look away again. It was something she was unable to name, but which her female body instantly recognised. As if her body were awash with feeling, alive with need, she felt like a caged creature bursting to be set free.
William’s brow arched as he peered at her, his desire hard driven as he became preoccupied with her rosy mouth and pert nose. She was completely unaware that her hair tumbling about her shoulders was a hundred different shades and dazzling lights.
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