Forbidden Lord

by Helen Dickson

  Suspecting she was about to have a fight on her hands, Eleanor tried to steady the thunderous beating of her heart. Lifting her eyes, she saw there was a new tension in his body, a new tightness about his jaw. There was also a challenging glint in his eyes, but this was one aspect of their arrangement she would not give in on. She felt the dull ache in her chest grow as she contemplated the severe, determined expression on his face, and with trepidation slicing through her she felt her skin prickle.

  ‘I shall go back to Hollymead,’ she persisted determinedly, struggling to keep her voice steady. ‘I know Walter will come to live there, but it’s my home and I will not go anywhere else.’

  ‘Give it up, Eleanor. You cannot go back to Hollymead. Surely you can see that.’ There was cool reason in William’s voice, despite his impatience to be away.

  She shot him a dark look, annoyed by his high-handedness. ‘I shall do just as I like. You knew we would separate when we reached York, and as far as I am concerned nothing has changed.’

  ‘You’re wrong. Everything is changed. There is nothing to go back to. There is nothing left.’

  Eleanor could feel her own anger boiling up inside her. How dare he feel he had the right to tell her what to do, as if he had a perfect right to do so? How dare he shout at her, order her about as though she were his to direct? She did her best to hold in her resentment, but it was hard and her expression was icy. Up until now he had been considerate, in fact what she would have done without his help she couldn’t imagine, but that did not mean he could suddenly become responsible for her as he seemed to be doing.

  ‘Do not start laying down the law and telling me what I should and should not do, William. I am quite capable of running my own life. Hollymead isn’t burned down entirely. From what I saw, some of it is still habitable. In time it will be rebuilt, but in the meantime there is work to be done, land to be worked.’

  William stared at her. So great was his astonishment and anger at her refusal to comply he could scarcely speak. ‘By others, not by you. What are you going to do? Learn to wield a plough?’

  Eleanor drew herself up haughtily and what might have been a snarl curled her top lip. She turned from William and stamped her foot, and even her hair seemed to swirl in defiance. ‘If I have to. I will do anything I have to. I will go back to Hollymead,’ she told him flatly. ‘Please let that be the end of the matter.’

  William grabbed her shoulders and spun her around, his voice like an angry whiplash. ‘It is far from it,’ he ground out. His face paled, the rush of furious blood beneath his skin ebbing away at the implication of her statement, her insufferable stubbornness. With clenched jaw and his fists balled at his sides, he towered over her, hating having to press her at a time like this—in fact, his heart went out to her—but he must be firm if they were to reach Staxton Hall before dark. He could not allow her to fall to pieces.

  ‘William!’ she flared wildly, her anxieties written in deep lines on her face. ‘I have to stay here. This is my home. You don’t understand,’ she cried. ‘How can you? You—who have a loving family waiting for you at Staxton Hall. I have no one. No one. I must reconcile myself to a life of desolation and learn to fend for myself.’

  ‘With your family gone, then all the more reason for you to come with me. Do not pity yourself, Eleanor. You are above that. You cannot stay here. You cannot go back. So you must go forward. With me.’

  ‘And if I’ve no desire to go to your home?’ Her tone issued a definite, defiant challenge.

  ‘If you want to remain safe, then I can see no alternative.’

  ‘You can go to the devil, William Marston, and take your offer of a home with you.’

  Reaching out and gripping her upper arms, he shook her hard. ‘Will you stop it, Eleanor. Stop it at once.’ His face was as maddened as hers. ‘Prepare to leave or I will lift you on to that damn beast myself.’

  ‘You would not dare.’

  ‘Try me,’ he stated icily, ‘and you will see how much I would dare.’

  She looked at him uncomprehendingly. His strong, handsome face had become stern and uncompromising. She was beginning to know that look. Its power was not to be underestimated. He was angry with her, and his words brought a pain to her heart that was sharper than a blade. But she kept it at bay—there would be time to feel later. Her flaring anger quelled under the silver stare and, lowering her eyes, she continued on a calmer note.

  ‘But why must I go there? Why can I not go back to Hollymead? There are people there who were dependent on my uncle for their livelihood. What is to become of them?’

  ‘Might I make a suggestion,’ Thomas interrupted, stepping forward. ‘You are right, Mistress Collingwood, there are dependents who will need taking care of. I could take care of things—as I have been doing for the past twenty years—until Sir John’s son arrives. I can help find situations for those who need them—and see your uncle laid to rest. The ceremony will be in accordance with the instructions he passed on to me when I brought him here. I would be more than happy to remove the worry of such a matter from your mind. I will look after Hollymead.’

  Having already made up his mind that Thomas was a man to be trusted, someone to be relied on, William gripped the older man’s shoulder gratefully.

  ‘Thank you, Thomas, that would be helpful. I’m sure Mistress Collingwood would appreciate that. You know where she will be if you need to contact her. When we reach Staxton Hall, I will send someone to assist with the formalities. I will write and notify Sir John’s son about his father’s death. But we have to leave now. I suspect the men Atwood sent to do this dastardly deed may have gone there. My mother and sisters are without male protection and may be in mortal danger.’

  Eleanor’s eyes flew to his. ‘Danger? I don’t understand.’

  William’s lips curled with irony. ‘For an intelligent young woman, Eleanor, you are behaving irresponsibly, which outweighs all common sense. Where do you think those men have gone? Back to London?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. If you will not think of yourself, then consider what this delay could mean for my family. Your dithering is putting them in danger.’

  ‘But why? It’s me my stepfather wants to avenge.’

  ‘And me.’

  ‘You? But why?’

  ‘Because I took you away. Because I know too much about him—and because he has an old score to settle. Now get on your horse and we’ll get on our way. Sir John is dead and my family is alive and in danger. Good God, Eleanor, you know what Atwood is capable of. He will stop at nothing to achieve his ends. We must go to Staxton Hall. Time is pressing.’

  Eleanor fingered the red bead in the pocket of her doublet as she faced him, and she could not restrain the tears that came into her eyes.

  ‘Eleanor.’ William’s wrath ebbed as he confronted that misty gaze. He laid a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to console her. ‘I can only imagine what you are going through, and please, God, I don’t want to experience the same when I get to Staxton Hall.’

  Suddenly ashamed, within his eyes Eleanor noticed something now she hadn’t before—a profound fear. There was also an extreme anxiety, and a hint of something she had not seen before. Some terrible pain had him in its grip, and suddenly she realised his desperation to get to home and why. Of course he was anxious about his family, and she was beginning to realise he had reason. Bowing her head, she felt her shoulders slump in capitulation.

  ‘Yes—yes, of course. You are right. It is selfish of me to think of myself when your entire family is in danger, but listen to me, William,’ she said, raising her eyes to his, thinking that he looked older, the lines on his face seeming to have deepened. ‘You may force me to go with you, if that is your desire, but you will not assume authority over me. Why you had to agree to such a ridiculous request is quite beyond me.’

  Leaning forward until his face was only inches from her own, William looked directly into her eyes. ‘Two reasons. One, because your uncle was dying and I wanted him
to die with an easy mind, and, two, because I felt obligated.’

  ‘You needn’t,’ she said coolly. ‘You owe me nothing.’

  ‘Not to you. Your uncle.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry,’ she whispered weakly, contrite. ‘William, I don’t mean to be difficult about this.’

  ‘I know that. I do understand why you want to stay, believe me, but you must understand why I have to go to Staxton Hall and why I cannot leave you here alone. I am seriously concerned for your safety. Atwood wants you, Eleanor. Do you think he will give up?

  She shook her head miserably.

  ‘I want you to be safe,’ he told her, feeling a need to protect her that he had never felt when he had thought of Catherine, ‘and I see taking you home with me the only way to do it. I fear those men will have gone to Staxton Hall, but in truth I have no idea what they intend. It is possible they may still be in York, waiting for you to arrive at Hollymead. Without protection you will not stand a chance. They will take you straight back to Fryston Hall. I cannot abandon you to such a fate. Hollymead is no longer a safe haven, so there is only one place you can go. My mother will make you welcome, that I promise you.’

  The veil that had descended before her eyes when she had first seen the devastation at Hollymead was clearing, lifting slowly. She put out a shaking hand to him and nodded. ‘I’m sorry, William. You’re right. This is no time for weakness. Come. Let’s be on our way.’

  Chapter Five

  The mist was cold on the River Ouse when they rode out of York, heading north-east. Feeling as if her body was weighted down with heavy chains, Eleanor, aware of the blowing of the horses and the pounding of their hooves over the sodden ground, was also aware of William and Godfrey on either side of her, but they seemed far off, at another place, another time.

  Eventually the countryside became more undulating, with fertile plains and woods clothing the gently sloping hills. It was beautiful, but Eleanor did not see it. A skylark rose up from a water meadow, rising higher and higher, its pleasant song causing William to look up and admire each rippling note, but Eleanor did not hear it.

  Concerned by her silence and the fact that she looked straight ahead of her, seeing nothing and remarking on nothing, William glanced at her. He felt that behind her acceptance of what life brought to her were reserves of power, as well as an innate innocence that touched his heart. With the loss of everything she held dear, she was so pitifully alone—and her courage made him more ambitious to protect her.

  Anxious to reach Staxton Hall before dark, William had kept up a gruelling pace. The land was swathed in a cloying mist and the moon already cast small light, but they could see the bulk of the great house and they all thanked the Lord that it was still standing.

  Built in the fourteenth century, the stone-built house had a fortified wall around three sides and a moat across the fourth side. It had a drawbridge that could be raised and a portcullis above it that could be dropped down to seal the entrance. With a backdrop of dense woodland and fields it was a deceptively beautiful house that could none the less be held in a siege if necessary.

  Eleanor was so cold she was almost frozen to the saddle. As soon as they clattered into the cobbled yard dogs began to bark clamorously from within the house and the heavy doors were flung open.

  Lady Alice Marston, a tall, slender, graceful woman, came hurrying out to welcome her son home. She had been awaiting his arrival for days—indeed, the whole household had been waiting for the master’s arrival. Behind her, their eyes round with excitement and apprehension, were William’s sisters, seventeen-year-old twins, Anne and Jane, dark-haired, pretty girls, identical in looks. With her hands held out to her son, Lady Alice swept forward, her fine emerald skirts rippling.

  Godfrey disappeared to see to the horses, leaving Eleanor standing looking very cold and sorry for herself. The reunion of son, mother and sisters was moving, a moment for them, and Eleanor stood back, watching, envious of this show of affection between people who loved each other, careful not to move lest she draw their attention and intruded. After a few moments William turned and held his hand out for Eleanor to step forward.

  When Lady Alice looked at Eleanor Collingwood, whose face was pale and strained, she felt for a moment as if a shadow had fallen on the house and gave an involuntary shiver, as if the night had suddenly turned colder. Forcing a smile to her lips and thrusting any reservations she might have aside, she stepped forward to greet her.

  Lady Alice looked the young woman over carefully. ‘So you are Marian’s child,’ she remarked thoughtfully. ‘I am happy to welcome you to our home.’

  Eleanor found herself looking into a pair of light blue eyes, and, despite their warmth, she detected a hint of reticence in the dowager Lady Alice Marston. At fifty years of age she was still slim and supple, and except for a delicate tracery of lines around her eyes and her mouth, her face was timeless in its serene beauty. Eleanor would have curtsied, but considered she would appear comical in her male attire and with her hair hanging down her back like wet seaweed.

  ‘You are most welcome, Eleanor. Your mother and I were friends—albeit a long time ago. We were both children in the household of Lady Barnett in Kent. They were happy days.’

  Eleanor already knew this. Her mother had often spoken of that time. Most men and women of class sent their daughters away to be educated in a noble household. ‘You are most kind, Lady Alice,’ she said politely. ‘I do not wish to put you out by being here.’

  ‘How could you do that? You are William’s guest and as such you will be treated. But, dear me, you look so cold. Please, come inside. After a glass of mulled wine in front of a good fire you’ll soon feel better.’

  Flanked by Anne and Jane, who were friendly and agreeable and eager to know all about her, Eleanor was led inside the house. Lady Alice hung back to speak to her son. She was a placid woman who helped the poor and needy wherever she could and lived her life through her children. She allowed them small indulgences and was happy if they were happy, but should anyone threaten them her placid, easy-going nature turned to steel and she would defend them like a tigress defending her cubs—but of all her children her first-born was most dear.

  Eleanor Collingwood was the daughter of the man who had instigated that dreadful plot, drawing in William, which had led to his banishment and the confiscation of his home that had belonged to the Marstons for generations. To have that young woman under their roof would be a constant reminder, an embarrassment, but she was not about to anger William by voicing her thoughts when she had him home again.

  But William was attuned to her thoughts and knew precisely what was going through her mind, so, taking her hand and tucking it into the crook of his arm, they walked together towards the house. ‘Do not be hard on Eleanor, Mother. None of what happened was her fault. Do not forget that during those dark days of Queen Mary’s rule, which affected us all in different ways, we were all of the same persuasion as Edgar Collingwood—and he paid for what he did with his life.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Lady Alice remarked on a wry note, ‘but some of us were quiet about it.’

  William smiled when he thought of his mother’s intolerance towards agitators, even though she more often than not agreed with them. What she could not tolerate was the disturbance it brought to her well-ordered running of things.

  ‘When Mary Tudor came to the throne Edgar’s voice was constantly raised in dissent, and when there was talk of her marrying Philip of Spain he could not countenance it. Following the dictates of his conscience, he stood against it. I cannot fault him for that.’

  ‘I would not expect you to, but you cannot deny that his scheming brought misery to a lot of people.’

  ‘Perhaps to Eleanor more than to anyone else. She was affected deeply by her father’s execution—and she is still hurting,’ William said, appealing to his mother’s heart. ‘She needs somewhere to live for a while, somewhere to lick her wounds. I didn’t think you would mind if she came here. She�
��s had a difficult time recently, losing her mother.’ He went on to give her a brief account of how she had been affected by recent tragic events.

  Lady Alice listened, her face white with shock when he told her what they had found at Hollymead. ‘Sir John Collingwood is dead? But this is dreadful news, William. He was such a good man and we have much to be grateful to him for—’ tis a pity the same cannot be said of his brother. And you say their cousin, Frederick Atwood, is responsible?’

  ‘I am certain of it. I couldn’t leave Eleanor at Hollymead without protection. There’s something else. I suspect the men Atwood sent to destroy Hollymead will come here. Indeed, I feared they might be here already.’

  Lady Alice stopped, frowning at him, a tiny wrinkle between her arching brows. ‘But—William, why would they come here? Why would Frederick Atwood want to harm us?’ Lady Alice glanced at her son. ‘One thing I do not understand is why he would wish to harm you. I know it was expected that you would marry his daughter and that your banishment prevented that happening. Does he still hold that against you, or is he influenced by something else—a personal resentment, perhaps?’

  William’s jaw tightened and a hard light entered his eyes. ‘I’ll explain everything in good time, Mother,’ he said, knowing she would press him for details, ask him questions he did not want to answer, force him to relive memories he did not want to face. It would be like opening a vein and being unable to stem the flow of blood.

  ‘For him to attempt to do here what he did at Hollymead would be foolhardy,’ Lady Alice went on, ‘a thing bound to bring the wrath of Queen Elizabeth down on his head since she has so recently restored the estate to you. He cannot be allowed to work his spite on us all.’

  ‘Do not underestimate him. Atwood is vicious, with a finger in every villainous pie. He is capable of anything, Mother, believe me. Besides, we know the men sent to destroy Hollymead were his men, but proving it is another matter.’