"You put me to the blush, Your Grace," Alexandra answered acidly.
"It would take a great deal more than a few well-turned phrases to put you to the blush, Miss Mayfield." Suddenly, Hawke's fingers circled her waist, and he pulled her against him as he lifted her up into the carriage. By the time he released her, she was indeed blushing, certain of his desire and furious at her own agitation.
For almost two hours they traveled, Robbie pressed to the window glass all the while, bombarding his father with a thousand questions. The duke showed himself remarkably agreeable, and even Alexandra found herself interested in the information he imparted about the passing countryside.
"I believe we are nearly there," Hawke said at last as the coach left the turnpike road and snailed it along a narrow track bordered by hedgerows bright with bluebells. It was nearly twilight. Alexandra peered into the gathering shadows, growing more suspicious about Hawke's promised surprise by the moment.
They were not the only travelers out this night. When they topped a rise, Alexandra saw before her a meadow dotted with stalls and colorful tents, oxcarts higgledy-piggledy with farm wagons, and everywhere a bustling press of people.
"Oh, capital, Father! A fair!" Robbie's eyes were bright as he studied the gay scene below. " 'Twill be ever so much fun! May we see the pugilists and Punch and Judy and fire eaters and —"
"If you can restrain your impatience a few moments longer, we shall, my little bagpipes."
At his father's words Robbie turned from the window, his young face trembling and hesitant. "I beg your pardon, Papa, Miss Mayfield," he said in a small voice.
Hawke reached across the carriage and took Robbie's pale face within strong fingers. "I'm the one who should apologize. Forgive me?"
Robbie smiled tremulously and nodded. "Will you buy me a monkey that runs up a stick?"
"Now it's blackmail, is it?" Hawke pinched Robbie's chin lightly, and though the boy flushed, he did not pull away. He was learning that his imposing father was not always to be taken seriously. "Very well, scamp!"
Slowly, the carriage crawled through the throng of fair-goers, heavy now that the stalls were before them. Lanterns began to wink brightly against the darkening landscape. Finally, Hawke tapped the roof with his cane, and the carriage halted.
"Ready son?"
"Oh, yes, Father!"
The duke took Robbie's hand, suddenly serious. "There may be some rather unsavory types here tonight, so you must stay close by and not wander off."
"Yes, Father," the boy said obediently, his thoughts flying to the marvels outside.
Over Robbie's head Hawke studied Alexandra. "The same holds for you, Miss Mayfield."
A cool wind ruffled Alexandra's hair, and she felt a faint prickling of the hairs at the back of her neck. But she shrugged and reached down to lift Rajah from her lap. "With Rajah along why should I be afraid?"
Hawke handed Robbie and Alexandra out of the coach, then turned for a final word with his groom. "You know where to find us, Jeffers," the duke said cryptically.
Just then, a pair of large and very intoxicated men wove their way unsteadily before the coach. Robbie pressed close to his father. Without speaking, Hawke slid an arm around the boy's shoulders, then fixed Alexandra with a warning glance. "Don't lag behind," he said sharply.
"Pray forgive me, sahib," she answered through tight lips. Ignoring Hawke's frown, Alexandra moved next to Robbie, whose round eyes were scanning the fair's entertainments.
They stopped before a stall with a painted backdrop, where a rope walker balanced precariously above the applauding crowd. At the neighboring stall, a ruddy, thick-set man prodded a small brown monkey into putting on a tiny vest and velvet pantaloons. Once dressed, the animal bowed to the audience and hopped forward to pass a hat for coins. Rajah squeaked with interest and trotted off for a closer look at this curious simian.
There were jugglers, conjurers, and a company of country players presenting Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew. Overwhelmed by the noise, the smells, and the close press of bodies, Alexandra felt she had stepped into an old canvas by the Dutchman Bosch.
Then someone grabbed her arm roughly and clamped a greasy hand across her mouth. A thin pockmarked individual hissed into her ear, "No need for vapors, Miss. Just give us a guinea, and we'll be on our way, and no one the wiser." The man's leering mouth hovered in a gap-toothed smile before her. "Lady like you with such a fine dress won't mind sharin' a little with those what be more needy."
His dirty fingers squeezed her waist suggestively, and maneuvered her away from the crowd into the shelter of an empty oxcart.
"Let her go!" Hawke's voice cracked like a whip, causing Alexandra's captor to lose his sullen arrogance. She gasped as the dirty hand left her mouth, and she watched paralyzed while Hawke tossed the man sprawling to the ground. "Unless you wish for more potent medicine, you'll find a new lay and a greener cove, cribbage face! I'm no Johnny Raw."
On the ground the dirty man rubbed his swollen jaw and studied Hawke's broad shoulders with a mixture of fear and fury. Fear won out, and he scrambled to his feet, only to turn when well out of reach and heave a great mouthful of saliva in the duke's direction.
Hawke cursed fluently under his breath and made to go after the insolent fellow, but Alexandra held him back with a hand at his wrist.
"Let him go, please. I should hate to spoil Robbie's pleasure. He's so enjoying himself."
Hawke's eyes flashed and his scowl deepened as he watched the man disappear behind a line of wagons. "Keep up then, damn it!"
This time Alexandra did as he ordered and took Robbie's hand, warmed by the gentle pressure of the boy's fingers.
"Only look over there, Father! It's Mr. Punch!"
Alexandra followed the boy's pointing finger toward a farm wagon. A length of thin white cotton was stretched from front to back to form a stage, and from behind the cloth a lantern cast colorful moving images of racing horses and flying dragons against the white curtain. A leather-faced old musician who might have been Turkish or a mixture of many things leaned against one side of the wagon, eyeing the audience expressionlessly.
"Not Mr. Punch, Robbie. Those figures come from farther afield — all the way from China. Ombres chinoises, they're called — 'Chinese Shadows.' "
As the duke spoke, a mounted warrior with long pheasant feathers atop his headdress charged violently and unseated his enemy, while the audience clapped in delight. With swords drawn the warriors shot back and forth across the shimmering back-lit stage, accompanied by the clang of drums and clappers.
Heavy smoke drifted from the oil lanterns backstage. Alexandra watched, entranced, thinking she had never seen anything so lifelike. All too soon, the enemy was overcome and the performance concluded in a crescendo of odd discordant noise.
The flickering lanterns cast grotesque shadows over the surrounding faces of the audience. Suddenly, Alexandra felt the ground spin and she swayed, dizzy with the press of unwashed bodies, the suffocating smell of soot, and the strange pounding music. She shivered, feeling someone's gaze upon her. At the back of the wagon a tall man half in shadow melted back into the crowd.
He'd been watching her — she was certain of it!
"Is this the surprise, Father?" Robbie asked. "May we go backstage, Father? May we? Please?"
Hawke smiled down at his son's animated face. "Yes, this is my surprise. And yes, I shall force myself to ask that rather venomous-looking individual leaning against the wagon if you may have a look backstage."
As he spoke, another black wave of vertigo crashed over Alexandra, and she stiffened, unable to take a single step.
"What's the matter with you?" Grim faced, Hawke frowned at her. "I think my son has more wit about him than you do." When Alexandra still did not move, he caught her arm in a rough grip. "Very well. Since you persist in ignoring my warnings, you'll remain in the carriage with Jeffers."
Assailed with pounding waves of vertigo, Alexandra could only protest weakly
, flinching as the duke pulled her in the direction of the carriage.
"Must we leave so soon, Father?" Robbie's face was ashen.
"Miss Mayfield is unwell and must return to the carriage," Hawke said shortly, pulling the two unwilling figures along on each side of him.
Alexandra gave up her token resistance. She wanted nothing more than to escape from the assault of drifting soot, raucous laughter, and crowding, unwashed bodies.
Jeffers arose in surprise from the front of the team, where he had been inspecting the leader's fetlock, with Pence crouched at his side.
"Miss Mayfield will remain with you, Jeffers," the duke said peremptorily. "Keep a close eye on her. Robbie and I are going to take a look at the shadow stage." The duke looked down at the groom's young assistant. "Care to join us?"
Confused, Pence glanced back to see whom the duke might be addressing. When the truth hit him, a ragged smile broke from cheek to cheek, and he leaped to his feet, nearly sending the high-spirited team plunging. He moved quickly to calm the nearby leader, and by the time he turned back, his face was controlled, stiff with resolution. "Thank ye, Yer Grace, but I best stay and help Mr. Jeffers with the horses."
"Be gone with you, young rascal!" the groom said gruffly. "Don't keep His Grace waitin'. I reck'n I know how to mind a team for a quarter hour without your help!"
Pence's happy cry was answer enough. Without a further glance at Alexandra, Hawke strode off, the two boys trotting at his heels, leaving her to climb inside the coach and lean her head wearily against the tufted morocco seat. After a few minutes she began to recover somewhat, although a queer ringing persisted in her head.
She heard a faint scratching at the carriage door and glanced down just in time to see Rajah dart over the crest of the hill.
Blaze and bother! Where was the rascally creature gone to now? If Hawke came back before the mongoose returned, he'd no doubt order him left behind.
Alexandra sighed and pulled her pilgrim's cloak tightly about her shoulders. If she was careful, she could be gone and back without Jeffers ever the wiser.
One thing, at least, she could be thankful for: in the last week, during Robbie's illness, she had done so little walking that her ankle had almost recovered its strength.
Occupied with inspecting the leaders' traces, Jeffers was paying little attention to the passenger in the coach. When he knelt between the two horses for a closer look, Alexandra slipped open the door and crept down the steps.
There was not a great deal of light, and she had to move carefully over the rutted ground. The moon was no more than a faint sliver passing in and out of the clouds, casting shifting shadows through the ancient grove of yews at the top of the rise.
"Rajah!" Her soft call went unanswered. From the wagons ahead came the smell of strong cider and frying sausage. Alexandra's stomach twisted in protest at the sharp odors.
She moved in silence through the long grass, her steps only a rushing whisper on the spring wind. Just at the edge of the yew wood, a bearded man in a smocked coat squatted beside his wagon, cooking a late meal by the dancing light of the fire. Somewhere to her left, at the edge of the grove, a nightingale launched into its sad refrain. Something about the song made Alexandra quicken her pace.
In her haste she overlooked the gnarled yew root at her feet.
A cry of pain tore from her throat as something hard caught at her ankle. By reflex, she threw her hands before her face.
The last thing she remembered was the cold black earth rushing up to meet her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
By the time Hawkesworth returned to the shadow stage with his charges, the crowd had thinned considerably. The leather-faced man, Hawke discovered, was the troupe manager. At first he shook his head emphatically, dismissing Hawke's request for the boys to look at the intricately carved leather silhouettes. But a few coins from Hawkesworth soon brightened his expression.
As the boys happily watched the man demonstrate how to control the colorful figures, Hawke's thoughts returned to his infuriating, intriguing captive.
Damn the woman, anyway! And damn him for losing his control so totally two nights before! His offer of marriage had come quite unconsciously, as much a surprise to him as it was to her. Yes, Alexandra had a very fair notion of his character, Hawke thought grimly. She knew that marriage had not figured in his plans for her.
Then why had he made the rash offer? Was he falling under her spell, just as he had fallen under Isobel's?
"Goddamn her!"
"What, Father?"
Hawke realized he had cursed aloud. He sent his son back to his amusements then, wondering if Alexandra Maitland had already succeeded in driving him crazy.
By God, tomorrow he'd seek out his last mistress and relieve this ache in his groin! Come to think of it, Francoise was still his mistress, Hawke thought wryly. He'd never stopped paying the rent on that luxurious house off Oxford Street.
Hawke scowled. For some reason the thought of a night spent with the voluptuous Frenchwoman was totally unappealing. No, what he wanted was a taller woman, with long slender legs and burnished hair. A woman with haunted eyes the color of the Channel in spring.
This time Hawke's curse was long and very lurid.
Shouts of laughter recalled Hawke to his whereabouts, and he smiled to see Pence and Robbie neatly twirling leather silhouettes against the white curtain.
"Look, Papa! See how I can do it all by myself!"
A sudden pressure tightened Hawke's throat when he heard his son's happy cry. "Papa," the boy had said — for the first time he had called Hawke something other than "Father."
"Yes, lad," the duke said quietly. "I'm very proud of you."
Stunned by what his son had said, Hawke did not hear the bark of laughter behind him, nor see the tall elegant figure slip away from the crowd that was gathered before a sweating pair of pugilists.
"Be damned if it isn't the Black Duke himself! Almost didn't recognize you without your horse."
Hawke turned and was immediately enveloped in a solid embrace. His eyes widened as he scanned the lean dark face with snapping eyes the color of a robin's egg. "Never tell me it's you, Morland! By God, so it is, and damned fine you look too!" The duke fingered his friend's stiffly embroidered waistcoat of silver and crimson. "You'd make one hell of a target for Boney's men in this thing, old friend."
"Wouldn't I just?" the man said amiably. For once Anthony Langford, the fifth Earl of Morland, dropped his air of weary boredom. "But I dress for different campaigns these days, don't you know?" he added with a lazy smile.
"What brings you to this desolate hamlet?" Hawke asked curiously, stepping back to get a better look at his friend. Lord Morland's tall frame was elegantly turned out in form-fitting breeches above gleaming hessians, and his cravat was perfection itself. Hawke shook his head in amusement as Morland made him an elegant leg. "You haven't changed a whit, Tony. If you've come looking for more of your precious antiquities, you'll find yourself sadly out. Nothing here but mountebanks and conjurers."
Morland threw back his head and laughed. "Treasures of a different sort, my dear duke." Behind him a shapely maid dressed in thin muslin and a prodigious quantity of crimson ribbons called out impatiently, tossing her guinea curls.
"I might have guessed," Hawke said. "But you're hunting rather far afield, are you not?"
"As to that, a little variety is the best recipe for a jaded palate. Didn't your sire ever tell you that?"
Hawke smiled thinly. It was just the sort of advice his debauched father would have given him, had the man ever bestirred himself to speak to his son. "I hardly recall," Hawke said lazily.
"Well then, now you've heard it from me, and I can vouch for it being amazingly true."
"If you keep the little temptress waiting much longer, you'll be sleeping alone tonight. Didn't your father tell you that?"
Morland shrugged indifferently. "Daphne is a woman of amazing talents, I own, but she begins to grow tiresome.
"
Hawke shook his head. "You are a sad scamp, Tony," he said fondly.
"You've the right of that at least," his friend said, but the seriousness of his tone was belied by the twinkle of his piercing blue eyes. "Which, if my lamentable memory serves, was exactly what you told me that night in Lisbon, just before we both passed out at the feet of the charming Magdalena." His blue eyes narrowed, his face suddenly sober. "By God, it's good to see you again, Hawke!"
"So it is to see you, Tony," the duke said quietly. This time his eyes offered his friend a silent apology. "Someday I shall explain —"
Morland waved his hand dismissively. "No need. Only glad we crossed tracks again this way. But what brings you to this place?"
The deep lines of Hawke's tanned face relaxed somewhat. "The reason stands right over there, my friend, mauling those poor leather figures. My son — Robbie. The other lad works in my stables."
Morland's eyebrow rose to a precarious slant. "But you intrigue me, my dearest duke."
Hawke smiled faintly. "It's a long story, Tony, one I don't mean to launch into now. But come, I must introduce you to my son. Let him plague you with questions about the war. You were always a great one for tall tales, as I recall."
* * * * *
For long moments all was darkness and pain. Then hard fingers bit into Alexandra's arm and dragged her up from the ground where she had fallen.
She flinched, shaking off her confusion. "Hel—"
Her cry for help was ruthlessly cut off before it left her mouth. Alexandra's heart pounded as she struggled against her silent enemy — a tall man, she saw, dressed in some sort of hooded farm cloak.
He dragged her behind him into the shadows of the yew grove, careful to keep his hand over her mouth all the while. His hard fingers stabbed her throat until she choked, fighting for air, feeling a deadly numbness steal across her limbs. Wild with terror, she struggled against that ruthless, clawing grip.
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