Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  In the early afternoon the rain eased to a drizzle, and two hours after that it stopped entirely. Letty put aside her embroidery with relief. “I’m going for a walk. Do either of you wish to come?”

  Both men looked up. “A walk?” Houghton said. “Absolutely! You coming, sir?”

  They set out fifteen minutes later—with the addition of Eliza and Green—heading east along a narrow lane pocked with overflowing potholes. Letty strode briskly in her sturdiest leather half boots, inhaling air redolent with woodsmoke and decaying leaves. Houghton matched his stride to hers. “Good to be outside,” he said.

  “Isn’t it just!”

  They walked for half a mile, coming to a junction with an even narrower lane. “The landlord said we can take this one north for a mile,” Houghton said. “There’s another lane that’ll bring us back to the inn. It’s not signposted, but he says it’s bounded by a ditch with a good crop of withies, so we can’t miss it.”

  “Withies?”

  “Willow shoots. For making baskets.”

  The landlord was correct; the ditch of withies was unmistakable, although to Letty’s eye they looked more like reeds than willow shoots. Green produced a penknife from his pocket and managed, without getting his feet wet, to harvest one withy. Watching him, Letty thought how boyish he looked—and how unlike the dispirited young man shoveling manure in Basingstoke. She glanced from Green’s beaming face to Reid’s solemn one. How do we rescue you, Icarus Reid?

  Houghton stood alongside Reid, and for a moment the likeness between the two men made her blink. Houghton had craggy features and his eyes were brown not silver, but even so, he and Reid were extraordinarily similar. Both large men, grown too thin. Both with tanned skin and direct, alert gazes. Both with the same hard, faintly dangerous edge. One could tell at a glance they were soldiers—and that they’d killed in battle.

  Houghton spoke with a West Country accent, but in every other respect, he and Reid could be brothers. Was that why Reid was so determined to rescue him?

  Letty glanced at Houghton’s empty left sleeve. The men’s brotherhood went deeper than the eye could see. Both had been crippled at Vimeiro, even if only Houghton’s wounds were visible.

  She looked at Reid again. How do we save you?

  Reid noticed her glance. “Shall we continue?”

  Letty nodded.

  They walked without speaking, the mud sucking at their boots. The lane was scarcely wide enough for a cart, more path than road. Letty glanced back. Houghton had lingered at the withies with Green and Eliza. She heard their laughter, faintly.

  She studied Reid’s face. He was gazing out across the flat, dank, wet landscape, and even though he was within touching distance he seemed as remote and unapproachable as if he were on the other side of the ocean. How do we save you?

  The only tools at her disposal were words.

  Letty chewed on her lower lip, and imagined repeating what she’d said at Whiteoaks. Reid would be angry. Furious.

  But someone had to say something.

  Reluctance and urgency wrestled in her breast, and for several minutes the reluctance won out—if she spoke to Reid on this subject again, their newly patched friendship would be sundered. He’d look at her with dislike glittering in his eyes and speak to her with curt hostility in his voice, and she wasn’t certain she could bear it.

  But if she didn’t speak of it, Reid would continue on his path, and that would be a thousand times worse.

  Letty’s sense of urgency grew. Pressure built inside her until it felt as if she would burst. She had to try again.

  “Icarus?”

  Reid glanced at her. “Mmm?”

  Letty took a deep breath. She felt sick with nervousness. “I asked you a question at Whiteoaks, and you never answered it.”

  “Didn’t I? I beg your pardon. You’ll have to refresh my memory.”

  The feeling of nausea increased. Letty took another deep breath and grabbed hold of her courage. “If Pereira had told the French what you told them—and if he’d survived—what fate would you have wanted for him?”

  Reid halted. He glanced sharply back at the others, out of earshot at the withy ditch.

  “Would you have wished him dead?”

  Reid’s gaze swung back to her. She saw outrage gather on his face.

  “Or would you have thought that he’d already suffered more than any man can endure, and that he deserved forgiveness instead?”

  “That is none of your business.”

  “I’ve made it my business,” Letty told him. “And I intend to keep asking until you give me an answer. Would you have wished—in your heart—for Pereira to hang?”

  Reid’s face was pale with fury. He turned from her and began striding down the lane, his boots spraying muddy water.

  Letty hurried to catch up. “It’s a simple question, Icarus. Yes, or no.”

  Reid didn’t reply. He walked faster.

  Letty stretched her legs, almost running. “Yes, or no?” she said urgently.

  Reid halted, and swung round to face her. “For God’s sake, woman!” His voice was almost a shout. “Leave me alone!”

  “Would you have wished Pereira to hang?”

  Reid was breathing heavily, his eyes bright and angry, his nostrils flared.

  “Yes, or no?”

  “Yes!” he flung at her. “Yes! Of course I would!” He swung from her again, striding fast, paying no attention to the puddles.

  Letty stayed where she was for several seconds, hearing the clang in her ears. Did Reid know he was lying to himself? Then she gathered up her skirts and hurried anxiously after him.

  The lane narrowed further. Overgrown hedges crowded close on either side. Letty was out of breath by the time she caught up with Reid. The lane made a sharp left turn, ducked through a grove of willows, dipped into a hollow where water flowed sluggishly—

  Reid splashed knee-deep into the water before he caught himself. He recoiled so violently that he almost fell over. Letty saw panic flare across his face.

  “Icarus!” She caught his arm, steadying him, drawing him several paces back from the water.

  Reid shrugged his arm free.

  “Are you all right?”

  He inhaled a wheezing breath and bent over, bracing his hands on his knees. His hat fell off.

  Letty picked it up. Cold water sloshed in her half boots. Reid’s face was tense, his eyes squeezed shut, muscles knotted in his jaw. She judged him very close to vomiting.

  If I ever find the men who did this to him, I will kill them myself.

  Letty gripped Reid’s hat in her hands and wondered how to rescue him, and then she bent until her mouth was close to his ear. “You lied to me, back there. You wouldn’t have wanted Pereira to hang. You would have wanted him to live.”

  Reid’s eyes opened. “No,” he said hoarsely.

  “You’re lying, Icarus. If Pereira had told them, and if he’d survived, you’d have wanted him to live.”

  Reid shook his head. He straightened to his full height. His mouth was grim.

  Letty handed him his hat. “You’re lying to yourself, and you need to acknowledge that.” She turned and headed back in the direction of the withy ditch. She made herself stand tall, made herself walk briskly, but inside she was trembling.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Icarus tried to conceal his ill temper, but he knew Green and Houghton had noticed. He smiled tightly, and offered the excuse of a headache. To Miss Trentham, he offered no excuse. She knew exactly why he was angry.

  He ate his dinner grimly, ignoring Miss Trentham’s promptings that he have a second helping of pie and another serving of suet pudding.

  Houghton ate seconds.

  After the meal, Icarus was strongly tempted to go up to his bedchamber and have a slug of brandy. He didn’t. He played two games of backgammon with Houghton and then excused himself—saying a coldly courteous good night to Miss Trentham—and climbed the stairs to his bedchamber. That infernal
woman. Talking about things she had no knowledge of. How dared she talk of poor, damned Pereira?

  Icarus paused at the top of the stairs and squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to remember. But he couldn’t hold the memories back: Pereira begging them to stop. Pereira sobbing and gasping and choking and vomiting. Pereira telling them in desperate, thickly accented French, Oui, oui, c’est vrai. C’est vrai!

  And the bastards had still killed him.

  Icarus blinked several times and inhaled deeply through his nose and opened the door to his bedchamber. He pasted a stiff smile on his face and let Green help him out of his boots and his tailcoat and then sent the boy away.

  When he went to lock the door, he discovered this was impossible: there was no keyhole. Worse, there wasn’t even a latch. His stool was too short to jam beneath the door handle, and the washstand too tall.

  “Fuck,” he said, under his breath.

  The brandy bottle sat on the bedside table, beckoning him.

  Icarus poured himself a glass, drained it in one swallow, coughed, caught his breath, and put the glass back on the tray. He saw Pereira in his mind’s eye: lanky in his uniform, with a boyish face and dark, eager eyes.

  Miss Trentham had been correct: he wouldn’t have wanted Pereira to hang.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and bowed his head into his hands. I wish this was over. I wish I was in my grave.

  The floorboards outside his door creaked.

  Icarus stood swiftly—ducking his head—and flung the door open. Miss Trentham stood in the corridor, her hand on her own door handle, her face dimly visible. He saw her eyebrows lift. “Icarus?”

  “I don’t want you in my room tonight,” he told her coldly.

  Miss Trentham’s expression became perfectly blank.

  “Do you hear me? I won’t have you in my room tonight!”

  Miss Trentham lifted her chin and met his gaze straightly. “I have no intention of lying awake half the night listening to you scream. If your nightmares wake me, you may be certain that I shall wake you.”

  Icarus hissed a sharp, angry breath at her. “You are the most dreadful woman it has ever been my misfortune to meet!”

  Her face tightened as if he’d struck her; she’d heard that truth.

  Icarus turned on his stockinged heel and stalked into his bedchamber, closing the door with a muted slam. Once in his room, his rage drained away. He sat on the edge of his bed and bowed his head into his hands again. I wish I was in my grave.

  * * *

  He lay on stony ground, bound hand and foot, retching helplessly, more dead than alive, water streaming from his mouth, from his nose, from his hair, from his clothes—and already they were heaving him up again, carrying him back to the creek. Icarus wheezed desperately for breath. The rage that had sustained him was gone; he’d vomited it up long ago. Please, oh, God, please.

  But God didn’t hear him, and here was the creek again, black water glinting in the moonlight.

  Icarus thrashed weakly, frantically. “No! No! Please!”

  He was dumped facedown alongside Pereira’s sodden corpse. Someone crouched and gripped his hair, forcing his head up. “The northeast ridge, it is not defended, yes? C’est vrai?”

  Icarus struggled to breathe, water rattling in his throat.

  His hair was released. A curt order was barked. Rough hands gripped him, lifted him. Icarus saw the gleam of moonlit water. Panic took over. “It’s true!” he screamed hoarsely. “It’s true!”

  His captors dumped him on the ground again. The fingers dug into his hair, lifting his head. “Dis-moi. Tell me.”

  Hot, despairing tears leaked from his eyes. “C’est vrai,” he choked out.

  His hair was released. His head fell forward.

  He heard the hasty crunch of footsteps, heard hurried voices. The footsteps and voices receded. Silence came. Echoing, empty silence.

  Icarus pressed his face into the stony soil, and wept.

  “Icarus!” Someone shook his shoulder. “Icarus, wake up!”

  Icarus wrestled his way to wakefulness. His eyes slitted open. He saw shadowy bedhangings and a pale, anxious face. “Icarus?”

  With consciousness came no ease. I told them. Oh, God, I told them.

  Icarus turned his face into the pillow and cried as despairingly as he had at Vimeiro.

  “Icarus?” Someone stroked his hair. “Icarus?”

  He couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop the huge, wrenching sobs, couldn’t catch his breath.

  “Icarus . . .” The person gathered him in her arms, rocked him gently. “Hush, hush . . .”

  He wept endless tears, while someone held him, and rocked him, and stroked his hair. An eternity passed. He finally ran out of tears, but not of despair. He was submerged in despair, drowning in despair.

  Gentle fingers wiped his face. “Go to sleep, Icarus.”

  He recognized the voice: Letty Trentham.

  It was her arms around him, her warmth in his bed. Dimly, at the back of his brain, beneath the fog of despair, beneath the exhaustion, he knew he should turn her out of his bedchamber, but he didn’t want her to stop holding him. Don’t leave me.

  “Go to sleep,” she whispered again, and Icarus obeyed.

  * * *

  She was gone when he woke, but he could tell she’d spent the night with him; it wasn’t just the dent in the pillow and the rumpled hollow under the bedcovers, it was the empty feeling in his bed, as if someone had been holding him until only a few minutes ago.

  Icarus touched where she’d lain. The sheets were still faintly warm.

  Green tiptoed in half an hour later, and drew open the curtains when he found Icarus awake. “Sergeant Houghton walked down to the post road, sir, and he says it’s no longer flooded.”

  Icarus sat up slowly. His head felt thick and his limbs lethargic. He wanted to curl up in a dark, quiet place and close his eyes and never open them again.

  “We should be able to reach Taunton today,” Green said cheerfully, laying out the razor and strop.

  Icarus washed and shaved and dressed and ate and climbed into the post-chaise, and climbed out of it again in Taunton, but none of it seemed real. He spent the day in a fog of despair that he couldn’t fight his way out of. He was aware of Houghton and Miss Trentham and Green watching him anxiously, but the fog was so dense, and wrapped so thickly around him, that he couldn’t free himself. He lay awake that night, staring blindly up at the ceiling. Tonight was going to be one of those nights that was as long as a year, where every second was endless—

  “Icarus!”

  Icarus fell off his horse and scrambled to his feet, flailing with his fists. They wouldn’t take him this time. He’d fight to the death rather than be captured.

  His fist connected with something. He heard someone fall.

  “Icarus, stop!”

  He halted, panting, blinking.

  His surroundings came into focus: four-poster bed, washstand, fireplace, candle burning in a chamberstick. And on the floor at his feet, Miss Trentham.

  Icarus stared down at her stupidly.

  “Icarus?”

  Awareness washed over him. Icarus staggered under the weight of it and heard himself groan. He dragged air into his lungs, but couldn’t find speech.

  “Icarus?” Miss Trentham said again, cautiously.

  With the awareness came belated horror. He’d struck her again. He held out his hand to her and helped her to her feet. His arm was trembling. His whole body was trembling. “You all right?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  He nodded dumbly, and lurched down to sit on the edge of the bed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Miss Trentham briskly rearranged his pillows and straightened the bedclothes. “In you get.”

  Icarus climbed into bed.

  “Here.”

  He swallowed a quarter of a glass of brandy. And then a teaspoon of valerian. Miss Trentham sat beside him and opened Herodotus. “
On the side of the barbarians, the number of vessels was six hundred . . .”

  After she’d turned the first page, Icarus reached out and took her hand. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry I hit you.”

  She glanced at him and smiled. “I know.”

  Some of his guilt subsided. He lay listening to her cool, quiet voice and holding on to her warm hand. Stay with me tonight, please. His eyelids grew heavy. He could no longer keep them open. Miss Trentham’s voice slowed, then stopped.

  Icarus blinked open his eyes with effort and turned his face towards her. Please stay.

  Miss Trentham hesitated, and then bent to lightly kiss him. Icarus sighed with pleasure.

  They kissed, and kissed some more, and his arms were around her, and he heard himself say sleepily against her mouth, “Don’ go.”

  Miss Trentham stopped kissing him. She grew very still. “I’m the most dreadful woman you’ve ever met.”

  Icarus tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were too heavy. “’S true,” he said. “An’ you’re also the best. The worst, an’ the best.”

  Miss Trentham huffed a faint laugh. She seemed to relax. She kissed him again, lingering on his lower lip, and then pressed her mouth to his throat.

  A low, purring hum kindled in his blood. Icarus uttered a wordless sound of pleasure. Don’t stop.

  She didn’t. She kissed his throat again and his blood hummed and it was a marvelous feeling, absolutely the most marvelous feeling in the world. This must be how embers in a banked fire felt—warm and safe and alive and snug and slumberous.

  Icarus gave himself up to it, let himself float on it, let himself drift to sleep, warm and safe and happy.

  * * *

  He half-woke at dawn. Someone bent over him, pressed a light kiss to his cheek, whispered in his ear. Icarus sank back to sleep before catching the words. He didn’t wake again until several hours later, and even then not fully. He lay for some time, warm and drowsy. Reality began to intrude. He heard voices in the street outside, heard the distant rattle of carriage wheels, heard the muffled thump of footsteps descending the staircase.