On a Wild Night

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Aye.” Colly rose and gathered their empty plates. “The game’s been running wild hereabouts, and the bakery always has pasties and pies.”

  Amanda stood. “I’ll dust and air rooms and make up some beds. I’ll need to watch Reggie.”

  Martin glanced at her. “Colly will show you where everything is.”

  Two hours with a shotgun, tramping over rugged hillsides he knew like the palm of his hand, produced three hares. And a mindful of memories. He handed the hares to Colly to dress, cleaned the gun, then headed for the stables. It took half an hour to find and check sufficient tack to saddle one of the carriage horses; after that, there was no further reason to put off the inevitable.

  The sun was high by the time he trotted into the village of Grindleford. Trotted past the church, presently empty, standing like a benevolent guardian keeping watch over its small congregation. The cottages of the flock were scattered about the nearby fields; only the bakery and the forge stood on the lane itself, one directly opposite the other. The forge was open but there was no one in sight, either there or in the fields.

  Martin dismounted before the bakery and tied the horse’s reins to a nearby tree. A bell attached to the door tinkled as he opened it; girding his loins, he ducked beneath the lintel and entered the bright little shop. Savory aromas from the bakery behind filled the enclosed space. A girl wrapped in a white apron bustled through from the back, her face alight with query.

  She didn’t recognize him; she was either too young or had arrived in the last ten years. Knowing how little the population hereabouts varied, he assumed it was the former.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Martin smiled and had her show him the latest offerings. He chose two loaves of bread, unable to resist the lure of the cob loaf he hadn’t tasted since boyhood, and a variety of pies and pasties, a selection large enough to have the girl eyeing him curiously.

  Inwardly congratulating himself on having accomplished his task without encountering anyone who knew him, he paid and received his change. He was turning away when an older woman, wiping her hands on her apron, appeared in the archway connecting the bakery with the shop. “Heather—”

  The woman stopped the instant she set eyes on him, as if she’d run into an invisible wall. She stared as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

  Martin could understand. His smile faded; the only thought in his brain was that she hadn’t previously been a baker. His expression impassive, he inclined his head. “Mrs. Crockett.”

  Belatedly, she bobbed. “Sir—I mean . . . my lord.”

  With a curt nod for both her and the now wide-eyed girl, Martin turned and left the shop.

  If Mrs. Crockett had said “Good Lord!” he’d have agreed. Of all the people to meet! She’d been old Buxton’s housekeeper and Sarah’s nurse; she more than most had reason to remember why he’d left—why he’d been banished.

  Despite the fact Grindleford was so tiny and the population so widely scattered, the news he was back would be all over the county within hours. That, he could count on. He was still grim when he reached the empty kitchen and laid his purchases on the table. Colly wasn’t in evidence, but there were vegetables laid out, and the dressed hares were hanging over the sink. At least they would eat.

  He headed for the front hall, wondering where the others were; a feminine huff made him look up. Amanda was teetering on the landing, struggling to balance a large ewer and basin. He took the steps two at a time, lifted the heavy weight from her hands.

  “Thank you.” Her beaming smile erased his scowl before it had even begun. “Reggie’s awake! And he’s lucid.”

  “Good.” Side by side, they continued up the stairs.

  “Colly’s helping him get undressed. Onslow’s asleep.” As they reached the gallery, Amanda’s smile faded. “Reggie’s still very weak.”

  “That’s to be expected. He’ll take a few days to recover.”

  She seemed to accept that. Martin didn’t add that infection of the wound was the next battle they might face; he was hoping they could avoid it.

  She knocked, and Colly bade them enter. Reggie was lying propped up in bed, resplendent in a paisley silk robe that only threw his pallor into sharper contrast. Delighted, Amanda bustled forward.

  “Now we need to change your bandage, and wash the wound.”

  Reggie looked startled. “You?” Then he looked at Martin. “I don’t—”

  There followed an argument of the sort that could only occur between two childhood friends. Martin listened, inwardly smiling, refusing to agree with either, unsurprised when Amanda had her way and, despite Reggie’s dire grumblings, unwound the bandage and laid bare his wound.

  Angry, red and raw, it was not a pretty sight. Martin glanced at Amanda’s face but she chattered on, brightly, incessantly, while she gently sponged it and patted it dry. Not even when Reggie tensed and winced did her patter falter. Then he saw the glance she threw Reggie and realized her brightness was all for show, so Reggie wouldn’t realize how worried and upset she was by the wound. As soon as she’d finished, he replaced her by Reggie’s side and deftly rebandaged, tightening the pad against the wound, winding the long bandage round and round to secure it.

  The ordeal had drained Reggie’s strength; he was paler than ever as they eased him down to the pillows to rest.

  Martin hesitated, seeing the fight Reggie waged to keep his eyes from closing, then asked, “Do you remember what happened?”

  A frown formed on Reggie’s face, quite comical because of the bandage. “We rolled around the corner and Onslow slowed—I’d told him to stop and wait. Then there was a shot. I heard Onslow yell, then a thump—I leaned forward to look out. Saw this fellow on a horse. Next thing I knew there was this searing pain across my skull—then I heard the crack.” He frowned harder. “Can’t remember more than that.”

  “There isn’t much more. We heard and came running, but the horseman was gone. Did you get a decent look at him?”

  Reggie looked up, studied his face, then shook his head. “That’s the strangest thing about it. Don’t know if my mind’s playing tricks on me or what.”

  “Why?” Amanda asked.

  “It was cloudy, remember, but just then, the moon came out and shone right on him—the fellow on the horse—and he wasn’t that far away. I did see him clearly. I think. Only it might have been a trick of the moonlight.”

  “Why so unsure?”

  Reggie looked at Martin. “Because the devilish thing is, he looked just like you.”

  Silence, then Amanda stated, “But that’s impossible. It couldn’t have been Martin—he was with me when we heard the shots.”

  “I know that’s impossible!” Fretfully, Reggie plucked at the coverlet. “But he asked what I saw—that’s what I saw. I know it wasn’t him. It’s just what I said—the man looked like him.”

  Amanda sat back, as if marshaling her arguments. Martin tweaked her sleeve. “We’ll leave you to rest. Just sleep and recover. We’ll leave the door ajar—if you want anything, ring the bell.”

  Still frowning, but with his eyes now shut, Reggie nodded.

  Martin indicated the door with his head; Amanda hesitated, then leaned down and kissed Reggie’s cheek. “Just get well.”

  Reggie’s frown eased. The line of his lips did, too.

  They left him.

  “I don’t understand.” Frowning, Amanda carried the empty ewer into the kitchen. Martin followed, carrying the discarded bandages in the basin. They headed for the scullery. Amanda was still frowning when they returned to the kitchen.

  Onslow was coming down the stairs.

  They both saw him; Amanda opened her mouth—Martin grabbed her arm, squeezed in warning. She looked at him in surprise.

  “Onslow—you must have got a glimpse of the highwayman.” The coachman wavered on his feet; Martin waved him to the armchair. “Sit down, and tell us what you saw. Don’t worry about how it sounds. Just describe the man as best you can.”

>   Onslow sighed as he settled into the chair. “I’m right glad you said that, m’lord, ’cause truth to tell, I thought I must’ve been seeing double. The geezer looked a lot like yourself.” As Reggie had, Onslow studied Martin anew. “Wasn’t you, I know, and not just because I’d left you down the road having an argy-bargy with Miss Amanda, who I know wouldn’t’ve shut up quick.”

  Martin glanced at Amanda; she didn’t know whether to smile or frown.

  “Thing is, I can’t put my finger on just why I knew ‘twasn’t you. You don’t have a brother, do you?”

  “No.” Martin frowned. “But—” He cut off the revelation; when Amanda raised her brows at him, he shook his head. Asked Onslow, “How’s the wound?”

  “Aching, but not as bad as it was. I reckon I’ll rest and gather my strength, then I’ll see to the horses after lunch.”

  There was at least an hour remaining before luncheon. Amanda headed back into the house. “I still have to air rooms for us and make up the beds. I’d only just started when Reggie woke.”

  Martin followed her into the front hall. “Wait.” From the foot of the stairs, she looked at him, arching a brow. Beneath her animation, she was weary. “Come out to the garden for a few minutes—you need some air yourself.”

  She glanced up the stairs. “But the rooms—”

  “Will still be there after lunch. Don’t forget the light fades earlier here—you won’t be able to stroll in the garden of an evening.”

  Amanda smiled, but left the stairs and joined him. “I came prepared for Scotland, remember?”

  He took her hand, then turned, not for the front door, but down a side corridor.

  “Where are we going?”

  “A special place.”

  She could see that for herself when he guided her through the French doors at the end of the wing into a protected court leading to a garden that must, once, have been a fantasy of scent and color. Although overgrown, remnants of graceful beauty remained, colorful blooms splashing against verdant growth hinting at what, with a little taming, could still be.

  “It’s beautiful.” Walking by his side, she swung about and looked back. The garden was protected from the north and east by the rising cliffs, from the west by the house. To the south, the river valley spread before them, basking in mild sunshine. Looking ahead again, she spied a seat at the end of the garden. “Was this your mother’s garden?”

  He nodded. “She loved roses especially. Roses and iris, and lavender, too.”

  The roses were everywhere, massed and rambling. Spears of iris leaves showed here and there; the lavender needed clipping.

  Reaching the bench, Amanda sat. She waited until he sat beside her—they both looked up at the house. “What happened?”

  His hesitation suggested he hadn’t expected any question quite so bold. Then, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, he linked his fingers, and told her. Related how, when the villagers had come storming up to the house, herding him with them, to tell their story and demand justice be done, his father had accepted their tale without question. “The only thing he said to me was: ‘How could you?’ “

  His gaze remained on his interlaced fingers. “It never entered his head that I might not have committed the deed. In exculpation, I have to admit I was known to have an ungovernable temper.”

  “You don’t seem to have one now.”

  “No. That’s one thing dealing with the Indians teaches you—there’s no point having a temper.

  “The whole family was here—uncles, aunts, cousins. It was the usual Easter gathering my father loved to preside over. I think it was the ultimate sin in his eyes that I should do such a thing at such a time, in front of the entire family. Few of them approved of me either, so . . . for the good of the family, they decided to bundle me off that very night.”

  Amanda quelled a shiver. Being disowned by one’s family, thrown out and cut off—banished. Without justice, without recourse. For herself, she couldn’t even conceive of it; the very thought made her heart ache for him.

  She asked the question she most wanted to know, “Your mother?”

  “Ah—Mama. She of them all understood my temper—temperament, nature, what would you. It was the same as hers.” Raising his head, he looked across the garden, his eyes narrowed, seeing the past. “She wasn’t sure. She knew I could have done it, but . . . she, like the others, didn’t believe me when I swore I hadn’t. If she had believed . . .”

  When he continued, his voice had hardened, “What’s done is done and the past is behind us.”

  The change threw his earlier tone into contrast, revealing the underlying truth. “You loved them, didn’t you?”

  He didn’t look at her but at the house. “Yes.” After a moment, he added, “Both of them.”

  He said nothing more but she could now see the whole clearly. Earlier, she’d returned their purloined bedding to the countess’s boudoir. That room had been an education into his background, yet the earl’s room, beyond it, also held echoes of the character traits that lived in him.

  His gaze on the house, he stirred. “When we’re married, we won’t live here.”

  No if, but or maybe. Qualification rose intinctively to her tongue, yet she left it unsaid. Fate had taken a hand; they were here, in a deserted house without even a housekeeper to lend them countenance. The time for games was past. The time for decisions was nigh. Although uncertainty lingered, she drew an even breath. “Whyever not?”

  He glanced at her.

  She studied the house. “It needs refurbishing—well, perhaps more than that, and I haven’t seen all of it yet, still . . .” Tilting her head, she considered the mellow stone, the steeply pitched roof. “It has potential—all the right bits and pieces—it just needs people to bring it alive. The structure’s impressive—stately on the one hand, charming on the other. I like the windows and the layout of the rooms, and . . .” She hesitated, then impulsively gestured, arms wide. “It simply fits. This is a magnificent area, and the house is somehow set in, an integral part of the whole. It belongs.”

  His gaze on her face, Martin leaned against the seat’s iron back. “I thought you were a Londoner, born and bred?”

  “I’ve lived most of my life there—my parents’ house is there—but my uncles and aunts and cousins have houses all over the country. I’ve spent years in the countryside, in various places, but . . .” Rising, she walked a few steps and stopped, looking south over the vista of the valley. “I’ve never seen a place as fabulously beautiful—no, that’s not the right word—dramatic as this. I could stand here and stare for hours, and never grow bored.”

  Her voice faded as the view drew her in. Martin knew how mesmerizing the play of cloud shadows over nature’s patchwork could be. It hadn’t occurred to him that it would speak to her, too, or that her affinity for the dramatic would extend to this wild and rugged landscape.

  The landscape of his birth. The wild, wide spaces were as much a part of him as his sensual nature—this, as nowhere else in his travels had ever been, was his home.

  Home.

  He’d turned his back on it, thought he’d shut it out from his life and would never return—never again fall prey to the siren-song of the wind whistling over the crags, to the wrenchingly majestic beauty of the peaks.

  Home.

  Rising, he stood beside Amanda, thrust his hands in his pockets, felt the wind ruffle his hair. As if in gentle benediction, as if welcoming a prodigal son, hopefully wiser and more experienced, back to the hearth.

  Home.

  As he stood beside her, its aura rolled over him, the memories of the good times that he’d pushed out of his mind along with the bad. The sounds of his childhood—the bright laughter, the chatter, running footsteps, shrill voices—the neverending happiness. Childhood giving way to the awkwardness of youth, a time that had been so rich with experience, with the thrill of discovery, the deepening of knowledge.

  Then had come the break; it had shattered
his world and sent all the good spiralling away like autumn leaves. Leaves he hadn’t known how to catch.

  Perhaps catching was not the way. Perhaps what was needed was simply to return, to let the tree bud and bloom again. To start anew.

  He glanced at Amanda; simple delight still played over her features. He looked past her to the house. Considered what could be. And how much it might cost.

  She looked up, joy and sunlight in her face. “Thank you for bringing me here.” She linked her arm in his. “But now we’d better lunch, then knuckle down to our chores.”

  He let her lead him back into the house.

  Colly had been slaving in the small parlor all morning; he insisted on serving them their lunch—pasties and bread—in there, as befitted their station. Realizing it made both Colly and Onslow uncomfortable to be sharing a table with their masters, they accepted their banishment from the warm homeliness of the kitchen with good grace.

  At the end of the meal, however, they forbore to tug the bellpull, but piled the empty dishes and carried them to the kitchen, and thence, despite Colly’s protests, into the scullery. They returned to the kitchen just as the back door was forcibly thrust open.

  “Humph!” A large country woman stumped in.

  Amanda’s eyes widened. The woman wore a hat perched atop a bonnet, a muffler wound around her throat, and a shawl tied about the shoulders of her serviceable black wool coat. Beneath the gaping coat, she was wearing a quantity of wraps and blouses, and a veritable mountain of skirts. Her feet were encased in large boots.

  In each hand, she carried multiple string bags bulging with produce, from turnips and leeks to pigeons and pullets.

  Head down, the woman barrelled straight for the table; with an “Oomph” of relief, she dumped the string bags on its surface.

  Only then did she look up. She was tall and heavy-boned, with a round, ruddy face and straight grey hair pulled into a tight bun. She noted Onslow, Colly and Amanda, then her gaze locked on Martin. She nodded. “ ’Bout time you got here.”

  Amanda glanced at Martin; a smile was flirting about his lips.