Lady Anne 03 - Curse of the Gypsy

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Darkefell strode in that moment, went directly to her and dropped a kiss on her head. She smiled up at him, then caught the look on his mother’s face. Oh, dear.

  “Mother, Anne is going north with us, so she’ll travel with you. All right?” He didn’t wait to hear what his mother said, but strode directly to the tray on a sideboard, grabbed a sandwich and wolfed it down. “I am ravenous.” He chewed and swallowed, poured himself some brandy and gulped it down, then said, “Julius, I hear it was while you were here a few weeks back that the dapple mare dropped a foal. Isn’t he a beauty?”

  Anne sat, frozen, staring at Lady Darkefell, who glared back at her. This was not how she had hoped to broach the subject. In fact, she had thought to ask the lady if it was all right to travel with her, and offer the alternative of Anne visiting Lydia at a later date, but now the woman was cornered into it by Darkefell’s blundering insensitivity. And she was clearly not happy.

  Not happy at all.

  Twenty

  Darkefell’s insensitive treatment of his mother set an unfortunate tone that evening. Lady Darkefell was unhappy that Anne was to accompany them to their estate, the proof of her feelings evident in her frozen and bitter opposition to the forced confinement of a three-day journey in a closed carriage with another woman.

  It was an inconvenience, she muttered to Julius, though Anne could easily hear her. It was rude of Lady Anne to push herself where she was not wanted, she implied. They would be crammed in the carriage like a … like she didn’t know what. How could Lady Darkefell, Lady Anne, Therese (the marchioness’s French abigail), and Mary, Anne’s abigail, all fit comfortably?

  Determined to be conciliatory, Anne took Darkefell aside and offered to forgo having Mary accompany her on the journey north, but the marquess was adamant. She was to have every comfort possible, no matter what his mother said. But in turn Anne was inflexible. Where Mary went, so went her son, Robbie. Darkefell solved the contretemps by swiftly hiring another carriage from a nearby livery; the luggage, along with Therese and Mary, accompanied by Wee Robbie, would travel in that equipage.

  Though the next day was a Sunday—the topic of Sunday travel, either for or against, was not a subject any of them found particularly riveting, nor did any one of them seem inclined to wait out the day, prolonging an enforced togetherness—they left Hawk Park early, met Mary in Canterbury and traveled north from there in a procession. Julius and Darkefell, on mounts from the Hawk Park stable, led the way.

  And so for the long journey north, Anne and Irusan were mired with Lady Darkefell mile after mind-numbing, silent mile, without even the benefit of a third party to enliven the quiet. At the end of the second full day of travel, Anne retreated to her room at the sleepy inn some miles north of Derby. In honor of the past marquesses of Darkefell’s patronage of the inn on their way to and from London, it was called the Dark Marquess, and rooms were immediately made up for the traveling party.

  Anne could not complain about the accommodations, for her room was pleasant and airy, even though it overlooked the stable yard in back, and it had the added comfort of a separate dressing room fitted up for her maid and Robbie. But Anne had other things on her mind, mostly two days of silence in a rattling carriage with the frigidly haughty dowager marchioness.

  “I cannot marry a man whose mother despises me, Mary,” Anne said, staring at herself in the mirror while her maid repaired the damage done to her hairstyle by the feud between her bonnet and a bored Irusan, who had a determined tussle with the plume. Irusan had won and the bonnet was destroyed. The plume was now in his possession so he chewed it under the bed, growling in fury, while Anne’s hair was ruined.

  “If you think the advantages of bein’ married to his lordship do not outweigh the turrible marchioness, then by all means, do not marry the man. He deserves better than such a poor-spirited, weak-willed woman.”

  Anne batted her maid’s hands away from her hair and twisted to look her in the eye. “That is the outside of enough, Mary!” she cried. “I have been mired with that miserable woman mile after mile; I’ll not put up with such impertinence from you!”

  “Aye, well, don’t use that woman as an excuse to not marry his lordship. Willya no’ consider speaking to him about his mother?”

  A tapping on the door caught both their attention.

  “Anne, will you walk with me?” Darkefell’s deep voice.

  Anne felt a thrill of yearning. She had not been alone with him for two days or so, and perhaps that was what she needed, a walk and perhaps a kiss or two. Or three. “I will,” she called, rising. “My hair will do, Mary. Make sure Irusan does not eat that feather,” she said, pointing to her cat, who had dragged it out from under the bed but still chewed on the vanquished plume with irritated vigor.

  “Why don’t you take him with you, milady? Puss needs exercise to work off his temper almost as much as you do.”

  “Splendid idea. Come, Irusan, let us see what is in store for us in his lordship’s company.” She accepted a shawl from Mary and exited, her cat trotting triumphantly by her side. Darkefell awaited her outside the door in the gloomy hallway.

  “He’s not coming with us, is he?” he said, taking Anne’s arm and looking with disapproval at Irusan.

  “Now, Tony, just because he doesn’t like you is no reason to behave so disagreeably,” she said, teasing, her temper improved by the thought of some exercise in Darkefell’s company.

  “As long as he does not growl at me, or I shall have to growl back,” Darkefell said. “Come, there is a lovely walk by a stream not too far from here.”

  It was late afternoon and so that must explain the rush, Anne thought as Darkefell dragged her along the gravel path behind the inn, across a small wooden bridge over a rushing stream, toward a shaded copse of slim alders. The descending sun was casting long shadows, but it would be hours before the brilliant sunlight gave way to dusk’s lilting breezes.

  “Tony, let me be for a moment,” she gasped, jerking her arm out of his hold. She paused and leaned against a tree trunk, gasping.

  “Anne, I’m sorry,” he cried with a stricken expression. “I completely forgot that your breathing is occasionally difficult.”

  “It’s all right,” she said, holding up one hand against his inevitable apologies. She took a long deep breath and straightened. “There, I’m better, you see? Now if we may resume our walk without the sense that we are being chased by a pack of wild dogs, I shall do very well.”

  He slowed his pace and Anne cast glances at him, wondering what was on his mind, for he was distracted, his broad forehead wrinkled and his perfect lips turned down in a frown. Irusan dashed off after some small creature, but Anne knew her cat would find them when he was done hunting, so did not worry.

  Finally they were well and truly out of sight of the inn on a path that took them a ways into the countryside. They had come out of the woods at a sunny spot along the stream. He guided her to a spot on the mossy bank and said, “Will you sit, my lady?”

  “Certainly.”

  She swept her full skirts aside, happy that she did not wear a bustle or bumroll and had kept on the comfortable traveling attire that allowed her to sit for hours in the carriage in a modicum of comfort. She lay back, closed her eyes, and felt the sun on her face; he could not have chosen a better spot in the late afternoon, for the sun bathed the stream bank in golden rays and warmed the wafting breeze.

  “Anne, I spoke to your father before we left Harecross Hall,” Darkefell said.

  Anne opened her eyes. He still stood and had picked up a branch, with which he prodded a mole hole on the bank of the stream. “I thought you had,” she said, watching him. “What did he say?”

  “He said that I had better be good to you,” Darkefell said, jamming the stick in the hole and leaving it. He dusted his hands off and cast himself down at her feet. “I will, you know. I’ll be very good to you.” He pushed his hands up under her skirt and played with her garter.

  She relished
the sensation of his strong hands on her skin, her heart beating faster, and examined his face in the angled sunlight, his chiseled features sharply shadowed, his brown eyes richly expressive. “I have no doubt, Tony, that you will have every intention of being good to me, after your own ideas.”

  He slithered up the embankment and put his arms around her, cradling her on the mossy riverbank. She closed her eyes and his kiss, long and sweet and wet, left her weak with delight. She opened her eyes and was caught anew by the passion in his eyes. She had always wondered how she would know that what a man claimed to feel for her was true, but she no longer doubted him. The love in his chocolate eyes was rich, sweet and true.

  She cradled his cheek with her palm as his fingers trailed down her neck, over the soft skin of her bosom. Her breathing quickened and she had a moment of yearning for his body, the delicious intrusion of his sturdy masculinity into her softness. She had to be satisfied with deep wet kisses that left both of them panting and overheated.

  “Tony, you make me yearn for things I cannot even name. How can I behave this way? Am I a harlot?”

  “No, my sweet,” he said, holding her close to his chest, “for a harlot cares not with whom she lies, but you, I hope, will only allow me such passionate access to your delights.”

  “You’re teasing, but it’s true, of course,” she said, looking up at him. What else was there, she wondered, to hold her back from marriage? She knew him now; he loved her, and she loved him. As strong and commanding as he seemed, that manner clothed a gentle soul. She wanted him and could not imagine ever tiring of their passionate engagement. Why did they not just say it now and be done? “Tony, I may as well say it now, I suppose,” she began.

  But that moment a wailing cry arose. “Irusan,” she cried, pushing herself up from the bank.

  Barking followed.

  “That is my brother’s damnable beast. Atim!” Darkefell shouted, swiftly rising. “Atim, what the bloody hell are you doing?” He raced away and much frenzied barking ensued, along with Darkefell’s shouts.

  Anne followed the sound and came out of the wood to find Irusan clinging to Darkefell, spitting and hissing as Atim danced around the marquess in a happy frenzy. She laughed at the sight and followed the man and animals back to the inn.

  That, unfortunately for her intention to answer his standing proposal, was the last she saw of him alone that evening.

  ***

  Darkefell was up early, after the best sleep he had ever had at an inn, and on his way out in just his shirtsleeves to the stable to see to his prisoner, who was locked in a shed. He could only attribute his sound sleep to a sense that he was gaining ground in his bid to marry Anne. That she was traveling north with them was a very good sign, he believed. If Anne would only give in and marry him, he’d have the joy and leisure of planning all the places at Darkefell where he could make love to Anne, all summer long: the tower, the forest, the cabin, the waterfall.

  He strode across the stable yard, his boots scuffing through the dust, carrying some bread and cheese and a bottle of ale for Grover. His mind on Anne, he spoke briefly to his driver then headed through the stable and beyond, out back, where his prisoner was confined. His pleasant morning came to an abrupt halt when he saw the shed door open. His stomach twisted in a knot of alarm, and he leaped into a run, flinging himself into the shed. It was empty!

  “Damn, and damn again!” he shouted, throwing down the food and ale. He whirled and looked around, but saw no one. “My prisoner is gone,” he hollered, breaking into a run toward the open back double doors of the stable and getting there just in time to see the driver he had hired in Canterbury lead a mount out and slap it on the rump.

  The horse carried Hiram Grover, but Darkefell was not going to let him get away. He charged forward as the horse, frightened by the commotion, danced around in a circle. Grabbing Grover’s leg, Darkefell yanked him down off the horse as Julius and Atim, alerted by the commotion and coming back from their habitual morning walk, raced into the stable. With the wolf dog prancing and baying, adding to the confusion, Julius grabbed a leather bridle from a hook on one of the upright posts and restrained the prisoner, who was grunting and howling that he was being mistreated.

  “Bastard!” Darkefell yelled, rising from the struggle and looking down at Grover, whose legs Julius was now efficiently tying with a hank of rope thrown to him by one of the inn’s grooms.

  But Tony didn’t mean Grover. Who could expect aught else but that man should try to escape when he was being transported to face a murder trial? Darkefell strode about the stable and soon found who he was looking for, the recently hired driver from Canterbury. The fellow was standing in the shadow of one of the stalls.

  “Bastard!” Darkefell hollered, stalking the fellow, who backed away from him. “I ought to kill you! Do you know what that animal did?” he said, pointing back at Grover. “Do you know that he brutally murdered a young woman who was with child? Two lives snuffed out with nary a care in the world? How could you release him?”

  “I dint know, milord!” he wailed.

  “Yes, you did. I told you myself when I hired you! I told you he was a killer and not to be trusted.”

  “But ’e said as ’ow ’e weren’t guilty! Said as ’ow it were an accident.”

  “You released him because he gave you something or promised you something! What did he give you? What?” Darkefell snatched at him, but the fellow still backed away.

  When they got as far as they could go the fellow slunk past him and trotted out toward the open stable yard.

  “I gave him nothing,” Grover hollered as Julius kept him pinned on the stable floor.

  A ring of grooms moved to circle Darkefell and the accused driver, some jeering, some calling for a fight.

  “Yes, you did,” the burly fellow said, his tone defensive. “’E giv me ’is word ’ed send me fifty pounds! Word of honor, ’e said.”

  Darkefell experienced a lashing of fury so dark it overcame him and he punched the fellow on the chin with no warning, shouting, “You bastard! He killed a girl!”

  The fellow reeled and shrieked, “Joost a dirty slut, nothin’ more, ’e said, an’ a slut whut was gonna bear a bastard!”

  Darkefell was shoved back hard as the man, bigger than him, though paunchy as well as muscular, leaped on him. They rolled in the dust, and, the wind knocked out of him, Darkefell struggled to rise, but the guy punched him in the jaw.

  “Get him, Tony!” Julius shouted, still holding on to Grover. “Hit him!”

  The jeering, the cheering, the fury at Grover’s near escape, rose up in him and Darkefell felt a surge of energy. He fully engaged and the battle was on. They met and gripped, wrestling, muscles straining. The fellow grabbed Darkefell’s shirt, ripping it with the force of his hold. The marquess punched him and received a blow to the ear that sent blood streaming. It was enough to infuriate him and he redoubled his efforts, gradually beating the fellow, who was becoming winded, his bloody face openmouthed and gasping as Darkefell punched and punched until his own knuckles were raw.

  He became vaguely aware of a feminine voice joined to the shouts. Anne? Blood streaming into his eye from a cut, he whirled and saw her through a haze of red.

  “Darkefell, stop this instant!” she shrieked. “Stop! You’re hurting the fellow!” She caught Darkefell by the arm and pulled on him, letting the man recover and sending Darkefell flying.

  “Get out of here!” he yelled at her, scrambling to his feet, not taking his eyes off his opponent. “Go! Now! I mean it, Anne; go immediately or I will not be responsible for the outcome. This is none of your affair.” He launched himself again at the larger man and sent him flying; the force was enough to bash the fellow’s head against the post in the middle of the stable. The driver was finally vanquished and lay still, as Julius cheered and the men standing around paid off the wagers they had made, some of them casting curious glances Anne’s way.

  She was gowned in just a robe, though she had it
pulled tightly around her. “Don’t you ever threaten me!” she shouted, her gray eyes huge and round, sparkling with anger.

  “Threaten you?” Darkefell said, ripping a hunk of his shirt free and mopping the blood off his brow and out of his eye. He felt his jaw; not bad. It was a little swollen, but would not bruise badly. He stared at her. “How the hell did I threaten you?”

  “You said I had better go or you would not be responsible for the outcome; what is that but a threat?”

  One of the men behind him laughed and Darkefell glanced around. The groom had the wisdom to shut up and slink off. “My lady,” the marquess said, his tone hard, turning back to stare at her. The other men were still staring at her slack-jawed. “Remember who you are and where. Go inside now.” He pointed to the back door of the inn. She didn’t move, so he said, “Go, or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you in!”

  One of the men chuckled and said something in an undertone to one of the others.

  “Don’t you ever speak to me like that,” she said, her gray eyes dark with anger, her hands balled into fists at her side.

  The blood still boiling in his veins, he shouted, “If you would behave properly I would not need to say such things, but I mean it, Anne. Go inside. Now!”

  She glared at him for one moment, then whirled and strode away.

  Julius, dragging a whimpering Hiram Grover behind him, and with Atim nipping at the prisoner’s heels, came up beside Darkefell and watched her walk away, throwing the door open with unnecessary force, her skirts whirling as she bolted through the doorway. “She’s angry, Tony. Won’t be a pleasant time for you.”

  Another of the men snickered, but he stopped as Darkefell cast one look around at the dusty stable yard, gathering them all in. “Back to work,” he shouted. “And take this fellow to get bandaged up,” he said, kicking his opponent, who was groaning now, awakening from his defeat and feeling his bleeding head. He turned to Julius. “I don’t give a damn if Anne’s angry. I will not be ordered about like her lackey.”