He did look faintly devilish, smiling down at me with his dark clothes and his dark hair and those glinting eyes the color of the forest that surrounded us, shutting us off together from the wider world. I studied him closely, and shrugged in my turn.
“I am no simple chit in hanging sleeves, my lord. I have eyes of my own to judge with, and I see no horns.”
He looked down at me soberly as we walked. “It must be difficult for you,” he said quietly, “to live in that house.”
I drew myself up stiffly, not welcoming his pity. “I am but an orphan, my lord, dependent upon the charity of my relations. I do not question my position.”
His eyes doubted my sincerity, but he let my comment pass, and we walked on a ways in silence. When we came to another slight bend in the river, the gray stallion behind us flung his head back and tugged sharply at the reins, bringing my companion to a standstill.
“I believe Navarre is thirsty,” he interpreted the action for me. “Come, sit with me while he drinks. This is a pleasant spot to pass the time.”
I let myself be led to a grassy clearing several yards from the water’s edge, and seated myself on the trunk of a fallen tree, brushing off the small twinge of guilt that nagged at my conscience. My uncle would never learn of this, I reminded myself, and even if he did, what shame was there in it? After all, I had not invited Richard de Mornay’s company, and one could not simply dismiss the lord of the manor from one’s presence as if he were a common farm lad. The fact that I did not particularly want to dismiss him from my presence was, to my mind, inconsequential.
He seated himself at my feet, his back against the rough bark of the tree trunk, one booted leg drawn up to support his outstretched arm. With lazy eyes he watched the gray horse drinking.
“You said you were the last of your family,” I reminded him, attempting to make conversation. “Have you no brothers?”
“I have five brothers,” he said, “but they are in their graves. They died in service to the first Charles.”
I looked down solemnly. “Your family stood for the king, then, against the Parliament.”
“Ay.” The word was bitter. “And for their trouble they lost their lives, their lands, and all they owned and ever loved.”
“You did not die,” I pointed out.
“No, I did not die.” He shifted his shoulders against the fallen trunk and half smiled at me. “The youngest of us was eighteen, and newly wed, when he did fall, and then the king himself was put to death. I was myself but twenty. After the execution, I fled to France and joined my mother’s family at the French king’s court. I had no stomach left for fighting, and with my father in the Tower I could be of little help to him in England.”
I stared at him. “Your father was in the Tower?”
“He was captured at the defense of Exeter, in forty-six. Fourteen years they kept him within the Tower walls, without a lawful trial. He grew old in that dismal place. He lived to see freedom, and his lands restored, but not my return from France.” He pulled a blade of grass and passed it between his fingers, the shadow of an old pain crossing his stoic features.
“I am sorry.” I leaned forward a little in sympathy. “I know what it is, to lose a father. So you have no one left?”
“Not quite no one. I have a nephew, Arthur, the son of my younger brother. He lives in Holland with his mother. He is fifteen and a leaping gallant, but he is my nephew, nonetheless. And I have Evan. That is family enough.”
Evan Gilroy, he told me, had been a friend in the old days, before the fires of war swept across the countryside and left a sovereign dead. When Richard de Mornay had followed Charles Stuart home to England five years ago, Evan Gilroy had offered his services to the new lord of Crofton Hall, taking charge of the stables and the tenant farms.
The man at my feet smiled at the memory. “’Tis no great welcome for a man to come home to an empty house and a barren land,” he told me. “Were it not for Evan, I doubt I would have stayed.”
I silently acknowledged my debt to Evan Gilroy. I was feeling very much at ease, in spite of my wet clothes, sitting here in the dappled sunlight of the little clearing and talking to a man who stood several notches above my station in life. My father would have liked this man, I thought, for all that Uncle Jabez did not approve.
I leaned back and clasped my hands around my knees, lacing my fingers together. “Have you met the king, then?”
“Officially? Only once.” He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Although I have seen him quite often, and even gamed with him once or twice. He was very much in evidence at the French court, during his exile.”
“I saw him only once, myself. At the coronation.” He had made a great impression on me at the time, I recalled, a regal and vivacious figure with his long curling hair, sensuous mouth, and languid dark eyes. “He seemed a kind man,” I commented.
“He is kind enough,” Richard de Mornay agreed, “and fairer than most. He has a large heart, but he is not a great king. The time for great kings is past.”
I furrowed my brow, thinking. “They say he is, at heart, a Catholic.”
The man beside me shrugged his powerful shoulders. “My mother was a Catholic,” he said. “’Tis no great sin, I think.”
I feigned nonchalance. I had never met a Catholic before. “And you?” I asked him. “What is your faith?”
Richard de Mornay bent his head, his features darkening. “I have no use for God,” he told me flatly. “Nor He for me.”
He cast aside the mangled blade of grass and idly reached to capture both my hands in one of his, drawing them forward so that he could see my wrists. “You’re not wearing the bracelet,” he observed.
I flushed crimson, pulling ineffectually against his grasp. “I cannot wear it,” I protested. “Faith, I cannot accept it, it would not be seemly. I meant to return it to you.”
“I will not have it returned.” He looked seriously offended. “I bought it for you as a present, and I would have you wear it.”
“My uncle would doubtless not approve, my lord,” I reminded him gently. Releasing my hands he rose to collect the grazing horse, gathering the trailing reins in his fist.
“I care not,” he told me. “What business has your uncle in my affairs?”
“None,” I had to admit, “but he takes a great interest in mine, and I would not wish to rouse his ire.”
He turned at that, looming tall against the gray stallion, his expression serious. “If Jabez Howard dares to mark you in any way, I will hear of it.”
I stood up, too, and faced him squarely. “I am flattered, my lord, but it is none of your concern. I am not your responsibility.”
“You are wrong, mistress,” he informed me in a voice as smooth as honey. “You are very much my responsibility. I have made it so.” He advanced on me, one hand steadying the horse’s saddle. “Come, I’ll ride you back.”
I looked up at him nervously. “I do not ride pillion behind any man, my lord.”
“Ride alone, then,” he invited, smiling at my discomfort.
I glanced up at the heavens for assistance, and noted with vague relief that the sun was yet low in the eastern sky. “It is too early for me to return,” I apologized. “My uncle gave instructions that I was to walk until midafternoon.”
Richard de Mornay narrowed his eyes in disbelief. “It is a pretty household you’ve fallen into, and no mistake. No matter.” He brushed off my objection. “You may ride with me to Crofton Hall, and pass the afternoon as my guest.”
I was sorely tempted by the offer, but in the end I shook my head, taking a small step backwards and nearly tripping over the fallen tree trunk in so doing.
“I am grateful for your kindness, Sir Richard,” I told him weakly, “but I think I had better not.”
“’Tis your decision,” he ass
ured me, swinging himself into the saddle with fluid grace. He brought the horse closer, reining in sharply so his muscled thigh was scarcely a handsbreadth from my face, knowing that the heavy log at my heels prevented any retreat. “I’ve told you once I would not force you to my will,” he reminded me, drawing one finger along my upturned jawline. “When we become lovers, it will be because you desire it as much as I.” His finger brushed my lips, the fleeting phantom of a kiss, before he raised his hand to his hat and bid me a polite good day.
The gray horse, for all its size, moved with great speed and agility. I watched the trees swallow them up and then stood listening for some minutes to the sound of the receding hoofbeats. I suppose I could have moved, had I wanted to, but I really did not want to. I just stood there in the dappled shadows, trying to hold the moment for as long as I could, all the while feeling it slipping away like wind through my open fingers… slipping… slipping…
My vision blurred, and the moment vanished.
I was standing alone by the edge of the lazy river, where only a scattering of knee-high shrubs and the occasional willow remained to hint at the grandness of the forest that once followed the river’s shores. The river was set now in a kind of hollow, steeply banked on either side, and I could see nothing but the water and grass and the blue sky above me. I had no idea where I was.
Scrambling up the sloping bank, I looked out over the fields and attempted to get my bearings. Far off to my left, I could see the fenced pastures and crooked roofs of a small village that might be Exbury. It was difficult to tell from this unfamiliar angle. There was a stock fence in front of me, too, not three feet away, and some distance beyond that a small whitewashed cottage, neatly kept, with gaily blooming flower boxes at every window. A miniature forest of crooked, gnarled apple trees stretched away in orderly fashion on the far side of the house, and several newly shorn sheep stared placidly back at me from their side of the stock fence.
I knew whose property it was even before Iain Sumner came whistling round the side of the cottage and paused outside the leaning back shed, fiddling with something mechanical that I couldn’t identify at that distance. His back was to me, muscles taut against the fabric of his cotton T-shirt, his red hair washed almost fair by the strong light of the morning sun.
I must admit, when I jumped the fence and began wending my way through the incurious sheep, my only intention was to walk over to Iain and beg a cup of coffee, but as I drew closer to the cottage, with him remaining unaware of my presence, a tiny niggling devil stirred inside me.
Here was my chance, I thought, to pay him back for all the times he had startled me out of my wits by sneaking up on me. I would never have a better opportunity. I slowed my steps to deaden the sound of my approach.
When I was still a few yards away, I saw the reason for his inattention. He was busy working on a heavy wooden block and tackle, the kind that I had often seen strung up in barns. Blue smoke from a cigarette curled above his head as he bent forward, using both hands to make an adjustment to the unwieldy contraption.
I was less than four feet away, now. One more step, and I could stretch out my hand and touch his shoulder. My hand was actually half raised when Iain lifted his head and angled it slightly, plucking the cigarette from his lips with capable, grease-stained fingers.
“Good morning, Julia,” he said.
Chapter 21
To his credit, he could not hold the innocent expression long. Grinning, he took another pull from his cigarette and straightened away from his work, turning to face me fully. “My kingdom for a camera,” he said, his gray eyes crinkling in amusement. “You ought to see your face.”
I closed my gaping mouth and shook my head, amazed.
“How on earth did you know I was there?” I asked him.
Iain braced both fists in the small of his back and stretched.
“I’m no clairvoyant,” he assured me. “I saw you hopping the fence. Thought you were taking a devil of a time getting here. Besides,” he added, pointing at the clear outline of our shadows on the shed wall, “if you’ve a mind to sneak up on a Scotsman, you’d best do it when the sun’s not at your back.” He narrowed his eyes a little and looked me up and down. “You’ve had a ducking,” he remarked.
I was surprised that I had not noticed the fact myself. Perhaps I had grown accustomed to the feel of Mariana’s dripping-wet gown against my skin, to the point where my mind no longer registered discomfort. Faintly curious, I looked down at myself, suddenly aware of the clinging dampness of my heavy denim jeans and oversized shirt. I ran an experimental hand through my hair and was relieved to find it dry, if slightly windblown and unruly. I must have looked a sight.
“I fell in the river,” I told him. “I’m nearly dry, I think.”
Iain looked at my bare feet and scrubbed face, and raised a russet eyebrow. “You’ll catch cold if you stay like that,” he warned me. “Come inside and dry off. You can have the loan of some of my clothes, if you like.”
“Well,” I wavered, “if it wouldn’t be any trouble…”
“No trouble at all,” he said. “I’m glad of the company at breakfast time.”
Good heavens, I thought, was it only time for breakfast? It seemed incredible, before I reminded myself that I had left the house at five o’clock that morning. A wall clock in Iain’s kitchen chimed eight times as we came into the cottage through the back door, confirming the earliness of the hour.
“I’ll have to wash,” he said, holding up his hands in evidence, “but you can go on ahead and change out of those wet things. You’ll find the bedroom down there on your right, and there’s plenty to wear in the wardrobe.”
It was odd, I thought as I stood barefoot in Iain Sumner’s bedroom a few minutes later, how a man’s clothes somehow defined him. Iain’s wardrobe boasted hanger after hanger of smartly pressed shirts, plain cotton and flannel plaid, flanked by several pairs of trousers and an oddly incongruous dinner jacket. I peeled the wet clothes from my body—leaving my underthings on for the sake of decency—and selected a pair of jeans and a blue plaid shirt from the assortment before me.
The jeans were ridiculously long on me, and stood up stiffly round my waist like a clown suit, but by rolling up the legs several times and leaving the shirttails hanging loose I managed to produce a rather fashionably frumpy effect that might have graced the cover of a teenage magazine.
Iain, ever the gentleman, made no comment on my appearance when I rejoined him in the kitchen. The cottage had a very simple and practical design, one large room split evenly into kitchen and sitting room, divided along the line of the narrow corridor leading to the bedrooms and bath. You could have shot an arrow in the front door and out the back again without hitting so much as a stick of furniture, so open and free of clutter was the room’s decor.
“Where shall I hang these?” I asked him, holding aloft my bundle of sodden clothes.
“I’ve a clothes dryer in the back shed,” he said, jerking his head towards the back door. “It’s a bit of a relic, but it works all right if you let it know who’s boss. You have to be forceful.”
I found out what he meant when I located the dryer beneath a pile of tools in the brightly lit shed. It took four tries and a swift kick to start the machine running, but I returned to the kitchen with a feeling of decided accomplishment.
“Everything OK?” Iain looked up enquiringly, and when I nodded he returned his attention to a sizzling pan on the cooker. I noticed he was automatically cooking for two, and a steaming cup of coffee waited for me on the table beside him. “It’s liable to be a bit stewed,” he warned me, when I reached to pick up the coffee mug. “I made it a few hours ago. You like eggs and sausage?”
I took a cautious sip of coffee. “Yes, I do.”
“Academic, really,” he said, lifting the pan from the burner and dividing its contents between two plate
s. “It’s all I can cook. Toast?”
“Yes, please.”
He placed a thick slice of buttered toast on the edge of my plate and set it on the table in front of me, slinging himself into the seat opposite.
“So.” He sent me a questioning look. “What brings you out this way at this time of the morning?”
I shrugged. “I just felt like a walk, that’s all. I hadn’t been down to the river before, and I wanted to see where it went.”
“So now you know.”
“Yes.” I smiled back at him, scooping up another forkful of hearty breakfast.
“You’ve walked about three miles, you know, if you’ve come the whole way along the river. It’s less than a mile to your place from here by the road. Shorter still if you cut across the fields.”
“Then that is Exbury I saw, over there?” I indicated the general direction, and he nodded.
“Aye. Did you think you were lost?”
“Don’t laugh,” I told him, “it’s been known to happen. I have a terrible sense of direction.”
“You can’t be a patch on my mother,” he said. “She takes a tour of the Highlands every time she heads out to visit the market, I think.”
I laughed at the image. “Are your parents farmers, as well?”
“Christ, no.” He took a swig of coffee to wash down a mouthful of toast. “Neither of them could tell the work end of a hoe from the handle. No, my dad’s an accountant, in Balloch. My mother was a solicitor, before she retired.”
Which explained, in part, why their son had gone to Cambridge, I thought. I looked around the large room with a more discerning eye, and saw the scattered evidence of a comfortable lifestyle—a piece of really good-quality furniture, a lovely pair of prints hanging on the wall, a glass-fronted bookcase crammed full of leather-bound volumes…
“I’m not a burglar, in my spare time,” he said, reading my thoughts with uncanny ease. “Some of it comes from my family, and the rest I bought when I was working for Geoff’s dad, in Paris.”
Mariana Page 20
