“Wait?” muttered Russ suspiciously. “For how long?” “Not long.”
“Better not be long or my creditors will be on me like a pack of dogs. ”
“Your creditors . . . yes, we wouldn’t want them to strip you of your lands, would we?”
Russ made no answer, but his eyes smoldered. “She won’t have you, you know,” he said bitterly. “She wouldn’t have Pimmerston and she won’t have you, stubborn wench that she is!”
“Oh, she’ll have me,” was the calm rejoinder. “And she won’t even know she’s been bought. But I don’t propose to hand over a small fortune for nothing. I’ll buy Aldershot Grange from you, together with all its goods. Once Charlotte is mine, I’ll give you my note of hand for it and you can have the deed drawn up.” As if in answer to Russ’s balky expression, he added softly, “And when I redeem the note and take the deed, "I'll give you back a lease on Aldershot Grange for your lifetime, at a rental of”—laughter welled up in his voice—“a single blood-red rose, payable once a year during Whitsuntide.”
Russ drew a deep breath and his sagging shoulders straightened, “I'm willing enough,” he said cautiously, ‘‘but my creditors must even now be streaming north—”
“Oh, bother your creditors,” said the younger man impatiently. “Disappear, man, disappear! Until I return.”
“And where are you going?”
The dark eyes took on an opaque look. “Edinburgh,” was the glib answer. “There’s a man there who owes me money, and I’m off to collect it. ”
“Good. I’ll go along.”
“That you will not. Now, listen to me. Here’s my plan.” Before they were a quarter of the way down the mountain, following the distant figures of their guides in the moonlight, Russ knew what part he must play. He chuckled.
“By the Lord Harry, I believe it will work!” he exclaimed in admiration.
“Of course it will work,” was the cold response. “My plans always work.”
Below them they could hear Charlotte, fighting and struggling now with the guides and passionately demanding to be taken back to the cliff, where she could see Tom’s body below, for could he not still be alive? They could hear the guides gruffly assuring her that no man could survive such a fall and live, and besides, one of the “gentlemen” had looked over the edge and said he was gone.
“I’m not so sure your plan will work,” warned Russ, suddenly glum.
“It will,” said Rowan confidently, reaching out to steady Russ as a bit of rock gave way beneath the other man’s foot.
When they reached the base of the mountain where the horses had been left tethered, they found Charlotte seated on the ground with one of the guides gripping her arm. She fixed a venomous gaze on her uncle.
"Murderer!" she said through her teeth. "I ll see you hanged for this night s work!"
The guides stirred uneasily. Of a sudden the night seemed darker.
" ’Twas your lover who would have been hanged for trepanning," her uncle told her heavily. "So his death by accident was merciful."
With a convulsive motion Charlotte jerked free of the guides’ grasp. Heedless of her injured ankle, she tried to spring at her uncle, but Rowan caught her.
"Easy," he murmured, hearing her gasp of pain as her weight went on that ankle. He turned to the two men who had brought her down the mountain. "We can take it from here," he told them. "We both thank you for restoring this lady to her guardian."
"Restored?" cried Charlotte. "I am not ‘restored !" She twisted about, trying to appeal to the guides. "I am brought to this man against my will—I will not have him as a guardian any longer. He is a murderer, he has murdered Tom, he—"
"There, there. " Rowan crushed her face against his chest in a way that effectively smothered her words, turning them into an unintelligible jumble. He held her thus while the guides made a hasty exit, muttering to themselves. "Pass the word, will you," he called, "that the lady is found and the searchers can disband. "
"How dare you?" Charlotte cried when Rowan loosed his grip enough that she could speak. She struck at his face but he dodged. "Unhand me at once!"
"Yes, unhand her, Rowan," came her uncle s sneering voice. "Give her to me, for I must deliver her to Pimmerston."
Charlotte’s accusing face swung toward him. "Pimmerston?" she scoffed in a bitter voice. "I myself heard Pimmerston tell you he only wanted me because I was a virgin—and I am a virgin no longer!"
"He has changed his mind," her uncle assured her calmly. "It seems your running away has inflamed him. He waits for you with bated breath." There was irony in his tone.
"I do not believe you!" she flung at him.
“You’ll believe it soon enough,’’ he said sourly. “Here, give her to me, Rowan. I’ll knock some sense into the wench before I turn her over to Pimmerston. ”
“No,” said Rowan.
Roth Charlotte and her uncle gave him their full attention. “What d’you mean?” blustered her uncle. “I’m the wench’s guardian! Turn her over to me at once, man!” Again that calm “No.” Charlotte was looking up at Rowan in surprise. “I’m not going to let you knock her about, guardian or no. Nor give her to Pimmerston either.” He could feel Charlotte’s body stiffen.
“If you think to have the wench for yourself ...” Russ sprang at Rowan and was sent sprawling by Rowan’s long arm.
“This way, my lady!” Rowan reached for the reins, swept Charlotte up onto his chestnut stallion, and leapt to the saddle after her. “The lads who’ve been searching for you are heading for home now, and if Russ wants you back he’ll have to come for you himself!” He wheeled his horse about, even as Russ scrambled up with a hoarse shout, and thundered off in the direction of Scotland.
“But I can’t go with you,” Charlotte cried in panic. “Tom may not be dead. I must go back!”
“My lady.” Rowan kept his arm firmly about her waist and his sober voice interrupted her. “Tom Westing is dead. I myself looked over and saw his body lying upon the rocks below, almost athwart the stream. The moonlight showed him clearly. Twas plain his neck was broken. And as I watched, the torrent took him. If he wasn’t dead already, the churning waters of that wild cascade would have broken him against the rocks.”
Hope that by some miracle Tom might still be alive had sustained Charlotte during the long journey down the mountain, and now with these words coming from a man who had just proved himself a friend, that hope was gone. A great sob shook her young body and she collapsed weeping against the chest of the strong man who held her.
For a time Rowan let her weep while the horse covered ground at a more sedate pace. When her sobs had died down a little, he said in a reassuring voice, “Have no fear, Charlotte, Pimmerston shall not have you. Nor will I return you to your uncle, I promise you that.”
She moved restively, seeing the world through a blur of tears. “But where . . . where are you taking me?” she choked. For it had come to her suddenly that they were riding through the night to some unknown destination.
“Across the border to Scotland,” he said easily.
“To . . . Scotland?” She dashed her tears away and turned to peer up into his face. “Why Scotland?”
“Because we'll be married there. At Gretna Green.”
“But that’s madness!” Charlotte gasped. “I cannot marry you. I cannot marry anyone! Oh, do put me down and I will find my own way. I will escape my uncle all by my myself. ”
Rowan’s response to this rebuff was steely. “I will not put you down to wander these hills and vales alone. I will not abandon you to wolves or carrion birds. Nor will I leave you here for Russ to find and drag you protesting back to Pimmerston. To Scotland you will go, and there we will be married.”
“No, we will not!” She began to struggle fiercely.
Rowan reined up and brought his mount to a halt.
“Do you wish to be forced into Pimmerston’s arms?” he demanded.
“No, I will die first!” cried Charlotte wildly.<
br />
“It is harder to take one’s own life than you might think,” he said in a mild tone.
“It will not be hard for me!” she flashed.
He was staring down at her now with a strange intensity. She could not know the effect her wild loveliness in the moonlight had on him at that moment. Suddenly his wry laugh rang out, echoing across the glen. “I might have known,” he told her ruefully. “After this night’s work, I will die for nothing!”
Charlotte was bewildered. It was herself who would die, not Rowan. “What are you talking about? Why should you die?”
“D’you think your uncle is not already gathering men to follow us? D’you think he’ll not charge me with kidnapping you?”
“But I’ll tell them what happened,” she protested. “I’ll charge my uncle with Tom’s murder and explain that you were but saving me.”
“Who’ll listen to you?” he cut in brutally. “Up on the mountain I thought it best for all concerned to call Westing’s death an accident and avoid a trial that would shame you, and by now the guides have spread the word far and wide that he died by misadventure, that he toppled over the cliff by himself. D’you think they’ll backtrack on that?” “But you know the truth!” she cried. “You’ll tell them what really happened.”
“Who’ll listen to me now? I’m the man who got rid of the guides and then kidnapped you from under your uncle’s nose. They’ll hang me for trying to save you.”
Charlotte was staring at him in horror. It was true; her uncle was vicious enough to bring charges against Rowan, and who could tell what a court would do?
“My only chance now,” he told her evenly, “is to marry you in Scotland. Once the deed is done, even your uncle must relent. And this way Pimmerston will never have you.”
Her head seemed to be whirling into blackness. The events of the night had been too much. Tom was gone, and she would shortly follow him—but Rowan had tried to save her, his intentions at least had been good—she could not bring him to his death! He was watching her intently, stalwart in the moonlight, his dark face close to hers. He was waiting for her answer. Charlotte struggled up from the blackness.
“You knew you took your life in your hands when you carried me away from my uncle,” she said slowly. “Why did you do it?”
He sighed. “I should think it was obvious,” he said caressingly. “I care about what happens to you, Charlotte.” His voice deepened and held a wistful note. “Indeed, ever since this chase began, I have wished that I were Westing. ”
It was simply put, and the sincerity of it reached her. For a long time she stared at him, her tearstained face pale. Then, “I cannot let them do you harm because of me,” she said in an altered voice.
“So you will marry me?” His tone was rich.
She did not answer. Heartbeats throbbed by—so many of them that he began to feel a deep unease. Could Russ have been right? Was the wench so stubborn that she would marry no one, but believe herself tied to a dead man forever?
“I know it is asking a great deal,” he said tentatively. “But—”
As if ashamed of her hesitation to aid the man who had aided her at such peril, she cut in, her voice hurried, “I will ... go through the ceremony with you.” And then, lest he misinterpret her meaning, she added in a low voice, “But I cannot truly be your wife, that is asking too much.”
Myriad emotions passed over Rowan’s face for a moment, were quickly controlled. His jawline was set.
“I will accept whatever crumbs fall from your table,” was his sardonic answer. “And now, my lady, if you will lean against me and try to sleep, we’ll soon be in Scotland. ”
But Charlotte could not sleep. The memory of Tom, of all that she had lost, pressed in about her. She sat bolt upright, with the rising wind blowing her hair back against Rowan’s shoulder. Every time a strand of it blew against his face, it seemed to burn him like a brand, but he kept hold of himself and even managed not to tighten the slack though watchful grip he kept on his precious burden.
All the rest of the way to Gretna Green they never spoke. The wind was drying the tears on Charlotte’s pale cheeks even as she wept. Silent tears for all that might have been.
The wind kept rising; it moaned across the valley, rising in tempo until all the banshees of hell seemed to be wailing in the glen. Charlotte would never forget that wailing of the wind, nor the teardrops of rain that fell upon them in the gray of early morning as they rode into Gretna Green. She felt that even the heavens wept for Tom.
In Gretna Green the smithy had been fired and flames rose against the cherry-red glow of a horseshoe the heavy-muscled smith was pounding into shape. He looked up at their approach, guessing these tired riders to be exactly what they appeared to be—runaway lovers.
Limp with fatigue, Charlotte felt herself lifted down from the horse and leaned against Rowan as the smith s beaming wife came out of the house wiping floury hands on a cotton apron. She was a big buxom woman and came to a halt before Charlotte, looking anxious at the sight of the girl’s set face and tragic eyes and torn clothing.
“Is the lass all right?” she asked, casting a worried look at Charlotte’s husband-to-be.
As usual, Rowan rose to the occasion.
“My lass’s guardian swore she would be wed to no man who is half-Scottish,” he told the smith and his wife in a surprising Scots brogue. “He caught us when we were leaving”—here indicating Charlotte’s torn dress, which she was holding together with both hands—“and did attack her. For which I laid him low,” he added darkly. “So I’ve brought my lass home to my mother’s land—my mother was a MacAldie from Edinburgh—and that’s where we re going, to her people. But my lass’s guardian will be pounding over the border in hot pursuit, so we hope you can get us wed, and speedily.”
“Oh, of course we will!” cried the smith’s wife, bristling with anger that a good Scot should be turned down by an English guardian. She almost applauded when Rowan added with a swagger, “Faith, if you’ve a pen and parchment, I’ll pen her guardian a note saying as much. If you’ll be good enough to hand it to him, for he’s sure to come by this way seeking her. ”
“Aye, that’s the way to do it,” she said with approval, and led them inside to a sturdy table, where Rowan dipped the sharpened goose quill she gave him into a dark concoction he hoped was ink and swiftly wrote his note of hand for Aldershot Grange—payable at the time he was delivered the deed on same. He sealed it with candle wax, pressed into it the imprint of his signet ring, and handed it to the smith’s wife, who laid it carefully away. “But what about the poor young lass’s clothes?” she asked anxiously.
Rowan’s gaze swept over Charlotte, who was leaning exhausted against the wall, holding her bodice together with one hand and her skirt together with the other.
"I've no time to shop for any, but if you have a spare dress and a cloak, "I'll pay well."
"I've naught will fit her," sighed the smith’s wife.
Feeling light-headed, Charlotte listened without interest to this exchange. The goose quill scratching over the parchment had not interested her, nor did this. What did it matter what insults Rowan penned to Uncle Russ? Her life was over—what did it matter what she wore?
But she submitted to the ministrations of the smith’s kindly wife, who took a couple of quick stitches in the bodice and pinned up Charlotte’s skirt and chemise to her bodice as best she could, partly covering her handiwork with a clean homespun apron dyed with hazel.
Charlotte looked strangely attired in her torn finery and homespun as she walked out into the darkening weather to take her vows. With eyes cast down, staring dully at the damp trodden grass around the smithy, she took her place beside Rowan, standing before the anvil-as-altar, and listened to the words being sonorously read. To her credit, she went through the ceremony dry-eyed—except once, when she was momentarily overwhelmed by the realization that she was in Scotland at last, Scotland, where Tom had promised to take her, where she was being married
just as they’d planned, except that the wrong man stood beside her taking his vows. Tom was dead, his battered body borne upon the crashing white waters of the cascade far away. Her violet eyes filled with tears that spilled over, but she managed to keep her voice almost steady as she murmured low that she would take this man to be her wedded husband.
“My lass was fond of her guardian, " Rowan muttered to the smith’s wife by way of explaining Charlotte’s tears.
And at that moment the heavens opened and the rain that had been threatening all day began to beat down in earnest. Rowan seized Charlotte’s hand, waved to the smith and his wife and helper who had been their witnesses, and hurried Charlotte to the horse.
In a steady downpour they made their way to Dumfries, and on that ride she said, “I did not know your mother was a Scot."
“Nor was she," was his cheerful reply. “But announcing that she was a Scot served me well."
It was the first suggestion she had that Rowan really was a consummate liar.
“Then we are not going to Edinburgh?" she asked tentatively, pushing her soaked hair back from her face.
He laughed. “No, we’re for Portugal," he said carelessly.
Startled, with rivulets of rain pouring down her smooth cheeks, Charlotte swung round to face him. “Portugal?” she exclaimed incredulously.
There was exultation in the look he gave her, for had not everything worked out exactly as he had planned? “Portugal," he affirmed. “Where none of them will ever find us."
Charlotte turned her wet head away without comment. After that first surprised outburst, she seemed to have lost interest in the subject, he noted with regret. He would have been filled with alarm had he known the depths of her despondency, guessed what she was thinking:
Lost at sea ... a dark night . . . over the ships rail to oblivion. Oh, Tom, Tom, wherever you are, wait for me. . . .
13
The High Seas
Doing away with herself had proved less easy than Charlotte had assumed it would be.
In Dumfries Rowan had arranged passage on a ship that plied up and down the coast.
Lisbon Page 15
