by Sandra Heath
“You have no stamina, my friend.”
“Perhaps I have more sense,” Theo retorted.
“Perhaps.” Conan smiled, and went to get his things from the chair. “I hope I won’t need the cloak, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
Mrs. Anthony hurried toward them. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said to Theo, “but I’m afraid the wolfhound is nowhere to be found.”
Theo sighed and ran agitated fingers through his hair. “Where on earth has that wretched canine gone?”
This was the first Conan had heard of Bran being missing. “When did you last see him?” he asked.
“When we arrived. Now I seem to have ... um, mislaid him.”
Conan raised an eyebrow. “How does one mislay something as large and noisy as Bran the Blessed, Son of Llyr?” he inquired dryly.
“With consummate ease, as it happens,” Theo confessed. “Oh, he’ll turn up when he’s hungry.”
“That at least can be relied upon.” Conan laughed, and turned to go out as he heard the groom with the admirably white gelding, which he’d been informed was rather unoriginally named Snowy. Names aside, whatever else one might think of Lord Carmartin, he had an eye for prime horseflesh, and it amused Conan to ride this example in an area where many believed white animals to be magical.
Conan rode down through the park to the double lodge, then east across the vale toward the escarpment, which seemed very green and close after all the rain. The air was cool, invigorating and filled with the scents of spring. Hawthorn petals drifted like snowflakes, the creamy lace of cow parsley was beginning to unfurl on the verges, and the air was alive with birdsong. It was good to be out on an English April day like this, Conan thought, as he brought the gelding up to an easy canter.
He gradually felt that someone was following him, and glanced back, but the road was empty. He rode on, but the feeling swept over him again. This time he reined in to look back. Once more the road was empty, but the sensation of being stalked was uncomfortably strong. After a moment he rode on.
He was right to suspect a follower, but it was only Bran. The wolfhound slunk close to the hedge, where his white coat blended with the hawthorn and cow parsley. Two squirrels made their way through the hedge beside him.
Chapter 19
As Conan urged his mount up the steep climb to the top of the escarpment, Ursula was already alighting from Miss Muffet in the yard of the Green Man. She had not taken any chances with the mare this time, and had come by way of the road, pausing at Hatty Pedlar’s Tump on the way to make sure it had not suffered any further damage. She was dressed in her lilac riding habit again, with her hair contained as neatly as possible in the black net pinned another bow of the lilac ribbon.
By chance she had managed to pick a quiet time at the inn. There was a private traveling carriage drawn up in a corner, and a post chaise was about to continue its journey to Gloucester, but apart from these the yard was clear. A Stroud stagecoach had not long departed, and the Meteor wasn’t expected for another half an hour, so most of those employed at the inn were taking advantage of the lull—and of Taynton’s absence in Dursley—to enjoy a little time to themselves.
After tethering Miss Muffet to the post, Ursula raised the veil on her little black hat and went inside. The murmur of voices in the dining room revealed the whereabouts of the party from the traveling carriage, and when she glanced around the door, she saw them seated at a table at the far end of the long, low room. They had finished a meal and were being served coffee by a maid, but it wasn’t Vera, so Ursula crossed the hall to the taproom, where the squirrel was hunched unhappily in its cage, its tail drooping, its whole demeanor one of utter misery.
Vera was laying the tables. Her hair was pushed up beneath a mobcap, and she wore a dull green linen dress that did nothing for her coloring. She looked less than lighthearted, and as Ursula watched, she suddenly sobbed silently and hid her face in her hands.
Concerned, Ursula hurried to her. “Vera? Whatever is it?”
Startled to realize she had been seen crying, Vera struggled to give a falsely bright smile. “Oh, it’s nothing. Miss Ursula. I have been slicing onions, and they always affect me.”
“You haven’t been doing any such thing, Vera Pedlar. You were laying these tables and just started weeping. I saw you from the doorway.”
Vera avoided her eyes. “I’m foolish, that’s all.”
“Allow me to be the judge of that. Come and sit down here.” Ursula ushered her to a settle by the inglenook. “Now then, what’s wrong?” she asked when they were both seated.
“Nothing, Miss Ursula.”
“Don’t fib, Vera. Is it Taynton?”
Vera drew away. “No, of course not,” she said quickly.
Ursula glanced across at the squirrel, which was now alert and quivering, its astonishing green eyes imploring her across the room. She longed to release it right there and then, but couldn’t do that with Vera watching. It didn’t matter that Sir Conan thought the blacksmith’s daughter had participated only reluctantly in the night’s ceremony, she had still been there. Vera was Taynton’s lover, and as such could not be trusted. “Vera, something must be making you unhappy. Is it because of the rift between you and your father?”
Vera’s eyes filled with tears again. “I-I’m so miserable about it all, Miss Ursula. I want to be my father’s little girl again, but I can’t.”
“Because Bellamy Taynton is preventing it?” Ursula ventured.
“Maybe.”
Encouraged to probe a little more, Ursula asked another question. “Why have you come here to the Green Man, Vera?”
“There was no other way.”
“What do you mean? Is it because you love Taynton so much?”
Vera gave a wan smile. “Oh, I love him with all my heart, Miss Ursula, but even if I did not, I would still have had to come here. It is something that must be.”
“Must be? I don’t understand.”
“Mr. Taynton is my master, Miss Ursula.”
Ursula paused a moment. “That’s a very unusual way to refer to one’s lover, Vera.”
“Lover? Oh, he isn’t my lover, either, Miss Ursula. I only wish he was, for I would be more than willing.”
Ursula stared at her. “I really don’t understand. You have cast aside your reputation and the respect of your father for nothing?”
“If you loved someone as much as I love him, Miss Ursula, you would not be so surprised. Besides, you don’t know him as I do. He can be so kind and gentle, and he can make me laugh as no one else can.”
Ursula blinked. Were they talking about the same Bellamy Taynton?
Vera smiled. “Oh, you may look like that, Miss Ursula, but it’s true. There are two sides to him, the one you know, and the one I know. I would do anything to spend the rest of my life with him.”
Ursula simply could not believe the vile Taynton could be such a paragon. “What is going on here, Vera? How can you possibly expect me to believe what you say about him? And what of that poor squirrel? Why is it so important to him? I want to help you if I can, and to start with I’d like to understand.”
Vera became guarded. “Don’t ask me more, Miss Ursula, for I must not say.”
“Vera, it’s wrong to keep a squirrel caged like that. It ought to be set free and—” Ursula broke off as one of Taynton’s grooms appeared in the doorway. His shrewd gaze rested on her for a moment before he addressed Vera.
“The Meteor’s on its way, I heard it a moment since.”
Vera got up quickly. “It’s early! I’ll go to the kitchens,” she said.
“Do you know when the master will return?” the groom asked.
“No, but I imagine it will be before nightfall,” Vera replied.
He nodded, gave Ursula another long look, and then hurried back to the yard, being careful to avoid Snowy, as did all the other ostlers and grooms.
Ursula wondered if they all referred to Taynton as ‘master’? Ursula put a han
d on Vera’s arm. “What’s going on here, Vera?”
“Nothing that need concern you, Miss Ursula.”
“It concerns me if it takes place within my father’s lands. Oh, I know this place is freehold, but everything else around it is Elcester property.”
“I-I must not—” Vera broke off as hooves sounded in the yard. She gave a sharp intake of breath as she saw Conan dismounting outside. “Why has he come back?”
“Who?” Ursula turned, and dismay struck through her as she recognized him. Flustered, she rose sharply to her feet. “If you speak to this gentleman at all, please don’t mention me, Vera, I beg of you!” she whispered, forgetting Miss Muffet tethered outside for all to see as she fled out of the taproom and across into the dining room, where to the bemusement of the traveling carriage party she pressed back out of sight behind the door. It was only then that she realized she had once again lost her hair ribbon. She knew it had been in place when she entered the taproom, so it must still be in there somewhere. Please don’t let it be too easy to see! She heard his footsteps in the hall, and closed her eyes tightly.
The key-bugle of the Meteor stagecoach sounded from the village green as Conan paused by the dining room and glanced in just as Ursula had done minutes earlier. He had seen Miss Muffet tethered outside and thought maybe his Lady of the Ribbons was here, for he was sure the white mare was hers. It had caused him much secret mirth to see the dismay with which a second white horse had been greeted in the yard. Had he brought a savage beast from the heart of Africa, the presence of two white horses could not have caused more blenching of otherwise weathered country faces.
He wondered if Taynton was around anywhere, or Vera perhaps. As he looked into the dining room, he was a little disconcerted to see the few diners who were there gazing at him as if they found him of intense interest. At least, that was what he believed, but actually they were staring at Ursula, who was only inches away from him behind the door. He doffed his top hat politely, and the carriage party inclined their heads in patently puzzled response.
Turning, he went into the taproom, which seemed so invitingly quiet that he thought his rescue mission was about to be accomplished without even the tiniest of hitches. Still no sign of Taynton, he thought, or of Vera, who had now hurried through to the kitchens in readiness for the imminent stagecoach. But the moment he crossed the threshold he saw a telltale bow of lilac ribbon on the floor. As he bent to retrieve it, he heard the rustle of a woman’s skirt behind him, and straightened in time to see Ursula dashing for the door to the yard.
“Hey!” he cried, and left the ribbon on the floor in order to pursue her.
Wishing she had stayed where she’d been, she slammed the yard door behind her to gain a few seconds, but knew she could not hope to untether Miss Muffet, mount, and ride away before he reached her. So instead she ran across the yard, where his mount was now tethered alongside hers, and into the deserted stables, where she crouched behind a pile of straw in an empty stall. As she made herself as small as possible, she found herself staring into Bran’s startled eyes, for the wolfhound had chosen the very same hiding place! She put a finger to her lips. “Shh, Bran,” she whispered.
The wolfhound cocked his head on one side and looked askance at her. His expression was eloquent. What a very odd woman, he seemed to be thinking. First she hid in badger sets, and now behind piles of straw. Wherever next?
By now Conan had wrenched open the inn door and caught a glimpse of lilac riding habit as she dashed into the stables. He ran after her just as the Meteor stagecoach swept beneath the archway and grooms and ostlers hastened from all directions to go about their duties. No one even noticed him making for the stables, and he didn’t think anyone knew Ursula had preceded him.
Chapter 20
In spite of the racket in the yard, on entering the stables Conan distinctly heard a rustling sound from behind the pile of straw in the stall. He strode over to it and was startled to find Bran with Ursula. “What in God’s own name ... ?” he began, then folded his arms to survey them both. First he addressed the wolfhound. “It was you following me, eh, sir? You’re supposed to be at Carmartin Park, not here.”
Bran hung his head, always knowing when he was in trouble.
Then Conan addressed Ursula. “As for you, Miss Elcester—it is Miss Elcester, is it not?”
She sat up slowly, feeling very foolish, and very apprehensive. She hadn’t anticipated meeting him until this evening, and having the moment thrust upon her now denied her the opportunity to prepare herself. Her wits seemed to have scattered to the four corners of the stables, and all she could think of saying was, “How did you find out who I was?”
“Oh, I worked it out for myself, so please do not accuse me of breaking my word about making inquiries.”
Finding herself alone with him again, and in questionable circumstances, she looked uneasily toward the door. “Perhaps we should go outside, Sir Conan. I don’t wish to be discovered alone with you in here.”
“No one knows we are here.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be. We are private enough, and if anyone should come, you have only to dive down behind the straw again.”
She had to remove her hat because it had been knocked sideways and was tugging at its pins. “Are you going to tell Mr. Greatorex about me?”
“Tell—?” A frown darkened his brow. “What do you take me for, madam?”
“I don’t know. I hardly know you, so how can I possibly guess what manner of man you are?” she retorted. I only know that when I look into your eyes, I feel more alive than ever before ... . Hot color warmed her cheeks, and she made much of brushing bits of straw from her hat.
“Well, I still know as little about you, Miss Elcester,” he declared, although it wasn’t strictly true. He knew about the marriage that was being foisted upon her, about her interests, her desire to stay in Elcester, her contentment with her father. He knew there was far more to her than Theo believed; and he knew that he desired her to the point of lunacy. She looked so lovely, her riding habit crumpled, her hair barely contained by the net at the nape of her neck, a fragment of straw clinging to her cheek. Just to be with her was to want her with a passion so fierce that it almost overrode restraint. It was an ancient passion, shared before, a long, long time ago ...
“Sir Conan, I rather think you know much more about me than I do about you. You have had time to speak to Mr. Greatorex concerning me, whereas I’ve only just learned you exist.”
They gazed at each other, both trying to conceal their feelings, then for the second time since meeting her, he stretched down a hand to help her to her feet. And for the second time the physical contact engulfed them in a tidal wave of erotic sensations that warmed and quickened their hearts, then dragged at their guilt with an undertow of unconsummated desire. They both knew they shouldn’t feel the way they did; and both knew they would strive with all their might to deny the craving that ached through their bodies and very souls.
The moment was broken when Bran whined suddenly and sniffed the air as if an intriguing scent of some sort had just reached him. Conan took no notice, but glanced back toward the yard, where the passengers from the Meteor had now disappeared into the inn. “Look, I don’t know why you’re here now, but I came here to pry a little, and to try to release the squirrel.”
“So did I.”
“I fancy this might be a case of too many cooks. Leave it to me. If I’m caught meddling it isn’t so bad, but it wouldn’t do for Taynton to catch you.” Conan couldn’t resist brushing away the wisp of straw that clung to her cheek.
“Taynton isn’t here. I saw him leaving earlier. I believe he’s gone to Dursley.”
Conan looked down as Bran suddenly tugged at his cuff. “What is it, boy?”
The wolfhound whined, left the stall, then turned and whined again before padding toward the other end of the stables, where the antlers hung on the wall above the maypole. Freshly heaped straw arou
sed Conan’s curiosity, and he brushed some of it aside and found the wooden guardians lying there.
Bran began to scratch at some more straw nearby. “What have you found now?” Conan murmured, and bent to push the maypole aside and clear the straw away. “There are some loose boards here,” he said to Ursula, getting his fingers around the nearest one.
Ursula bent to help him, and in a moment they had lifted the boards away to reveal a sizeable hiding place underneath. In it lay the folded robes that had been worn in the woods, Taynton’s staff and torque, the circlet of mistletoe and oak leaves to which the antlers could be attached, and a jar of strong-smelling herbal balm. It was the latter that Bran had detected. There were also three small squares of yew bark, some long iron nails like those into the hollow oak, a very old tinderbox, some short, squat candles, and the chalice that had been stolen from the church.
Ursula gasped. “The chalice! The theft must have something to do with Taynton!” She told Conan briefly about the missing goblet and the mystery of the yew tree. “He’s probably responsible for breaking into Hatty Pedlar’s Tump as well, although why I can’t imagine. Nothing here could have come from there.”
“Hatty Who’s What?”
She told him about the long barrow and that it was named after one of Vera’s forebears. “What with that, the chalice, the disfigured yew, the squirrel, last night in the wood, and so on, some very odd things have been happening in Elcester of late,” she finished.
He smiled. “I rather think I already know that.”
She smiled too, and again they gazed at each other, struggling to stifle the forbidden need that consumed them both. She tore her eyes away first and tried to sound level as she again looked down into the hiding place, “Well, I think from the mistletoe and oak leaves that we can now make an informed guess that something druidic is being resurrected.”
“Yes, but what are they trying to achieve?”
Ursula breathed out slowly. “I’ve tried to ask Vera, but she became very wary. She kept saying ‘it must be,’ and similar phrases. One thing, though, she isn’t Taynton’s lover yet, but she’d like to be. He doesn’t love her, but she loves him.”
