Journey to Enchantment

by Patricia Veryan

  “My darling…” he whispered, and pulled her into his arms.

  She surrendered quite willingly to his brutality, but if she was not throttled when he raised his head at length, she was certainly breathless and considerably crushed. “Oh, Geoffrey … Geoffrey…” she murmured, lying limply in his embrace.

  “My dainty Scots beauty,” he responded, pressing kisses into her curls.

  She stroked his sleeve lovingly. “If you take me to Highview, whatever will your family think?”

  “They may think what they will, much I care!” After several more kisses, however, he added thoughtfully, “Of course, I shall have to find you a maid before we go. It would never do for you to drive up without one.”

  This struck her as ridiculous, in view of all their desperate journeying with no thought of maids or chaperones. She giggled, and asked, “Would your lady aunt be very shocked?”

  Her cheek was nestled against his cravat, wherefore she did not see his face become set and grim. He said, “Oh, very. You will find her quite a different article to Mrs. MacTavish, or the ladies you have known.”

  She tensed, and a tiny frown tugged at her brows. “Shall I? I suppose they are very grand and will fancy me a proper country bumpkin.”

  It was said with the sure knowledge that he would immediately deny such snobbery. Geoffrey, however, with half his mind on the deadly cypher still residing in his waistcoat pocket, and the other half on his predatory relations, replied absently, “Never fear, Prue. With some proper clothes, the maid will be able to make you appear a grand lady, also.”

  Her eyes widened. She left his arms and wandered across the room to pause beside an occasional table and stare blindly at the feather duster some flurried housemaid had accidentally left there. “Do you really think a maid can work such a transformation?” she asked, her hands clenching.

  He took out the cypher and stared down at it. He must find a better place of concealment than his pocket. “Oh, yes. If we find one who is very well trained.”

  Very—well—trained? Prudence, beginning to breathe rapidly, took up the little duster and gripped it until her knuckles whitened. Did the man fancy her unable properly to manipulate knife and fork, perhaps? “How nice it will be,” she said, her white teeth flashing in a glittering smile, “when I learn to go on in a well-bred way.”

  He folded the cypher and put it in the back compartment of his watch, then glanced at the hour. Two o’clock almost. Time yet, if he left at once. “What? Oh, yes, very nice,” he agreed disastrously.

  Gritting her teeth, she went on, “To be demure and gently spoken, and mannerly—like an English lady.”

  “Just so,” he said, tucking his watch in his pocket and crossing to her.

  Prudence spun around, gripping her duster savagely, and Delavale recoiled from the fury that glared from her narrowed eyes.

  “Horrid, high-in-the-instep, opinionated Sassenach,” she snarled. “Little wonder ye were ashamed tae introduce this savage baggage tae yer fine-feathered friend!”

  “Wh-what? Prudence, I promise you—”

  “Aye—that ye do! Promises and—and insincere speeches and vows of undying love that mean nae more t’ye than any commonplace!”

  He paled, and his dark brows drew down. “Now just one moment, if y’please, ma’am—”

  “I dinna please,” she declared, stamping her tiny foot at him. “So there’s nae call fer ye tae waste yer aristocratic breath on a wee bit Scots lassie wi’ not a dram o’ culture or refinement in her entire uncouth person!”

  “What in the deuce are you so in the boughs about? If it is on account of my title—”

  “Oh, pish for your silly title—much I care for’t! Did ye fancy t’would bring me grovelling tae me knees in humility before your fine worship?”

  Stung, Delavale stalked to stand before the infuriated girl. “If ever I heard such unmitigated balderdash! I think I have never puffed off my consequence to you—or anyone else for that matter.” She thrust her lower lip out at him, but some of the wrath went out of her blue eyes and, his own eyes softening, he added a teasing, “Besides, from what I know of you, my lass, humility is not noticeable among your virtues. Courage, I’ll admit, but—”

  “Oooh!” snorted Prudence, inflamed again. “So I’m a bold, encroaching hussy, the noo!” She shook her duster at him as he stepped closer, thus producing a cloud of dust that caused him to move back hurriedly. “Well, ye need nae tremble, my lord Delavale! This Scots baggage”—she paused as he sneezed violently—“will nae cause ye the embarrassment o’ being obliged tae introduce her vulgarity tae yer hoity-toity family!”

  Snatching for his handkerchief, Delavale mopped at his eyes and growled an incensed, “You are behaving like—like”—another staggering sneeze—“a silly little girl. And for no— Arroush! No—cause. I could spank you and—” He mopped his eyes again and glared at her. “And should!”

  “Do not dare to strike me!” She lifted her little duster again, but with less hostility, for he stood so close and dear, and he was so very cross that he was pale with it.

  Delavale had no suspicion of the fact that she waited to be seized and crushed and kissed. And he ground out between his teeth, “I have never yet raised my hand against a lady, but ’fore God, you tempt me, madam!” He drew himself up to his full height and said with fine disdain, “I shall leave you to attempt to regain your composure. Good afternoon, Miss MacTavish.”

  Prudence sank into a deep and mocking curtsey, quite forgetting that in one gracefully extended hand she clutched a worn feather duster.

  Equally blind to this ludicrous finale, Delavale swore under his breath and, sneezing, left her.

  * * *

  Stuart MacLeod had supposed that since he and Delavale rode alone, it would be safe for him to venture a word or two. He discovered, however, that his words fell on deaf ears, the frowning man beside him not so much refusing to respond as seeming oblivious of his presence. Their pace had been furious at first, but just as MacLeod had been about to enter a plea for the sake of the horses, Delavale drew rein and slowed to a walk for the next half-mile before starting off again at a steady canter.

  Not having the remotest notion of where they were, or whither they were bound, MacLeod took in his surroundings with interest. It was a bonnie country. Puny, but bonnie. They had ridden through serene fields and farmland, by winding lanes lined with hedgerows where wild flowers scented the air with their fragrance and trees threw a grateful shade across their way. The hamlets were a joy to the eye, with sturdy thatched cottages and carefully tended gardens, the brief and often single thoroughfare almost invariably boasting an inn on which MacLeod’s gaze rested longingly. But Delavale had pressed on, ever in the same grim-lipped silence, until now, in late afternoon, they were riding through open country; a place of rounded rolling hills, mightily short of trees, thought MacLeod, and dotted here and there with flocks of sheep and shepherds whose friendly waves he returned, but which Delavale ignored.

  Far ahead now rose the spires and chimneys of a town. MacLeod glanced at his companion’s stern face. “Sir,” he said tentatively, “I’d nae interrupt yer glummery, but in aboot a minute or two, we’ll ride smack intae yon troop.”

  The words jolted Delavale from his absorption with the extraordinary tantrums of Miss Prudence MacTavish. In the near distance he caught a glimpse of red uniforms. “Good Gad!” he exclaimed, and with a remorseful glance at the Scot, “Mac, you should have rapped your claymore over my stupid head! Into that stand of trees! Fast!”

  They entered the shade of the trees and proceeded with caution. At the brow of the hill the birches petered out. Fortunately, the troopers were riding off to the south, and there were no more in sight. The experience was a warning, however. Resuming their journey, Delavale kept his wits about him, which was as well; soon, they encountered several more straggling groups of military, two on foot and the others mounted. MacLeod pointed out a halted carriage with troopers inspecting the pap
ers of the occupants, and the two men looked at each other, unhappily aware that they carried no identification that would satisfy the redcoats.

  Delavale checked their speed, and they rode with ever-increasing vigilance, skirting the ancient market town of Devizes with its great old church and the ruins of the once proud castle which Oliver Cromwell had destroyed. MacLeod suggested that they stop and rest at a cosy hedge tavern just east of the town, but Delavale shook his head and pressed on across Roundway Down, ever north and east.

  The sun was setting when they came into a tiny hamlet, where a Gothic church tower rose with sturdy placidity above a little cluster of trees and cottages.

  “D’ye see any uniforms?” asked Delavale, scanning the drowsing street.

  “Nary a one, sir. But there’s a wee tavern. D’ye mean tae wet yer whistle, I can take the horses tae yon smithy, and see them fed and rubbed doon.”

  “I’ll go with you and make the arrangements. Do you stay with the hacks until I return, and we’ll find ourselves some dinner sooner or later.”

  MacLeod did not relish the thought of Delavale going on alone, but his protests were overborne. Delavale was determined not to involve the Scot in the perilous business he must now undertake. He had a near rebellion on his hands when, having arranged for the care of the horses, he left the smithy beside MacLeod and demanded that in the event of trouble the big man should keep out of sight. Not until Delavale pointed out that someone must get back to Miss MacTavish and conduct her safely to her aunt’s home, did MacLeod vow to do as he was instructed.

  The two men looked at each other and, not daring to allow this to seem a possible farewell, said nothing. Delavale smiled and winked. MacLeod regarded him miserably, and watched as the tall, slim figure wandered off.

  Farther along the street a tiny bow window offered a glimpse of bon-bons and comfits. With Prudence in mind, Delavale stooped to the narrow door and went inside. The interior was warm and fragrant, and the rather deaf elderly lady behind the counter was shyly pleased by his compliments on her neat establishment. He chatted at a shout with her, explaining that he was en route to visit a friend in Hungerford, but had never passed this way before. He was at once regaled with a listing of noteworthy attractions, and urged not to miss the earthwork where had been found many prehistoric artifacts well worth the viewing.

  He listened to her with his usual courteous attention and said he would certainly plan to pay it a visit, then added idly, “It seems I heard something about a fine church nearby. It must be very old, I collect, for it is said to have a leper’s window.”

  “Aye. Ye’ll be meaning St. Peter’s in Greater Shottup. A very nice old church, sir, and lies about six miles east.”

  “On this same road, ma’am?”

  “Yes. You’ll have no trouble finding it,” she said, smiling at him. “Just keep yer eyes open for scarlet coats.”

  En route to the door, he checked. “Huntsmen?” he asked, turning back.

  “Of a sort. They do say they’re after the man what has the poem.”

  Delavale’s breath seemed to freeze in his throat. “Poem…?”

  “Have ye not heard about it, sir? Why, there’s notices up everywhere. There’s a reward of a hundred pound. A hundred pound! Fancy that. It’s for anyone laying a information ’gainst one of those poor Jacobite gentlemen. If he turns out to be the one with a poem of some kind. Did ever you hear anything so odd?”

  He said with forced nonchalance, “Mayhap the Duke of Cumberland has a taste for poetry.”

  She said with a frown, “Perhaps so, sir. Though from all we hear his Grace has little taste for aught but cruelty. Be that as it may, if you just follow the road east, you can’t miss it.” Rather wistfully, she asked, “Was your honour meaning to buy something?”

  He thought he should buy the whole shop, considering the service she had unknowingly rendered him, but settled for a bag of sweets, squandering a whole groat on his selection, much to her delight.

  Striding back along the quiet street towards the smithy, he was frowning and dismayed. The military might not know about his rendezvous point, but they had learned about the cypher. To wonder how was pointless. There were a hundred ways they might have obtained the information, none pleasant. He and MacLeod had been six miles from death! Had he not stayed to buy those sweets.… His lips tightened. No possibility to deliver the cypher tonight. He must get Prudence safely to Highview Manor, and then try again.

  MacLeod was waiting anxiously, and Delavale brought a comical look of dismay to the Scot’s broad features when he murmured that they dare not stay to eat here. He tossed over the bag of sweets. “This will help assuage that great hunger of yours.”

  MacLeod was almost childishly pleased. He possessed a sweet tooth and made no complaint as he mounted up, chewing contentedly on a piece of toffee.

  Delavale chose a route that avoided all frequented byways. He rode fast, eager to get back to Prudence, not noticing MacLeod’s occasional attempts at conversation until the Scot thrust the bag at him and leaned over to shout, “Ye’re looking proper doon in the doldrums, sir. Will ye nae try a bit? They’re verra good.”

  Delavale grinned and took a piece. He began to unwind the twist of paper, then paused, staring down at it. Slowing, he demanded, “Give me the bag again. Are they all the same colour?”

  MacLeod said uncertainly, “I dinna ken what colour they are, but they taste like—”

  “Not the sweets, man! The paper wrapping.”

  “Ah. Why, some are red, I fancy, and there’s a few whites, and one or two blues. If ye dinna care for the one ye got—”

  Delavale reined up and poked about in the bag. “I’ll take all the blues,” he declared, stuffing them into his pocket. He unwrapped one piece, put the toffee into his mouth, then took out his watch. MacLeod drew back a little, eyeing him uneasily. Delavale extracted a small fold of parchment. “Och, awie!” groaned MacLeod, with belated comprehension. “Did ye no get loose o’ yon cypher?”

  “Not only did I not, but it seems the army knows about it, and have put up a reward of one hundred pounds for any Jacobite fugitive caught carrying a ‘poem.’”

  MacLeod voiced a string of profanity. “What d’ye mean tae do, sir?”

  Delavale put the blue-wrapped cypher into the bag. “For a start, eat no more of these. Never look so glum. Here, you may have the other blue ones. If anything should happen to me, you must take the sweets to the home of Lord Boudreaux. It is in Grosvenor Square in London. Now—ride, man! The sooner we’re back in Trowbridge with Miss Prue, the better I’ll like it!”

  His anxiety communicated itself to the Scotsman, and they rode on at reckless speed through the quiet night. They saw only one group of redcoats, torches bright as they searched a large farm wagon on a distant lane. Neither man commented, but they increased their speed.

  At ten minutes past nine o’clock they paused at a decrepit hedge tavern to rest the horses and snatch a quick cold supper and a glass of ale, and half an hour later, they were back in the saddle, riding steadily westwards.

  With every mile, Delavale’s fears increased. What an unconscionable fool he had been! She would not have left him, surely? That fierce pride of hers would not cause her to run into danger? But Cole would guard her. She would be safe. She must be safe! If she was not, it would be all his fault. How could he have become so angry? But she’d been angry, too. He smiled fondly at his mount’s ears. How she’d railed at him. And how gracefully she had sunk into that curtsey—with a feather duster flourished in her little hand.

  “Did ye say something, sir?”

  “Oh, er, no, Mac. I was just thinking of something.”

  MacLeod’s lips curved into a grin. He could guess of what the master had been thinking to bring that silly chuckle from him. He said nothing, however, and side by side they galloped on.

  Delavale was crushingly weary when at last the many chimneys of The Black Lion loomed through the trees and they turned into the still lane
. His eager eyes sought the window of her chamber. No light, but it was, of course, very late. Past one o’clock, for he’d heard a churchbell toll the—

  The Black Lion leapt crazily onto its side. The moon shot down the heavens. In a wild tumbling confusion, Delavale was down, his hack squealing with terror, and a triumphant howl filling his ears. Dazedly, he fought his way to his knees. A gleam of steel plunged down at him, and he flung up one arm in a feeble attempt to protect himself.

  As from a distance, he heard the eldritch blast of a Highland war cry.…

  XX

  For Prudence, the hours that followed Geoffrey’s grandiose exit separated into three distinct phases. The first was commandeered by rage: a seething resentment that Geoffrey, Lord Delavale, had dared to judge a MacTavish to be so deficient in manners as to require instruction! And, even more heinous, that he had cringed from presenting so uncouth a peasant to his fine friend! Polite Society, Miss MacTavish impolitely informed a passing moth, could go and boil its collective head! She began to rehearse what she would say to my lord Delavale when he returned. This impressive speech began with a denunciation of outmoded snobbery and pretension, went on to condemn high-flown English arrogance, and, whipped by her growing passion, took in and elaborated upon Butcher Cumberland and the savage nature of the English army in general, and my lord Delavale in particular. At this point, reason crept in to remind her of Mr. Ligun Doone. Her rageful bubble collapsed.

  Here began the second phase, this being a growing unease because Geoffrey (reprieved from being my lord Delavale) did not return. If he had been displeased, she thought resentfully, he had deserved it. Ligun Doone was well and good, but he was still a mere man. And she a woman. Refusing to admit that she wished to look her best when she devastated him with her speech (which would have to be edited, just a little), she rang for a maid and sent her gown to be pressed. She spent the intervening time in polishing her speech and planning her future. She would go home, of course, as soon as that could be arranged. Only she had no money to pay for her journey. She thought forlornly that she might have no home to go to, either, and two big tears slid slowly down her cheeks. Where did she belong? Her heart was in smashed, trampled pieces. She was unloved and unwanted. Her family was scattered, for she refused to believe that anything worse could have happened to them. Life, she decided, was treacherously hard. She thought, ‘Och, poor wee bairn,’ and a watery giggle broke the silence of the little bedchamber.