Amid the moth-eaten velvet splendor of the bedcurtains, Gwenda tossed and turned on the lumpy feather-tick mattress. The room must once have been the finest the Nonesuch had to offer, but now its decay was worthy of any ruined castle whose mortar had ever dripped from the ink of Gwenda's pen.
The door didn't latch properly, either. Gwenda had discovered that earlier when she had answered a timid knocking. It had been Rob bringing up the trunk with her meager belongings, which Jarvis had had the forethought to see recovered from the wrecked coach. After the lad had gone, Gwenda had realized there was no way to lock the door, leaving her prey to whatever might be creeping abroad tonight in the corridor.
Never in her life had she so much scope for her imagination to run rampant, and never in her life had she been so indifferent to it all.
Despairing of ever finding a comfortable position, she sat bolt upright in bed, hugged her knees to her chest, and complained, "Ravenel might have delivered the trunk to me himself. Along with an apology. The effrontery of the man, Bertie! The insufferable condescension. As though he were doing me the greatest of favors. The high-and-mighty Lord Ravenel stooping to wed one of the half-mad Vickers. As if I would ever consider his proposal."
Did she fancy it or was there a rather accusing gleam in Spotted Bert's eyes? Gwenda squirmed. "Well, I might have been carried away for just an instant. When he first spoke of marriage, he seemed so much like I had envisioned Roderigo."
Gwenda closed her eyes and touched a finger to lips, yet tasting of the passion of Ravenel's kiss. She groaned. "Ohhhh! How can any man so positively stuffed with duty and pomposity possibly kiss that way?" She pummeled her pillow in frustration. "It isn't fair, Bertie. It simply isn't fair."
She ceased the assault when she saw some of the feathers flying out.
Bertie gave a soft, reproachful bark. He crouched down on the seat, burying his head beneath his paws almost as though trying to shut out some of her grumblings.
"I do beg your pardon, Bertie," Gwenda said bitterly. "Pray excuse me for having troubled you with my trifling problems." She rolled over with one last parting shot. "But I'm not going to marry that man. I'll be hanged if I do."
She drew the musty coverlet up to ears, but with such thoughts churning in her head, it was some time before she drifted off to sleep. Even then it was a most restless slumber, with disturbing snatches of dreams.
She stumbled through the mist-obscured ruins, pursuing an elusive, ever-familiar stalwart figure garbed in a black cape…
"Roderigo," Gwenda groaned into her pillow. "Wait for me, my love."
Running so fast, her heart seemed ready to burst She could never quite catch up to the raven haired man or make him hear her. Then, as from a great distance, she heard… barking?
Gwenda tossed from side to side. Bertie! What was he doing here at the castle?
Her dog was growling, attacking the edge of the dark-cloaked man's cape. Gwenda staggered forward, begging Bert to stop. No! Heel, Bertie, heel. It is Roderigo. It is…The man turned slowly around. It was Lord Ravenel. His strong arms reached out, the dark glow of his eyes seeming to draw her to him.
"Stop it," Gwenda mumbled. "You are not my Roderigo. You are not."
It took every ounce of resistance she possessed to wrench herself awake. She sat up, breathing hard, brushing back damp tendrils of hair from her eyes.
"Damn that man, Bertie!" she gasped, directing her gaze toward the window seat. "I told him ... I did—"
She broke off, her words faltering. Although the candle had long ago guttered out, the pale glow of the moon was enough for her to realize the window seat was empty. Gwenda groped about in the darkness, expecting to find Bert curled up at the foot of the bed, but her hands encountered nothing but the rumpled coverlet.
It was then she noticed the shard of light slicing its way across the floor, light that emanated from the crack where the door to her bedchamber stood ajar.
Gwenda's hands tightened on the sheet as she hugged it to her breast.
"Bertie?" she called softly. There was no answer. She called louder, a little more urgently. "Bert!"
Still no response. But it was nothing to be alarmed about, she tried to assure herself. Bertie was frequently given to nocturnal wanderings. He might have scented that black cat again or¬Gwenda winced at a less comforting thought—or Mordred.
Shivering, she swung herself out of bed. She located her wrapper and tugged it on over her nightgown. Padding cautiously to the door, she peeked out. There was no sign of Bert or anyone else in the corridor beyond. But someone had left a candle burning in the old-fashioned wrought-iron wall sconce.
"Here, Bertie." Gwenda tried to whistle, but she was so nervous she couldn't pucker. A heavy thud issuing from the lower story of the inn nearly caused her to jump from her skin. The noise was followed by the unmistakable creak of footsteps.
It must be well past midnight, she told herself. Yet someone was up and stirring Someone or something.
She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the uncomfortable pounding of her heart.
"Blast you, Bertie," she whispered, wishing the dog was safe in her room, wishing her room had a bar a foot thick. Her gaze traveled toward a closed door only two down from her own room—the door that Rob had informed her earlier led to Ravenel's lodging.
But Gwenda could well imagine what the baron's scathing comment would be if she roused him in the middle of the night to go searching for Spotted Bert. As if she needed his lordship's help in any case, she thought, stiffening her spine.
She was sure Bertie hadn't gone far. Most likely that was him she heard below in the kitchens, knocking things over, making a nuisance of himself.
"Won't I give him a dreadful scold when I find him," she said with a quavery laugh. Ravenel was right about one thing. There was not the least reason to be frightened. The Nonesuch was nothing but a neglected old building.
All the same, Gwenda first took the precaution of fetching her pearl-handled pistol from the trunk. She set it to one side while she searched for something to put on her bare feet, pleased to find that for once she had not mislaid her slippers. Shoving her feet into the soft leather, she stepped out into the hallway. With trembling hands, she removed the candle from the sconce and used it to light her way down the stairs.
The wretched steps did have to creak so, shrieking her approach to whomever might be lurking— No. Gwenda set her lips resolutely. She could not allow herself to think such ridiculous things. There was no whomever—only Bertie.
When she reached the lower floor, she raised the candle and glanced nervously about. All seemed quiet and yet ...
The darkness itself, the inn's very walls seemed to have taken on life. The hair prickled at the back of Gwenda's neck. She could feel a presence, eyes watching her.
Then she heard another floorboard creak—and she hadn't moved. "Oh, Bertie," she quavered. "Please let it be you."
But the prayer had scarce left her lips when a hand shot out of the shadows behind her, gripping her shoulder. Gwenda screamed and spun about. She flailed the candle before her like a sword, spattering hot wax on her knuckles.
The light flickered across Ravenel's brocade dressing gown as he flung up one arm to shield his face. "Damn it, Gwenda! Stop that before you set me on fire."
"Ravenel?" Gwenda sagged back against the wall, just barely managing to steady the candle while she pressed her other hand over the region of her wildly thumping heart.
His lordship cautiously lowered his arm. "What the deuce are you doing here?"
"What am I— What are you doing creeping up on me in that fashion? It was enough to send me into a fit of apoplexy."
"I could not sleep. I went into the taproom to see if I could find a spot more of that brandy." His lips compressed in a stern manner that by now Gwenda found all too annoyingly familiar. "Now, madam You will please account for your own presence."
All traces of Gwenda's recent fright faded before a rush of anger. She said,
"If it is any of your concern, Lord Ravenel, I am looking for my dog."
"The dog be damned! I will not have you chasing about this place in the dead of night garbed only in your bed clothes. Go back to your room at once."
"I will do no such thing." Gwenda bristled at his proprietary tone. The temerity of the man. He behaved as though he were already her husband. In any case he was a fine one to talk of being garbed only in night clothes. It was obvious that beneath his robe his lordship wore nothing but his breeches. The opening in the brocade revealed glimpses of a hair-roughened chest. Gwenda had the grace to blush when she realized she was staring at the contours of his muscular frame a little too intently.
"Are you not afraid of encountering any cutthroats, or worse, down here in the dark?" Ravenel asked, a wicked glint coming into his eye.
Gwenda could see clearly what he was about. If he could not bully her into obeying his commands, he meant to frighten her. She raised her chin defiantly. "I am not in the least afraid. After all, I have ..." Her haughty words faded to silence as she groped with one hand in the pocket of her wrapper and found it empty. She had been so pleased with herself for remembering her slippers, she had forgotten the pistol.
Not about to admit her absentmindedness or her qualms to Ravenel, she declared stoutly, "Now if you will excuse me, I am going to find Bert."
She spun on her heel, and marched down the hall, but she immediately heard Ravenel coming after her.
"I will find the wretched animal," he began.
"No, thank you. I want no more of your chivalrous gestures." Gwenda paused outside the door that led to the kitchens and reached for the handle.
"Of all the ridiculous notions. You'll never find him in there," the baron said. "I tried that door earlier and it is kept locked."
When the handle turned easily in Gwenda's grasp and the door creaked open, she could not forbear shooting him a look of triumph. She herself doubted that Bertie had come this way, but she was not about to give Ravenel the satisfaction of admitting that.
Tiptoeing into the kitchen, she sensed him close behind her. As she softly called Bertie's name, the light from her candle spilled over a grease-laden iron stove stacked high with dirty pots that looked as if they had not been cleaned at any time during this century. A plump rat stood sampling something from an unwashed plate, but when the light fell upon it, it quickly vanished behind the stove.
Gwenda shuddered. "And to think you actually ate something prepared in here," she could not refrain from reminding Ravenel.
He grimaced, but all he said was, "I hope you are satisfied. You can see Bert is not here. The sensible thing for you to do is—What the deuce!"
He broke off, staring past her with an arrested expression on his face. Gwenda glanced nervously behind her to see what had caught his attention.
It was the door that led into the kitchens from the yard outside. It was flung wide open, the night breezes and pale moonlight contriving to make sinister rustling shadows of the trees beyond.
"There's something out there," Ravenel muttered.
"If you think to frighten me with any more---"
"Hush!" he commanded as he continued his intent stare. Gwenda's breath caught as she perceived it too, an elusive shape slipping through the darkness.
"Bertie?" Gwenda asked weakly.
"I don't think so. Give me the candle, Gwenda."
She did as he asked but whispered anxiously, "What for?"
"I am going to see what's out there."
This notion seemed so far removed from Ravenel's usual good judgment that Gwenda started to protest, but his lordship was already striding purposefully forward. He flung a curt command to her to remain where she was, but she took no heed of that and followed, clinging to his arm. She could feel the tension cording his muscles, making them whip-taut.
"Gwenda, I told you— Damn!"
She heard Ravenel crack his knee against something, then he staggered, nearly oversetting them both. When he regained his balance, he bent to rub his leg, cursing softly. Then he held the candle so as to illumine the object that had blocked their path.
Gwenda stared in frowning surprise at a pile of small wooden casks piled willy-nilly just inside the kitchen door.
"What is it?" she breathed. "Gunpowder?"
The baron made a closer inspection of one of the kegs, then a slow smile spread across his face.
"No, not gunpowder, my dear. Brandy. I don't wish to alarm you, Gwenda, but I believe we have stumbled upon a bit of smuggling."
Far from being alarmed, Gwenda was flooded with a sense of relief and disappointment. "Smuggling? Is that all?"
"I am afraid so, my dear."
"And after all my lovely conjectures about murders and family curses and ghosts!"
Although Ravenel regarded her solemnly enough, Gwenda had the curious impression that he was being hard-pressed to maintain a straight face. "Perhaps we had better—"
But Gwenda never knew what Ravenel was about to suggest. A tall shadow suddenly loomed in the kitchen's open doorway. Gwenda gave a terrified gasp and dove into Ravenel's arms. She could feel his own heart give a lurch as he tensed to confront the intruder.
But the moon-silhouetted figure on the threshold appeared as alarmed as Gwenda.
"Oh, lordy," Rob yelped, nearly dropping the cask he was carrying as Ravenel directed the light from the candle full in his face.
For several seconds, none of them moved. As Gwenda caught her breath, she watched Rob's Adam's apple bob up and down.
"Miss. Y-your lordship," he stammered. "You shouldn't be down here." He set the cask down with a dull thud.
"Neither should you," the baron said pleasantly enough, although Gwenda felt him tighten one arm protectively about her waist.
"I—I—was just doing a bit of work for Mr. Mordred," the lad said, twisting his hands. "Moving some molasses down into the storeroom."
"Molasses, indeed. More like smuggling a bit of brandy."
They might well have been the king's soldiers, Gwenda thought, about to clap irons upon the unfortunate young man from the way Rob's teeth began to chatter.
"Oh, no, mlord! 'Twasn't me. Me and Mr. Mordred don't do no smuggling. It is old Tom Quince that does that and he brings the stuff up from the coast for us just to pass 'round the neighborhood."
Gwenda squirmed away from Ravenel to lay one hand reassuringly on the boy's arm. "Goodness. Don't put yourself into such a taking. We weren't spying on you—only looking for my dog."
"Oh!" Rob's expression of relief was quickly replaced by a furtive one of guilt.
"Have you seen the dog, lad?" Ravenel asked.
Instead of answering, the boy hung his head. Gwenda felt a sudden squeezing of fear inside her.
"Rob, what has happened to my dog?"
"Nothing so terrible," Rob mumbled. "But Mr. Mordred—he made me do it."
"Do what?" Gwenda cried.
"Well, you see, miss, your dog came sniffling around outside and when he saw Mr. Mordred¬he went for him. Dogs don't seem to like Mr. Mordred noways. Your Bert took quite a chunk out of Mr. Mordred's leg."
"Astonishing," Ravenel said. "It would seem that Bert does possess some sense of discrimination."
Gwenda gave him a reproachful look before prodding Rob. "And then?"
"I had to do something, miss, or Mr. Mordred would have shot the dog sure. I tied him up in the stable, and to keep him quiet, I---."
"You tied him up!" Gwenda exclaimed, allowing Rob to explain no further. Why, Bertie had never been so abused in his life. Never had he been thus confined. She could well imagine what poor Bert must be feeling: confused, terrified at being penned up in those dark stables.
"We've got to let him out at once," she said indignantly. She shoved past Rob and was halfway out the door when Ravenel caught her roughly by the arm.
"Are you mad?" he asked. "You can't go charging out there. There's a band of smugglers creeping about."
"Only two," Rob interposed
. "Mr. Mordred and old Tom Quince. But truly, miss, it would be better to wait until morning."
Gwenda might well have been persuaded, but at that moment a low, piteous howl carried from the direction of the stables.
“Bertie!" she cried. "Don't be afraid. I'm coming.”
Wrenching free of Ravenel, she tore off, running around the side of the inn and heading for the stableyard. Mud splashed against her legs from the puddle-soaked yard, but she had no thought for anything but rescuing her dog. Gwenda heard Ravenel charging after her, but she, far lighter on her feet, managed to outdistance him.
Not stopping to draw breath, even when she reached the stables, she drew aside the bar and flung wide the heavy door. Bursting inside, she found Bert cowering in the first empty stall His moist eyes gleamed up at her through the dark. He whined, attempted to stand, and then flopped back on his haunches.
"Bertie! What have they done to you!" Gwenda dropped to her knees in the straw and flung her arms about him. Bert's head sagged against her chest.
Ravenel burst through the stable door. He paused a moment, gasping, before starting to scold, "Gwenda, you little fool—"
"Bertie is hurt." She cut him off, choking on a half-sob. "He cannot even stand."
The baron frowned and knelt down beside her. Bertie squirmed with his usual delight to see his lordship. But when he attempted to greet him, the dog's head lolled to one side. Bertie's tongue shot out to lick Ravenel's cheek and missed.
The baron sniffed the air. "That boy must have given Bert some of the brandy to quiet him. The dog's not hurt. He's as drunk as your coachman."
"Don't be ridiculous. Bertie couldn't possibly—" Gwenda recoiled as the dog panted in her face and she smelled it, too: the reek of strong spirits.
"Oh, Bertie," Gwenda groaned. The dog regarded her muzzily through half-closed eyes. "Whatever am I going to do with him, Ravenel?"
Ravenel got to his feet, dusting wisps of straw from the knees of his breeches. "You will simply have to let him sleep it off."
Brighton Road Page 13
