by Jane Feather
“SO, LORD CHANNING, how goes your pursuit of Lady Olivia?” The king spoke idly from his carved chair, where he leaned back at his ease, ankles crossed, one beringed hand dangling from the chair arm, the finger and thumb of his other stroking his neat pointed beard. His eyes held a slightly malicious glitter. He was bored and in search of amusement.
“I thought she looked most uncomfortable in your company last evening,” he continued. “Could it be that she’s proving a difficult conquest?”
Godfrey flushed. It was never pleasant to be the butt of the king’s wit. When the king laughed, others laughed with him. He caught a couple of surreptitious smiles, a few behind-the-hand whispers. Everyone was watching him, waiting for his response.
He gave an unconvincing laugh. “The lady was not feeling too well last evening, Sire. I believe like so many young ladies she is inclined to the megrims. Her mood will be altogether changed when next I see her, I assure you.”
His gaze fell upon Edward Caxton and once again he was troubled by the sense of familiarity. Caxton’s smooth countenance gave him no clues, however. Indeed, if anything, it seemed even more vacuous than usual, as if its owner were absent from the present proceedings.
“A changeable maid, is she?” the king mused, still with that glitter in his eyes. “Have a care, Channing. A wife with the megrims can plague a man to death, isn’t that so, Hammond?”
“I’m fortunate not to know, Sire,” the governor said, drawing a laugh from the assembled company. “But Lady Olivia is as rich as she’s beautiful. Compensations, eh, Channing?”
Everyone was laughing now and Godfrey had no choice but to laugh with them. “Wives can be trained,” he said, and was disconcerted when the king threw his head back and roared with laughter as if Godfrey had made the most exquisite jest.
The others joined in and Godfrey was left wondering what on earth was so funny about such a truth.
“No, no, Channing. It’s husbands who are trained,” the king said, wiping his eyes. “You will learn, dear boy.”
Godfrey smiled awkwardly, concealing his fury. To be mocked in this fashion was insupportable.
Behind the bland exterior, Anthony was watching Channing carefully. He understood as did no one else in the king’s presence chamber that the lordling was a bad man to make a fool of. He read the chagrin, followed quickly by fury, in Godfrey’s eyes. He saw the white shade around his thin mouth, the little twitch of a muscle in his cheek, even as with an unconvincing bray he joined in the laughter at his expense.
Anthony had decided he would move against Chan-ning in some secret fashion as soon as he could. He had to be kept away from Olivia certainly, but he was also a wrecker and he had to be stopped. An accident or an abduction would be simple to arrange. They could spirit the man away on a French smuggling vessel. Although such a fate was probably too good for him.
Anthony’s lip curled as he contained his impatience. He had no wish to be here playing the pointless game of fawning courtier. His plans were well laid; the king was ready. His Majesty knew what to do when the time came. They waited only for the new moon. But Anthony knew that if he suddenly ceased his sycophantic attendance on the king, it would be noticed. Those responsible for keeping the king’s person secure were alert to the slightest sign of anything unusual.
So far he had played his part well. He knew he’d been investigated. As part of his cover he rented lodgings from a couple called Yarrow in Newport. He had known them for many years, their son had sailed with him several times, and he knew they would have given nothing away. They certainly wouldn’t tell anyone that their so-called lodger had never yet laid his head on the pillow in the chamber abovestairs. The chamber itself would reveal nothing beyond the obvious possessions of a country squire whose conceit was fed by the illusion of being the king’s confidant. There were plenty like him, fawning upon the king in his imprisonment, ignoring the fact that if His Majesty were at liberty, holding court in his palaces, they would never be admitted within the gates.
The king refused to have the windows opened around him, and the heat in the room was growing intense. A fly droned. Anthony swallowed a yawn. He’d had no sleep the previous night. By the time he’d left Olivia, day was all but broken. He’d just managed to get over the wall before the dogs were released. They had caught his scent and followed it to the wall, where they’d jumped and barked uselessly as Anthony rode off.
He had thought to catch a nap for an hour or two in the morning, but sleep had eluded him. He understood Olivia’s difficulty with divided loyalties, but he didn’t understand the depths of the bitterness that had fueled her attack. She had been accusing him of something else, something more than simply being her father’s opponent. She had said everything about him was so wrong.
It was such a denial of what he had believed they shared. Such an abrupt turnabout from the idyllic day and night they had spent on the beach and at Portsmouth.
Once before, she’d withdrawn from him without explanation, and he still had none, although he’d pushed it to the back of his mind with the resumption of their loving. But this attack he was not going to suffer in silence. There had been no time last night, and he’d been too taken aback, to probe. But he was not going to leave it there.
“I would have music, Hammond,” the king declared with a yawn. “Gentlemen, leave me. I would soothe my soul with music.”
The assembled company bowed and filed from the chamber as the musicians entered. The governor took a seat on the opposite side of the chamber from His Majesty and rubbed his eyes wearily as the three players tuned their instruments.
“Guarding your sovereign is proving somewhat tiring, I see, Hammond,” the king observed with that same slightly malicious glint.
“It is my duty to my sovereign, to the Parliament, and to the kingdom to use the utmost of my endeavors to preserve your person, Sire,” Hammond returned, sitting up straight in his chair.
“But a sadly wearisome duty it is,” the king said, and this time Hammond made no demur.
GODFREY STRODE down the staircase into the great hall. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It had been hot as hell in the upstairs chamber, and the mockery he’d had to endure had set up a fire in his belly that raged like a furnace.
He left the great hall and bellowed to a soldier to bring his horse to the gatehouse. He was going to visit Lady Olivia. He was going to prove to the laughing court that he was not easily scorned. If the lady was surrounded by her friends, their children, all the vigorous defenses of domesticity, then he would insist on a private interview. He had publicly declared his suit; her explanation for why she wouldn’t entertain it had been no explanation. It was perfectly reasonable for him to ask for more.
He rode fast, goading his horse with spur and whip as he vented his frustration. He rode up to the front door of Lord Granville’s house, dismounted, and ran up the steps. He was about to bang with his whip on the door and controlled himself with some difficulty. He couldn’t afford to give the wrong impression. He was a calm, courteous suitor come to inquire after the lady. He should have brought something. A token of courtship. He glanced around. A rosebush bloomed along the driveway. He could see no one around on this hot afternoon.
Godfrey ran back, hastily plucked three of the finest blooms, and returned to the door. He knocked firmly but without urgency.
Bisset opened the door. He recognized the visitor and bowed. “Good afternoon, Lord Channing. Lady Granville is from home.”
“I had hoped to see Lady Olivia.” Godfrey smiled, glanced meaningfully at his little bouquet.
Bisset had no reason to deny his lordship. He had been received by Lady Granville and must therefore have the marquis’s permission to call.
“Lady Olivia is in the orchard, I believe, sir.” He stepped outside and gestured to the side of the house. “Just beyond the lake, behind the stand of poplars.”
“Thank you. It’s Bisset, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my
lord.” Bisset bowed again.
“Could you ask someone to water my horse while I’m with Lady Olivia.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
Godfrey slipped a golden guinea into the butler’s hand and ran boyishly down the steps with his roses.
OLIVIA RESTED HER BACK against the apple tree that spread its shade above her. She could hear the soft plash of the fountain in the ornamental lake on the main lawn, but the orchard was cool and fragrant, the sunless grass lush.
Phoebe had gone into the village on a pastoral errand. She was often in demand with her stillroom skills, her open purse, and her ready compassion that extended as easily to helping out in the stable or cowshed as it did to lending a sympathetic ear at the kitchen table.
Portia had gone riding with the children, and Olivia was glad of the solitude. Her abstraction since she’d returned from her adventure troubled her friends, and she hadn’t the energy to dissemble, not yet. They assumed it was because she was facing the fact that her time with the pirate was by its very nature ephemeral. And that was a part of her unhappiness, certainly, but only a very little part now.
She glanced at the book in her lap. Usually Plutarch’s Lives had the power to take her away from everything, but this afternoon the usual magic was absent. She should have brought a text that challenged her. Plato perhaps—
“Ah, I find my lady alone, communing with nature.” A shadow fell across her, blocking out the light filtered through the leaves of the apple tree.
Olivia knew the voice. “Lord Channing. How … how …” She looked up. His swarthy, slightly soft, courtier’s face smiled down at her. It was the smile that terrified her. There was no warmth, no genuine feeling. His close-set eyes seemed to have a strange light behind them. A predatory light that brought back a host of evil memories.
She rose to her feet, her book falling to the grass. She could hear two gardeners talking as they weeded the beds at the edge of the orchard. She had only to call and they would come at once. She was not alone but the unreasoning fear swamped her. He wouldn’t hurt her. Of course he wouldn’t. He had no reason to do so. He wasn’t Brian. But Brian had had no reason to hurt her either.
“Roses, my lady.” He presented his bouquet. “A rose for a rose.”
Automatically Olivia took the proffered flowers. She looked down at them as if she didn’t know what they were. She murmured, “Thank you. But you must forgive me, Lord Channing, I have to return to the house.”
“Not yet. You must do me the courtesy of hearing me out.” He laid a restraining hand on her arm.
Olivia shook her arm free. “No,” she said. “I explained last night that I cannot accept your suit. You must let me go, sir.” She turned, gathering up her skirts to hurry from him.
He caught her wrist, saying softly, teasingly, “Don’t run from me, little rabbit.”
Olivia stared at him, for the moment unable to move. The flowers fell from her fingers. The significance of what he’d said wouldn’t penetrate her brain. He was smiling, his fingers uncomfortably tight on her wrist. He moved a hand to catch her chin, tilting her face towards him.
“A kiss,” he said. “You won’t deny me that. A chaste kiss, my little rabbit.” He bent down and his mouth filled her vision, distorted and huge.
“Brian!” she whispered. Panic swamped her. Olivia raked his face with the nails of her free hand as she twisted away from him. He gave a cry of outrage and released her chin. She wrenched her wrist free and ran, her breath sobbing in her chest. She didn’t slow her pace even though she sensed he wasn’t following her, and burst through the trees into the bright sunlight of the driveway almost under the hooves of an approaching horse.
“Olivia!” Anthony hauled back on the reins, and his alarmed mount came to a halt inches from where Olivia stood, staring up at him through the tumbled mass of her hair, her eyes wild with panic.
“What’s happened?” He dismounted, glancing quickly around. They were out of sight of the house around a bend in the drive.
“Brian,” she gasped. “It’s Brian.”
“What’s Brian? Who’s Brian?” Frightened at her pallor, at the wildness in her eyes, he moved swiftly to gather her into his arms.
“He’s not dead,” she said. “He c-can’t be dead. He sent that … that c-c-creature…. He c-called me ‘little rabbit.’ Only Brian c-called me that…. ” The words flooded without sense from her lips as she clung to Anthony’s rock solid body. His arms were tight around her, he stroked her hair, not knowing what else to do.
It was hard at first to make sense of what she was saying, but slowly he began to grasp the nightmare. Such a dark and dreadful nightmare revealed under the hot sun and brilliant blue sky of this summer afternoon. She wept into his shirt as he held her, stroked her, soothed her with little murmurs, kissed her tear-drenched eyes when the words no longer came and she shivered in his arms, silent at last.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I c-couldn’t. I c-couldn’t bear to remember it. That first time, on the ship, in the morning it all c-came back to me.”
“Dear God!” he said softly, finally understanding what had driven her from him.
“But he’s not dead,” she said, raising her head from his chest. “Don’t you see that? He must be here somewhere.”
“It could have been just coincidence, Channing using those words.”
“No!” she cried, shaking her head violently. “No, it isn’t, I know it isn’t. Channing even looks like him. It’s as if he’s c-come back in Channing’s body.”
“Now you’re being foolish,” he chided gently, rubbing her back as she trembled like a sapling in a gale.
Godfrey Channing stood in the trees and watched in cold jealous rage. Only a lover would hold a woman like that. She was clinging to Edward Caxton with all the intimacy of a woman who’d just climbed out of his bed. She was no virgin, she was a whore who’d given herself to a nobody, a mere country squire, a foppish nitwit with neither fortune nor lineage. He took an involuntary step forward out of the shelter of the trees.
As if sensing the movement, Caxton raised his eyes, looked over Olivia’s head towards the trees. Godfrey stepped back hastily but not before their eyes had met. It was a brief contact but it was enough. Channing now knew what was familiar about the man. He’d seen those eyes before, been subjected before to that hard, sharp, contemptuous look.
This man who called himself Edward Caxton was the man who’d bought his culling. Just as the foul fisherman had not been what he had seemed, so Edward Caxton was not the insipid, fawning hanger-on in the king’s presence chamber that he seemed. And he’d taken his prize from him.
Olivia took a deep sobbing breath as she felt Anthony’s sudden alertness. “Is he there? Did he see us?”
“Don’t worry about him.”
“But if he saw us, he’ll tell people.”
“I’ll take care of Godfrey Channing,” Anthony said grimly. “Did he hurt you?”
“He tried to kiss me.” She shuddered again, scrubbing her hand across her mouth. “I’m so frightened of him. He must know Brian. He must. How else would he know to call me that? Brian must have told him what he did to me; they must have talked about me. And now he’ll tell everyone that he saw us together.” Her voice was rising alarmingly and Anthony hushed her gently.
“I’ll take care of it,” he repeated.
“How?” She looked helplessly at him.
“Just trust me.” He paused, then said deliberately, “In this at least you can trust me to do something without the promise of financial reward.” Both eyes and voice challenged her for an explanation.
The warmth of a minute earlier vanished, leaving Olivia cold and empty again.
She answered the challenge with one of her own. “Why did you c-come here? Won’t you draw attention to yourself? If my father was home, he’d ask questions. I thought you needed to avoid that.”
“I happen to know he’s not here.”
&nbs
p; “Yes, I suppose you would know that. You must have spies.”
“Yes, I do.” He looked at her in frustration, controlling his anger at her arid tone. It seemed he’d solved one puzzle, only to be faced with another. “Is that part of what makes me so wrong for you, Olivia?”
“You said yourself you’re no gentleman. You don’t act by the rules of honor,” Olivia said slowly.
“Is that what this is about?” he demanded. “It never seemed to trouble you before.”
“In the dream, such a thing as acting honorably didn’t seem to matter,” she said. “But now I’m awake I find that it does.”
Honor! His father had dishonored his mother. Their child had been born in dishonor. His father’s family under the shield and buckler of honor had rejected the dishonored infant, abandoned him without a qualm to survive or not.
Anthony said bitterly, “Honor is a luxury not everyone can afford, my dear Olivia. And when I see how much dishonor is perpetrated in the name of honor, I’m glad it’s beyond my reach.”
“My father is honorable,” she said in a low voice. “He would not do a dishonorable act.”
Anthony looked at her bleakly. There seemed nothing to say to this unspoken comparison.
“I will leave you here,” he said, his voice without expression. “I will take care of Channing and see what I can discover about this Brian character. Spies have their uses,” he added with an ironic smile. He turned and mounted his horse, riding off down the driveway without a backward glance.
Olivia went slowly back to the house. She had accused Anthony of dishonor. But what other word was there for a wrecker? The most despicable, cowardly act of thievery. Piracy and smuggling—they were swashbuckling, daring. Piracy certainly was thievery; smuggling was not considered such. Smugglers merely deprived the loathed rev-enuers of their equally loathed taxes. Even her father took delivery of smuggled cognac.
She thought of the taking of the Doña Elena. That had been stealing, no question. But he had stolen from barbarians. He had freed the slaves, given them the ship. It had seemed at the time like a fair fight, a legitimate cause.
