by Anne O'Brien
They wrapped the still figure in Marlbrooke’s cloak to cushion the limbs against any further blows. Then between them they manoeuvred him into the coach where they wedged him onto the seat.
‘Right, Jenks.’ The Viscount nodded to his coachman as he pulled on his coat and gloves once more and Tom swung back into his seat on the coach. ‘Let’s get to the Priory before our young man dies on us. It’s been a long day.’ He moved to grasp the open coach door and then turned back. ‘On second thoughts—’ he held out an imperative hand ‘—give me that pistol, Jed. On balance you’re more of a danger than any ghostly highwayman or passing footpad.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir’ The moonlight failed to hide Jed’s blushes or his sheepish smile as Tom nudged him and Jenks guffawed. The tale would not lose in its retelling in the stables over the coming months.
Marlbrooke dropped the pistol into his pocket with an answering grin. ‘The Priory, then!’
Master Oliver Verzons, steward of Winteringham Priory for as far back as any of the local families could remember, swung open the great oak door at the sound of the approaching coach. He was a stern, austere figure, clad in unrelieved black, his dignity a testimony to his position of trust and responsibility. His white collar and cuffs, seemly and precise with no hint of decoration, were as immaculate as when first donned that morning, despite the late hour.
‘Good evening, my lord. Can I be of any assistance?’ He stood back into the entrance hall as Viscount Marlbrooke carried the inert cloaked form up the shallow flight of steps.
‘Verzons!’ Marlbrooke conserved his breath until he had lowered the young man to the high-backed oak settle beside the door. He flexed the taut muscles in his back and arms with a grimace before turning to his steward, struck anew by the incongruity of the situation. Why Verzons would have been prepared to remain in service at the Priory under Royalist authority was beyond his understanding, unless loyalty to the estate took precedence over loyalty to family. Or perhaps he hoped and prayed that God would deal out justice with a fair hand and one day a Harley would return and oust the hated Oxendens. Meanwhile, he would keep faith and oversee the estate to the best of his ability, which was considerable. Whatever the reason, he had proved to be an excellent steward and Marlbrooke could see no need to trouble himself further over any dubious motives that Verzons might secretly nurture. As ever, he rose to the occasion, no matter how unusual the circumstances.
‘Is the young man badly injured? I can fetch Elspeth from the kitchen if you deem it necessary.’ Verzons bent over the settle with some concern.
‘No. I think not.’ Marlbrooke stripped off his gloves and shrugged out of his coat for the second time that night and handed them to his steward. ‘He fell from his horse at the Common crossroads and hit his head. There is no need, I think, to disturb the rest of the household at this hour. I’ll carry him up to one of the bedrooms if you would send some cloths and warm water, and some wine—for me, if not for him.’
‘Certainly, my lord. And there is food prepared when you are ready.’
Marlbrooke nodded. ‘Is my mother still awaiting me?’
‘No, my lord. Lady Elizabeth retired some little time ago. I believe she has not been well today. Mistress Felicity is, I understand, still in the parlour.’
The Viscount grimaced in recognition of his steward’s bland expression. ‘We will not disturb her!’
‘Certainly not, my lord. It will not be necessary.’ Verzons bowed his understanding and vanished into the shadowy fastness of the house.
Groaning at the strain on his tired muscles, the Viscount bent and lifted the youth, climbed steadily up the main staircase and shouldered his way into the first unoccupied bedroom on the first floor. The lad might not be heavy, but the events of the night were beginning to take their toll. The room was cold and barely furnished, not from neglect rather than simply long unoccupancy, but the bed had fresh linen and newly laundered curtains and a fire had been thoughtfully laid in the hearth. The panelled walls had been recently polished, as had the floor. There was a pleasant pervading scent of beeswax and herbs. As he thankfully deposited his burden on the bed, a servant arrived with candles.
‘Robert!’ Marlbrooke smiled his thanks. ‘Perhaps you would light the fire. Even the mice could die of cold in here.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Robert grinned as he knelt to comply. ‘Master Verzons asked if he should send up food?’
‘No. Not yet. Let’s see how much damage the lad has done to himself.’
He took a candle and placed it by the bed as he freed the youth from his enveloping cloak. He had been correct in his first assessment. He was indeed young with a light frame and slender build. His face was ashen, waxy in texture, which roused Marlbrooke’s immediate fears, but his fingers were able to detect a faint but steady pulse beneath his jawline. The short dark hair was matted with blood from a deep gash to the skull. Marlbrooke investigated with gentle fingers. It had bled copiously, as did all head wounds, but was now beginning to clot. A deep bruise was developing on the forehead and temple where the stony surface of the road had made hard contact and removed a layer of skin in a deep graze. The collar and sleeve of his jacket, as well as the sleeveless jerkin worn over it, were soaked with blood, but hopefully from the head wound only. He appeared to be otherwise unharmed, but the shallow breathing worried Marlbrooke—a blow to the head from a horse’s hoof could be fatal, but there was nothing to be done in the short term but clean the wound and wait for time and nature to take its course.
But who was he? His clothes were of good quality, if plain and serviceable. Most likely from a local gentry family—of Puritan inclination, since there was none of the lace and ribbons adopted by Royalists. The jacket was buttoned to the neck over the now bloodstained linen shirt. His leather boots were worn, but soft and well made. No clues here. The pockets of his coat, quickly searched, yielded nothing to identify the traveller.
With deft movements, as gently as possible, Marlbrooke manoeuvred the boy’s arms out of his coat. No signs of further wounds were apparent apart from an angry swollen wrist that was probably nothing more than a bad sprain. Elspeth could dress it on the morrow. He pulled off and discarded the boots. No sprains or broken bones. He ripped open the ties at the neck of the stained linen shirt, hoping that the blood here was merely from the head wound and nothing more sinister.
And his fingers froze.
Exposed before him in the flickering light from the candle were the unmistakable delicate bones and obvious form of a young girl. He took a deep breath and expelled the air slowly as realisation hit him. Small firm breasts with exquisite pink nipples. Sharp collar bones. Fragile shoulders. A tapering waist, the ribcage visible under the skin. Skin as pale and silken as any that could fill a man’s dreams or fantasies. He drew a fingertip along one delicate collarbone in a whisper-soft caress. She reminded him for all the world of a fledgling tipped from its nest by some malignant force. He sighed, touched by compassion, before drawing together the edges of the shirt with great care and respect for her modesty.
The Viscount lifted the candle to give his attention to her face. With knowledge it was distinctly feminine. It was an arresting face, cast into clear relief by the short revealing hair, which, with hindsight, showed signs of being inexpertly hacked off at back and sides with a less than sharp blade. Long dark lashes, well marked brows, a straight nose. Her face was relaxed, but shadows marked the fragile skin beneath her eyes and the bruising on her temple was outrageous. As he pushed her hair gently back from her temples he noted its tendency to curl round his fingers. Her hands, which he lifted and turned over in his own, were fine boned, long fingered and clearly those of a well-born lady. This was not a girl who had worked for her living on the land or in the kitchen. As he released them he felt a strange tug at his senses. She was beautiful. How could he possibly have thought that she was a boy? He touched her cheek, so pale, so soft, with the back of his hand.
The girl opened her eyes. They were a deep blue, the co
lour of delphiniums, and now almost indigo with pain and confusion. They were blurred, uncomprehending, as they moved searchingly over her line of vision. Then her gaze stopped and focused on his face. Suddenly they were filled with fear, a nameless terror. Tears gathered and began to trickle down her cheeks into the pillow and her ravaged hair. She said nothing.
He was caught in that blue gaze for the length of a slow heartbeat, trapped in their sapphire depths, unable to do anything but wipe away the spangled drops from her cheeks.
‘Don’t cry,’ he murmured. ‘You are quite safe here. There is no one to hurt you here.’ What terrible circumstance could have driven her to cut her hair and ride the perilous roads at the dead of night dressed as a boy?
The girl gave no recognition that she had heard him. She closed her eyes as if to shut out a world that threatened to engulf her in nameless horrors.
Marlbrooke swallowed and rose to his feet from his seat on the edge of the bed. He turned to the hovering servant, who was as yet unaware of the deception unfolding in the quiet room.
‘Has he come round, my lord? Doesn’t look too good, does he?’
‘No, Robert. He does not. If you would rouse Mistress Neale with my apologies, ask her to come with all speed. It would seem that I need help here.’
The Viscount lifted and spread the embroidered bedcover over the still figure and stood, hands on hips, looking down on her. Then he moved to the chair by the struggling fire to wait. But he could not take his eyes from her.
Chapter Four
‘Good morning, madam. You look well. And remarkably fetching in rose silk. Is it new? Ah, Felicity … I have brought you the books you requested. I believe that Verzons will have taken them from Jenks last night and have them in his keeping. And these—’ holding out a number of slim volumes to Lady Elizabeth with guileless grace ‘—should keep you entertained and make your heart beat a little faster, my lady.’
The ladies were seated in the magnificent library at Winteringham Priory. Chairs had been placed for them in the window embrasure where the light was good and a fire crackled beside them in the hearth. Warmth and light glowed on the leather-and-gold volumes and reflected softly from the polished oak table on which lay a quantity of embroidery silks and pieces of tapestry.
‘I see you have not lost your capacity to charm in your absence,’ Elizabeth responded in dry tones, but smiled with quiet pleasure as she returned his light kiss on her cheek. ‘Did the delicious Mistress Lovell not attempt to detain you at Court?’
‘Why, no. Your gossip is distinctly out of date, my dear.’ The Viscount’s eyes, so like his mother’s, held a decided twinkle. ‘The delicious Mistress Lovell has decided to cast her eyes and fortunes higher than a mere Viscount. She was fluttering her remarkable eyelashes in the King’s direction when I made my departure. And he was showing a distinct and lamentable tendency to engage her in conversation whenever their paths crossed. Which was frequently. Lady Castlemaine is even now sharpening her claws.’
‘I hope that she will not live to regret it! Or perhaps I do. Such a rapacious female in spite of her undeniable beauty.’
‘I doubt that Charles will notice her avarice as long as he has access to her equally desirable physical charms. I do not believe that she will have to wait long for him to accept her offers.’
‘How demeaning for you, dear Marcus …’ Elizabeth chuckled ‘… to be thrown over for the King!’
Felicity sniffed, lips downturned in disapproval. ‘Really, Marcus. Such disloyalty to your King!’ She frowned at Elizabeth, but directed her censorious gaze at the Viscount. ‘We have been expecting your return any time this past fortnight, have we not, dearest Elizabeth? Your long absence has been a severe trial to your mother—and a source of grave concern. We hear such tales of footpads and robbers, as Elizabeth will tell you. Could you not have sent us word of your safety and intentions? Then your mother’s mind would have been put at rest—you must agree, dearest Elizabeth!’
Elizabeth Oxenden suppressed a sigh, refusing to comply with her cousin. She shook her head slightly to deflect any sharp remark that Marlbrooke might be tempted to make in reply, a rueful smile touching her lips as she met her son’s sardonic gaze. Secretly Elizabeth was delighted that Marlbrooke had returned home and even more so that he should have noticed her extra care with her appearance that morning. Crippled she might be, but she retained a young woman’s interest in fashion and the latest styles at Court. Living in London had some distinct advantages. The deep rose of her full skirts and boned bodice compensated for the lack of colour in her cheeks. The lace edge at collar and cuffs was truly exquisite, if a trifle expensive. It was no good Felicity lecturing her on the sin of vanity. She enjoyed fashion and would do so until the day she died! If Felicity would only take more interest in her own appearance, she might be far more content with life. How could anyone be other than sour dressed in a gown of such unfashionable dark-green watered silk, and at least twenty years old? And with only the minimum of decoration. Felicity, an angular lady of more advanced years and thin features, grey hair scraped unbecomingly beneath a lace cap, managed a tight smile and dropped a small curtsy as the Viscount bowed politely to her and took the time and courtesy to salute her hand.
‘So what have you been doing in my absence? Nothing scandalous, I presume, or Verzons would have informed me on my arrival.’ He picked up a length of tapestry that had slipped to the floor. ‘More bed hangings? You could soon furnish Hampton Court! Have you been well?’
Lady Elizabeth could not prevent her lips curving in a smile.
‘I find the cold weather attacks my fingers—’ she hid her swollen joints from his hawk-like gaze in her lap ‘—but I shall come about with the warmer days.’ She deliberately kept her voice light. How could she tell him of the pain that kept her awake and prevented her from doing all the things she had loved to do in the past? Her embroidery was a nightmare of perseverance and she dare no longer approach the spinet. The snowdrops and daffodils in the gardens bloomed without her care.
But, indeed, she did not need to tell him. He had already discerned the fine lines around her eyes—were they perhaps deeper than when he had left?—and the haunted glaze of pain in her eyes.
‘I know you would wish to return to London, ma’am.’ He was as forthright as ever in his dealings with her. ‘I think you are lonely here and would far rather enjoy the visits of friends and the Court gossip. But if you could agree to remain here at the Priory until arrangements for my marriage are finalised and the bride has arrived, then I would willingly transport you back to town again. Can you bear it for a little longer?’
‘Of course.’ She smiled as he bent to brush her fingers with his lips. She could not hide the obvious signs of suffering any longer and did not attempt to. She adored her handsome son, and, even if not blind to his faults, she was aware of his love and concern for her well-being. But if she was unwilling to tell him of the pain, how could she possibly explain to him her growing discomfort in this house, a house which he prized above all things? She had not felt it when she had first arrived—of that she was certain. But it had developed gradually in recent days. The sensation that her footsteps were being watched, if not actually followed, by a silent presence—a presence that chilled the air with the keen edge of winter frost. And brought with it such a sense of despair, of utter misery, enough to touch her own emotions in reluctant sympathy, almost to reduce her to tears. The word haunted did not seem too extreme. She could not, would not, admit that her sleep was disturbed not only by physical discomfort, but by a fear of what might lurk in the shadows in the corner of her room. Of every room. He would think she was fanciful in the extreme and merely making excuses to escape back to the city.
‘Well, tell me.’ She mentally admonished herself and turned the conversation into happier channels. ‘Tell me what she is like. Katherine Harley. Will I like her?’
‘I expect so. You are predisposed to like everyone!’
‘That makes
me sound witless!’ she complained with a wry twist of her lips and not a little impatience. ‘Is she pretty?’
‘I don’t really know,’ he answered with a slight frown, surprising her. ‘I only saw her once and she looked dishevelled, as if she had come in out of a rainstorm. And she scowled at me for most of the interview.’
‘Oh, dear! Were you not made welcome? Surely Sir Henry was expecting you!’
‘I suppose the answer has to be no and no.’ Marlbrooke’s expression and voice had a derisive edge as he remembered the reaction of the household at Downham Hall. ‘Sir Henry was discomfited and flustered at having to enter into such close dealings with a Royalist. Lady Philippa withdrew into nervous silence and flinched every time I looked in her direction. My prospective bride could in all truth be described as hostile and likened me in a most uncomplimentary way to a frippery bird, without pretence to style or elegance! And they would all have willingly consigned me to the devil.’
‘So?’ Elizabeth failed to suppress a smile at the picture, wilfully ignoring Felicity’s snort of disapproval at the whole distasteful situation. ‘Do you then still intend to pursue the match? Apart from the hostility, was Katherine pretty enough to tempt you into the married state?’
‘I have to admit that the lack of candles—in the interest of economy, I presume—and the growing dusk made it difficult to pick out anything but a general impression. But she has a good figure and holds herself well. And she has a cloud of dark hair. I told her she was pretty, at any event. I am not sure that she believed me. Her opinion of me did not appear to be overly complimentary!’ He grinned at the memory of Mistress Harley’s barbed comments.
‘Oh, Marcus! You are very like your father.’
‘But is that for better or worse, my lady?’
‘I will leave that decision to you! And did you overawe the poor girl, in spite of my excellent advice, with full Court rig—nothing less than lace, velvets and those appalling shoes with red heels?’ She cast an appreciative eye over his more restrained jacket and breeches, more suitable to a country gentleman than the excesses of French fashion. The shoes in question had been abandoned for serviceable black boots.
