A chorus of “Me!” and “I’ll come!” rolled back at him.
Men and boys rushed toward the stable.
In less than five minutes—minutes Richard spent learning everything Hugh could tell him about Wallace’s house—a small mounted army of men, youths, and boys had gathered in the forecourt.
Richard walked down the steps, grabbed Malcolm’s reins, and swung himself into the saddle. He beckoned Hopkins, Ostley, and Crawley to ride at the head of the group with him, then turned Malcolm’s head down the drive and simply said, “Let’s go.”
With a clatter of hooves that echoed back off the house, they set out for Lydford.
Chapter 10
Richard was thankful the men had come with him—they were locals, well known and well liked. As soon as their company had turned onto the lane to Lydford that Ostley and Hopkins were sure the coach must have taken, the men and lads had asked anyone they’d seen—farmers in their fields, two laborers working on a bridge, three women walking out visiting—and quickly confirmed that a small black coach had indeed passed that way within the past half hour.
They weren’t that far behind.
Richard didn’t let himself think of what Jacqueline might be going through; that would have been too distracting. Instead, he reminded himself that she was no meek, milk-and-water miss; she would stand up to Wallace well enough—long enough—for Richard and her men to reach her.
Without prompting, two of the farmers and one of the women they’d spoken with had named the coach they’d seen as belonging to Sir Peregrine Wallace, so as they neared Lydford, they were certain as to where they needed to go.
Crawley waved, attracting Richard’s attention and signaling him to call a halt.
With a potent mix of fury and impatience pounding through his veins, Richard wanted to rage on, but knew well enough to listen to the locals. He slowed Malcolm and drew him to a halt. The others followed his lead and milled about.
“The lane to Wallace’s place is just a bit along on the right.” Hopkins brought his horse alongside Malcolm.
“Aye,” Crawley said, “but I’m thinking we’d do best to get to the house under cover of the wood rather than clatter up his drive and alert not just him but those three blackguards of his as well.”
Richard nodded curtly. “Surprise would serve us best.”
Crawley outlined what he had in mind, and Hopkins, Ostley, and Richard agreed. With Crawley—a huntsman in his spare time—in the lead, they walked their horses off the lane and through the wood to a natural clearing not far on. They left the horses there with two of the boys and set off on foot. After a hundred yards, Crawley signaled for quiet, and they crept on.
The upper story and roof of a red-brick house loomed ahead.
They left the wood and continued on through an overgrown shrubbery. Eventually, Crawley paused and crouched beside an archway cut into a high hedge. Looking over Crawley’s shoulder, Richard saw the side wall of the house mere yards away, across a poorly scythed stretch of lawn.
There were few windows that faced that way, and all had their curtains closed.
Richard smiled intently, clapped Crawley on the shoulder, and moved past him. Fleet-footed and silent, Richard crossed the lawn and flattened himself against the side wall beside the window of the room at the front corner of the house.
In a house of this size and style, that room should be the drawing room—the room the master of the house would use to entertain guests. No matter his ultimate intent, Richard would wager Wallace would first speak with Jacqueline in that room.
He knew he’d guessed correctly when Jacqueline’s voice, her tone harsh and condemnatory, reached him clearly through the glass.
His heart leapt, then her words registered, and relief sluiced through him.
They’d got there in time.
“You’re not listening, Sir Peregrine.” Jacqueline’s speech was rigidly controlled. “No matter what idiocy you’ve convinced yourself will come to pass—no matter any brilliant plan to compromise me—I will not consent to marry you!”
“Of course you will.” Wallace sounded completely assured. “After spending a night in my house alone with me, no young lady of your station would be allowed to refuse my hand offered in marriage.” The clink of crystal reached through the window. “It won’t be up to you. Tregarth’s your guardian—he’ll see sense. So will your vaporous chaperon. They’ll force you to it—you’ll see. Cheers!”
A pause ensued, then Jacqueline—by the sound of her voice, she stood closer to the window, but facing the room and, presumably, Wallace—spoke. “I say again, Sir Peregrine—you are not listening.” Her voice had lowered; power of a sort thrummed beneath her words. “I am the guardian of Nimway Hall—the deed to the Hall and all its lands is wholly in my keeping. I do not hold those rights by whim of my great-uncle or anyone else. I hold them by virtue of who I am.”
“Virtue!” Sir Peregrine chuckled. “Yes, indeed—that’s just what I’ve been saying. It’s your virtue that will be the deciding point.”
“You’re a numbskull if you believe such semantics will gain you anything! My virtue is neither here nor there. In order for any man to become my husband—and through me, exert any control at all over the Hall, its lands, and its people—I have to agree. Before God, witnesses, and an altar, I have to agree. And I can assure you that, regardless of anything you think to do to me, I will never marry you!” Her voice had escalated to a reined shout. “And for your information, regardless means in no circumstances whatsoever!”
A slight pause ensued, then Wallace responded, his tone not quite so cocksure, “You’ve lived too isolated—you don’t understand how ploys such as this work. Simply by me letting it be known that you’ve spent the night here, under my roof, with me in residence at the same time, you will be ruined.” Wallace’s voice strengthened. “That’s the way society works, and, my dear Jacqueline, there’s nothing you can do to change that. I don’t even have to lay a hand on you, and truth be told, I’ve never been attracted to women with tempers—too much effort to tame. But that’s of no moment—just by being here, you will be ruined, and my desired outcome, namely marriage to you, is therefore assured.”
Somewhere deeper in the room, a chair squeaked. Richard sensed that Wallace was sitting while Jacqueline was on her feet, possibly pacing, closer to the window.
Apparently convinced by his own arguments, more eagerly, Wallace went on, “I have it all planned. It’s entirely straightforward. Now that I have you here, the best thing you can do is to accept the inevitable with good grace—no need for any tantrums and tears. I assure you such behavior will have no impact on what will, ultimately, occur. Once you accept that I hold the upper hand, you can save your reputation from even the faintest slur by agreeing to marry me immediately.”
Richard frowned, wondering how…
After a pause—no doubt a gloating one—Wallace went on, “I have a special license and a priest in my pocket.” In more persuasive vein, he continued, “Just say the word, and we can be married within the hour—no fuss, no whispers, no slurs on your good name.”
“You are still not listening.” Jacqueline’s tone had hardened, her voice conveying adamantine resolution. “I don’t care what plans you’ve made. The notion of marrying a man like you curdles my stomach. No matter your actions, one fact remains: You cannot marry me without my agreement. And regardless of what you stoop to do, I will never, ever, agree to marry you.”
Silence greeted that declaration.
Alarm flaring, Richard turned to the men plastered as he was against the wall and, by signaling with his hands and mouthing orders, explained what he wanted done.
Suddenly, in the drawing room, Wallace spat, “It’s that damned man, Montague—isn’t it?” His voice had taken on an ugly edge. Richard felt certain Wallace had come to his feet. His voice drew nearer, as if he was approaching the window—stalking closer to Jacqueline. “I saw the way you looked at him. So the wretch got i
n first, did he? Did he turn your head and make you fall in love with him?” Abruptly, Wallace sounded a lot closer. His tone was sneering as he said, “He did, didn’t he?”
“Let me go, you fiend!”
“No—why should I? You’re in my house, in my power. Entirely in my control.” A scuffle sounded. “Oh-ho! Don’t like that, heh? But yes, you’re now mine to do with as I please.” Wallace’s tone had turned vicious.
Timing was everything. Richard held the men poised and waited—there were bound to be other men inside, not just Wallace. Richard wanted the master well and truly distracted before he launched their attack.
“You say you don’t care what I stoop to, so let’s put that to the test, shall we?” Wallace was all but slavering. “Let’s see how proud you are afterward.”
His face hard, Richard gave the signal, sending most of the men scurrying past him and around to the front of the house, while the stronger, heavier men circled to the rear door.
Wallace ground out, “Montague left you and rode away, you silly bitch! He got what he wanted, so there’s no need to feel shy about sharing yourself around—”
A resounding slap echoed through the room.
Now standing pressed against the wall beside the window, Richard breathed, “Come on—come on.”
Inside Sir Peregrine’s drawing room, beyond furious, Jacqueline wrenched and tugged, fighting to free her wrist from Sir Peregrine’s tight grip.
He was staring at her, momentarily shocked by her slap, the imprint of her fingers and palm showing white against his pink cheek, but his hold on her wrist hadn’t slackened in the least.
She couldn’t break free.
Abruptly, she stopped struggling and went on the attack instead. Stepping toward him, glaring directly into his face, she stated through furiously clenched teeth, “It’s none of your business who I love—you’re not fit to even say the word!”
Instinctively, she knew she needed Wallace furious—furious and not thinking clearly, then he would make mistakes. In the circumstances, she was perfectly prepared to clout him senseless with the bronze semi-nude figurine she could see on a side table, but she had to get a hand on the statue first.
She glowered into his face and belligerently rolled on, “And yes, Montague might not have valued what I had to give, and yes, he’s gone, but, you blithering idiot, that doesn’t mean I’ll stop loving him—that’s not how love works! And even if I did eventually look elsewhere, I would never lower my standards to the point of accepting a proposal from the likes of you! You are unquestionably the very worst of a batch of unsuitable suitors—I wouldn’t accept you were death in the balance!”
Under her unrelenting onslaught, Wallace had paled, but now his light-brown eyes glittered, cruelty and malice swirling in their depths. “That can be arranged, my dear. But first, if you like it rough…”
Wallace yanked her wrist up, jerking her against him.
She couldn’t help her gasp, and her eyes flew wide. She struggled to step back, but his other arm banded her waist, and then he tipped back his head and laughed.
“Oh yes—glorious.” He looked down, into her face; his eyes, gleaming maniacally, trapped hers. “Rough as you like, my dear—I’m only too happy to oblige!” Abruptly, he swung around and bent her back over the edge of another side table. His face had contorted into a mask of lasciviousness. His gaze lowered to her breasts, heaving beneath her tight bodice. “Oh yes, indeed—I guarantee you won’t find me lacking in that regard. And once I’m finished with you—with breaking you in and instructing you—you’ll be only too happy to spread your legs for my friends as well. Dashwood will enjoy using you—he’s especially partial to the hoity ones brought to kneel before him.”
Under her now openly horrified gaze, Wallace licked his thick lips, then he glanced up and met her eyes…
She fell into his gaze, and suddenly, she couldn’t breathe as revulsion rose up and choked her.
She’d misjudged. Panic lent her desperate strength; she forced her lungs to fill and, eyes closing, screamed!
Wallace laughed. “Yes, yes! It only adds to the pleasure!”
Hammering fell on the front door, heavy and insistent.
She and Wallace both jerked and looked toward the drawing room door—Wallace with surprise, she with leaping hope.
Wallace glanced back at her and saw her expression, and his slavering smile returned. “Whoever they are, it’ll do you no good. My staff know to deny all comers at moments like this. They know I like my privacy.”
The blackguard bent her farther back. Her gaze locked with his, with her free hand, she groped behind her, hoping to find something on the table she might use as a weapon, but nothing met her questing fingertips; it seemed this table was bare—
To her right, the side window shattered behind the curtain, then came the sound of the sash being shoved upward, and the curtain was ripped aside.
Even as she and Wallace blinked, Richard Montague sat on the sill, then swung his long legs into the room. His face a grim mask promising all manner of retribution, he planted his feet on the boards and stood, his sword, blade naked, in his hand.
Jacqueline’s heart soared. She’d never in her life seen such a welcome sight.
Such a promising sight in so many ways.
Noise erupted on the other side of the drawing room door.
After one swift, comprehensive glance that seemed to have taken in every inch of her, Richard’s gaze had fixed on Wallace. Slowly, Richard smiled. Chillingly. He stepped forward, swishing his sword side to side through the air. “It appears, Wallace, that you require a lesson in manners. Unhand the lady, sirrah.”
Wallace had frozen, but although his grip on her had slackened, his body still trapped hers against the table—she couldn’t move until he did.
Then the drawing room door crashed open, startling Wallace so much he swiveled to stare—locking her against him as he did.
She gritted her teeth and peeked around Wallace. Crawley and Ostley filled the doorway, and she glimpsed other Hall men behind them.
Crawley took in the scene in a searching glance, then he tipped a salute to Richard. “All present and accounted for out here, sir.”
“Thank you.” Richard’s gaze had returned to Wallace. “Close the door.”
Crawley and Ostley backed out, and the door shut with a definite click.
Jacqueline felt Wallace’s chest expand as he hauled in a huge breath, then he flung her away—toward the wall—and lunged for the sword he’d left propped against the side of the fireplace.
Her back hit the wall—the front wall of the house—and Jacqueline steadied. She watched as Wallace, the sword’s hilt in his hand, turned with a snarl to face Richard. With a dramatic flourish, Wallace unsheathed the sword. He flung the sheath to the side and sliced the blade through the air. “I warn you, Montague, I’m considered something of a master with this blade.” Wallace swished the steel side to side, then cocked a brow at Richard. “You sure you don’t want to put that down? We could share her, if you like.”
Richard stilled. Fleetingly, something primal passed through his eyes, then his lips curved mockingly. “That’s not why I’m here. I have a lesson to administer, if you recall. But as for your claim to mastery…” Crooking the fingers of his left hand, he beckoned Wallace on. “Let’s put that to the test, shall we?”
Gracefully, Richard straightened and presented the formal salute.
Facing him, several paces away, Wallace barely performed the salute before launching himself at Richard in a furious attack.
Jacqueline’s heart leapt to her throat, and her breath caught, but apparently, Richard had foreseen the attack; before Wallace struck, Richard was already moving and fluidly countered. Then, with seemingly effortless grace, one hand raised behind him in the classic swordsman’s stance, his feet shifting as if in a dance, Richard struck back.
They were much of a height, with Wallace possibly an inch taller; while Richard appeared more
athletic, more muscular and powerful, Wallace probably had the longer reach.
For the next minute, the flash of steel back and forth was too fast for Jacqueline to follow.
Was Wallace truly a master with the blade? Was he toying with Richard—or was it the other way about?
The next minute of slashing and ringing steel left her in no doubt. If Wallace was a master, then Richard Montague was a past master; Richard was making Wallace look awkward and frequently off balance.
Then, without any warning Jacqueline detected, Richard launched a flurry of slashing strokes—and when, on a gasp, Wallace stumbled back, he was blinking, and a slash down one cheek was trickling blood.
Richard’s lesson didn’t end there. If anything, the engagement became more rigidly defined, more completely under his control.
Soon, Wallace was panting. He fell back, giving ground. He was now sporting several slashes—on his face, on his hands, and even on his arms, blood seeping through slashes in his sleeves—and was starting to look panicked. He hadn’t once got past Richard’s guard.
“Who the devil are you?” Wallace edged back another step. “You’re not just some landless gentleman wandering past.”
Jacqueline looked at Richard. She’d grown increasingly sure of the same thing; there was an absolute confidence at the core of Richard Montague that his skill with the sword was only underscoring.
The ends of Richard’s lips lifted, his half smile mockingly intent. “Whoever said I was a landless gentleman?” He raised his sword in a taunting gesture. “But never mind who I am—we’re here to determine who you are, Wallace. Or should I say”—Richard’s voice lowered—“what you are, given you count Dashwood among your cronies.”
Mention of the infamous Sir Francis Dashwood seemed to fire something in Wallace. Teeth gritted, he launched another, this time clearly desperate, attack.
THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL_1750_JACQUELINE Page 19
