by Judith James
Much to her surprise, she felt a thril of anticipation, curious to see this new country home.
Dusk was fast approaching. The sun hung low on the horizon. The sky had taken on a smoky orange cast, topped with streaks of bril iant gold and shot through with wisps of magenta and purplish-blue. They watched together, side by side, and Hope stopped herself a moment before she leaned against him. How had they become so familiar so quickly? Only two days ago she’d had her heart broken, and yet she hadn’t spared a thought for it al day. Was she real y so shal ow? There were many men who’d tried to pursue her, but she’d never been attracted to a man the way she was to this one. She knew that couldn’t be trusted, but might they be friends? It would make life easier. He says he understands. He said he keeps his word. Maybe to a man…but to a woman?
She shivered and he gave her his coat. It smel ed like him.
Musk and smoke, spice and leather. It was stil warm from his body and she hugged it close. How has he slipped under my guard like this?
“We’d best move on, elf. There’s something I’d like to show you, and these ledges grow tricky as it nears dark.” She looked at him, pleased and surprised by the casual endearment. Elf. She liked the sound of it. Elves were wild, beautiful and mysterious. No one had ever cal ed her that before. He offered her his hand and she took it without thinking. As they neared the castle wal s she caught the scent of a powerful perfume resembling meadowsweet and blackthorn, coming from luminescent white flowers that climbed the wal s and blanketed the ruins. “Robert, they’re lovely! How is it I failed to notice them before?”
“I’ve noted your penchant for flowers and thought you might enjoy them,” he said smugly. “’Tis why I didn’t bring you before late afternoon. They are cal ed white catchfly, and grow here at the castle. Their petals only open from dusk to dawn. It’s only then one smel s their perfume. Come now.
We must hasten before it grows ful dark.” He took her arm to steady her as they continued down the path.
“Thank you, Robert. It’s turned out to be a wonderful day.
I’ve quite enjoyed it.”
“As have I, Lady Nichols. You’ve helped me see it al again with fresh eyes.”
Her eyes sparkled in the twilight and she warmed him with her smile. “Do you think Robin Hood and Little John might have trod this very path?”
“Perhaps. But not as most like to think them. Doubtless they were highwaymen and vil ains more than gentlemen thieves.”
“But they only robbed from the rich!”
“Yes, I know the story. But al thieves rob from the rich.
There’s real y no point in taking from the poor, is there?
They’d not be worth the risk in time or loss of life.” It was too dark for him to see her warning glare.
“Wel , they also gave to the poor.”
“I rather doubt that,” he said reasonably. “Paid them for their silence, more like, and paid them for drink and food…. It would only be good policy to do so. They were not in a position to do him harm, but they could do him some good.
Scouting, intel igence, warnings and such. No doubt a coin dropped here and there was a good investment at the time.”
She was almost sputtering now. “The stories say he suffered no woman to be oppressed or otherwise molested. He was a prince among thieves. A gentleman thief, the spirit of liberty for common folk against cruel taxes and forest laws made by the church and tyrants and…and people like you!”
“People like me?”
“Yes! Nobles and barons and earls who live in luxury feeding off the spoils of other men’s labor.” Live in luxury off the back of other men’s labor? Was she was comparing him to those soft-handed useless courtiers and sycophants that suckled at the royal teat? It stung. And two days of being her bought husband didn’t make it true.
“Might I remind you, Lady Nichols, that you are people like me now, too? And what have you been living off in your palace and town house in Pal Mal ?”
“Oh! I wil never be people like you. After al I’m not good enough, am I? Nor would I want to be. You are al hypocrites and liars!”
“The man was a cutthroat, a robber and thief,” he snapped.
“No wonder he’s admired by people like you.” She stopped and jerked her arm from his grasp. “No doubt you would have seen him hang, Captain Nichols. Or maybe drawn and quartered. And you know nothing about people like me! Maybe I have lived off other men’s labors, but believe me, I’ve worked and paid for every bit of it. Who are you to judge? I have done what I must to survive and prosper. Have you not done the same on the battlefield?
Do you not do the same in holding your nose to marry me?
At least I have never kil ed anyone!” She shoved past him, continuing down the path on her own.
“Hope, wait! The trail is dangerous in the dark.” He hurried to catch up with her, grasping her by her upper arm when she wouldn’t stop. “Al I meant was that you grew up amongst the poor, who tend to take their heroes from rebels and those who flout the law.”
“And to remind me I am a glorified whore.”
“No! To remind you that now you live the life of those nobles you insult, which makes you just as much a hypocrite as me.”
“Let go of me! I’ve told you before not to touch me,” she snarled.
“And I’m tel ing you that you’re not walking home alone in the dark.” She made to pul away from him and he hoisted her in his arms as easily as if she were a child.
“Put me down, Captain. I’m wel able to walk on my own two feet.” She struggled in his grasp but it only made him hold her tighter. She could feel the strength of him in his easy stride, the muscles of his stomach, arms and chest—every inch of him was hard. There was no escaping. She ceased her struggles but refused to relax against him, her body as tense and rigid as that of an angry cat. He dropped her to her feet at the entrance to the inn.
“Now I put you down.”
He needed a drink. He couldn’t remember ever drinking as much as he had over the past few days. She was exactly what he’d thought her. An impossible woman. He was almost grateful for their argument. At least things had righted themselves and were back the way they should be.
He walked away, leaving her to find her own way to her room.
“And who are your heroes, Captain?” she cal ed after him, her voice mocking.
“I have none,” he replied without looking back.
“I wil tel you how many men I have fucked if you tel me how many you have kil ed.”
He slowed and stopped, then turned to face her, leaning against a pil ar, his arms crossed and his head cocked as he looked her up and down. “I don’t care how many men you’ve fucked, Mistress Mathews, and I don’t keep count of how many I have kil ed.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HOPE WAS BACK TO STARING out of windows.
Anything rather than acknowledge his presence. She must have imagined the brief warmth between them, for al traces of it were gone. After a day of pleasantries and simple pleasures, the thin veneer of civility between them had shredded as easily as flimsy tissue, leaving them encased in frigid hostility once more. One moment they were enjoying the sunset and the next they were on the attack. She wasn’t quite sure how it had happened so quickly, nor why she’d deliberately provoked him when he’d dropped her at the door. Did I want him to go? Or did I want him to stay?
That there was an attraction was undeniable. She’d felt it from the first moment she’d seen him. But he wasn’t the amiable companion he’d pretended to be yesterday. It embarrassed her to remember how she’d warmed to a few kind words like an abandoned puppy, but perhaps that was to be expected after being humiliated and betrayed. Wel , it wouldn’t happen again. She was a courtesan, not some soft and brokenhearted dewy-eyed miss, and it hadn’t taken him long to show his true colors.
It was better this way. Truly. Without masquerade or pretense. He was arrogant, high-handed, superior and judgmental. When he came to col ect her this morning, his
cold gaze had flicked over her as if she were a bale of linen or a sack of sugar, just one more purchase to be carted home.
She snuck a sideways peek at him from beneath her lashes. He seemed cramped and uncomfortable in confined spaces. The inn, the coach, even in her town house. He’d neglected to shave again, and dark shadows accentuated firm lips and strong chin and jaw. She didn’t know why she found this rugged look so appealing, particularly when it appeared he had spent the night drinking again. She should feel nothing but contempt, yet her body betrayed her. Despite her anger and his disdain, she felt the same intense awareness of him as she had when he sat across from her at the inn. It was the sensation of touching without being touched. She could almost feel the rasp of his stubble against her tender cheeks. Her lips burned as if his sul en mouth hovered just a heartbeat from hers.
She took a deep breath, acknowledging a tender aching that weakened her limbs and squeezed her heart. This man is a danger to me like none other if I let my senses rule my head. A woman like herself, feeling alone and unwanted and prone to childish fantasies, must always take care that her head ruled her heart. Yesterday had been an aberration. It was wel they didn’t like each other. It was far too easy to confuse lust with something else when friendship mixed freely with desire. Desire unchecked was a treacherous weakness, but desire acknowledged could be harnessed and used.
She turned her gaze back out the window. He feels it, too.
The evidence in the coach yesterday was…unmistakable.
Her lips curled in a satisfied smile. He is not the only one with power here.
They passed a prosperous-looking vil age of thatch-roofed brick and half-timbered houses, clustered in a shady del nestled in the woods. Its cool green depths, pierced by thick white shafts of sunlight, were bordered by large pasturages to the west and boasted a handsome forge and substantial ale-house. Yesterday she would have asked him about it and its people, but today she was rendered mute.
Not long after the vil age, they turned up a winding drive.
The approach to Cressly was through a magnificent al ey of towering oaks in the midst of an oak-and-silver-birch forest.
The ancient trees, as magnificent in size and shape as any she’d ever seen, created a cathedral-like sense of awe.
Ignoring her surly keeper, she perched halfway out the window when she spotted a smal herd of deer. Their ears pricked forward but they made no move to bolt, watching the passing coach with mild interest as it circled round the bend and moved deeper into the val ey.
Her eagerness to see Cressly had been growing since yesterday, when she’d seen the vista from castle rock. The pretty vil age and regal forest were something she might imagine from a fairy tale and she was excited to see the rest. At first she caught only flashes; teasing glimpses of red brick, soaring turrets and towering chimney stacks, but as the drive straightened it revealed a beautiful three-story, rust-tinted house with banks of white-trimmed windows. Set amongst a copse of trees with ample boughs to shelter and protect from eastern blasts, it was draped by many years’
growth of dark green ivy and widespread Virginia creeper.
Edged by a moss-and-lichen-covered terrace, it sat on a gentle rise on a protected bend of the river. The Trent, girded by stately trees, some of whose boughs dipped gently, almost trailing in the water, flowed right in front of its windows, and a backwater made from its overflow seemed to be home to a pair of swans and various other waterfowl.
She had never seen a home that looked more like it belonged just where it was. It seemed as if it had grown there, amidst the forest and fields and hil s, a part of them rather than something that had been built.
They came to a halt in an empty stone-flagged courtyard. A sweet scent wafted from overgrown beds of tangled flowers on either side of a broad gravel walk. There was no bustle of servants, no clutch of chickens, no curious children or barking dogs. As she stepped from the coach it was eerily silent. Just the rush of the river and the sibilant whisper of wind stirring the leaves. She accepted the captain’s proffered hand, though he offered her no greeting or welcome to his home. My home, too, now, Captain Nichols. Whether it pleases you or not.
A peregrine cried overhead and the breeze made a cold shiver crawl up her spine. For a moment it seemed as if the house was watching her, taking her measure, judging. She swal owed her anxiety, lifted her chin and stiffened her spine. He was judging. This lovely home had been forsaken and neglected. It was almost ghostly with its unkempt gardens, smothered wal s and silent courtyard. But it was the home she’d always dreamt of. It cal ed to her, begging to be loved and cared for, and her heart ached to embrace it. I need it and it needs me and I won’t let him drive me away.
But in her dream her house belonged to her. In her dream she was happy and free. Charles and this stranger had stolen her dream. This house could never be hers. It belonged to someone else. If Charles cal ed her back she would have to leave it for whatever pretty cage he chose to put her in. If he forgot her here, as she knew he might, it would become her prison and the captain her jailor; a place where she would live unwanted and unloved. At least in Drury Lane she’d been useful and she’d belonged.
Her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. It had taken such effort not to let this cold, harsh stranger see her pain.
One kind gesture and she’d been drawn to him immediately, taking his arm, leaning on his strength. But the truth was she was alone and she always had been, and that is where she must find her strength. Oh, Charles! How could you do this to me? Why? It hurt so bad she had to bite her knuckle to keep from crying.
“Good evening, Sergeant Oakes. I have brought a guest.
The Countess of Newport. I would appreciate if you would have the staff see to her comfort, and then I wil see you in the library straightaway. There are important matters to discuss.”
I have brought a guest? So that was how it was going to be. She took a deep breath, regaining her composure, and turned to greet the newcomer. He seemed almost taken aback by his master’s appearance, tilting his head with what looked like puzzlement before shifting his attention to her. As he approached she noticed he walked with his left hand curled by his side. He seemed to be missing a couple of fingers, and a scar across his cheek and brow passed perilously close to one eye.
“It’s a great pleasure to meet you, my lady.” The grizzled old veteran gave her a beaming smile. He had the rough-edged growl of someone who’d spent years barking orders, but his tone was friendly enough. He wore a military uniform rather than livery, and it was hard to tel his position in the household, but she didn’t care. Like recognized like.
The sergeant was a survivor and so was she.
She stepped forward and threaded her arm through his.
“It’s such a great joy to meet one of Robert’s col eagues, Sergeant Oakes. He can be rather taciturn and I feared he had no friends. It pleases me greatly to see him play the jester, but he real y shouldn’t tease you. I am Lady Nichols, our gal ant captain’s new wife.”
The sergeant’s eyes rounded and he blinked several times.
His mouth opened and closed twice before he recovered the capacity to speak. “You’re married, sir? When? How?
Why didn’t you inform us, Captain?”
“The whole thing was rather sudden. I ought to have sent a messenger from London or Nottingham, I suppose.” The captain signaled his indifference with a yawn.
“Indeed, sir. Then we might have greeted your lady properly. You are most welcome here at Cressly, madam.
We have missed a lady’s touch. Er…” The sergeant reddened and cleared his throat. “That is to say Cressly has missed a lady’s touch. Pray forgive the miserly welcome, my lady. I’l have the staff assembled to greet you at once.”
“There’s no need to apologize, Sergeant.” Hope patted his arm. The sergeant’s surprise was almost comical, but her husband’s look was one of cold indifference. Returning it with a sweet smile and eyes ful of scorn, she let go of the s
ergeant and took her husband’s arm instead. She smiled when she felt it stiffen. Leaning her head against his shoulder she looked up at him with melting eyes. “We were both overtaken by a grand passion, weren’t we, darling?” He grunted in reply. A wiry dark-haired young man with an eye patch had come to help with the horses, and a footman with a scar across the bridge of his nose and down his cheek was assisting with the bags. People with scars and missing limbs were a common sight on the streets of London since the war, but not in gentlemen’s homes. She almost asked a question of the sergeant, but the doors to Cressly opened and she was swept inside.
CHAPTER TWELVE
HER FIRST THOUGHT was that it was dark, the second that it was cold and unwelcoming, much like its owner, and the third that it was empty inside. A superb wood staircase rose in front of her, massive and elaborately carved with wide landings, leading from the basement to the upper floors. A bil iard room was close by the entrance, the doors to a library were to her left, and what looked to be a drawing room and a long hal way were to her right, but other than heavy, dark-colored drapes, the wal s were bare and the furnishings, many of which were covered by sheets and rugs, were sparse.
It must be easy for the maids to clean, but it felt funereal and much too quiet. A clock ticked in a distant room and she felt a tightening dread. How can I live in this house?
She was used to music and color, laughter and gaiety, company…friends.
Once Sergeant Oakes had assembled the staff, the captain introduced her as the Countess of Newport, then waited introduced her as the Countess of Newport, then waited with a look of bored impatience as the sergeant told her their names and explained their duties. Clearly her fortune-hunting husband was eager to be shed of her and off about his business. He is ashamed to call me wife. She felt a quick stab of hurt and anger. Refusing to acknowledge it, she straightened her spine and raised her chin, doing her best to look gracious and regal.
He seemed curt with his servants. They showed no fear, no sign he was a difficult master, but they were efficient. There was no evidence of the excitement and bustle one might expect when a new mistress came home. They stood in order of precedence. Maggie Overton, the housekeeper, a smal , severe-looking woman with nut-brown hair, watched her with eyes as cold as her master’s. Mrs. Ful erton, the cook, gave her a businesslike nod, as if she had other places to be. The scarred footman was introduced as Corporal Ryan, along with another handsome fel ow cal ed Mr. Yates, who was missing two fingers on his left hand.
