O'Rourke's Heiress

by Bancroft, Blair

  Heady stuff for a boy from County Wicklow.

  The rum punch was strong, the company convivial, almost boisterous, as the celebration wore on. As he’d long ago warned Beth not to do, Terence let down his guard. Hours later, when he awoke to soft caresses, the sweet scent of woman, the touch of lips so full they pulled him under before he could part the rum-induced haze enough to defend himself, he lay flat on his back in bed and let it happen. When Rochelle went straight to the point, sliding down to take his flaccid manhood in her hands and manipulating it into life, well, bloody hell, what was a man to do? Scream and run?

  Terence came awake, fully ready to participate. And to hell with tomorrow.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dartmoor, February 1817

  Feeling adventurous and just a little wicked, Beth tiptoed down the servants’ stairs and out a little-used side door. She pulled the hood of her cloak forward, concealing her face. Then, wrapping her heavy wool about her and tightening her grasp on the small bundle in her hand, she walked briskly toward the woods leading down to the river. Once in the shadows of the evergreens she would be safe from awkward questions about where she was going all by herself. But with Rodney off on one of his trips to Exeter, who, after all, would dare question her?

  Beth slipped behind the sheltering branches of a spruce tree and paused for breath. Why she had to escape for the day she wasn’t quite certain. Looking back at her perfect pink manor house, the need for freedom, seemed absurd. She was a viscountess, respected and pampered. In addition to supervision of the household, which she enjoyed, she had found occupation through the long weeks of winter by cataloging—secretly—the contents of the Treasure Room. And she was still studying the remarkable art found inside those three unique volumes in the library. She would have removed them to the Treasure Room, but filling in the gap on the shelf would have disarranged the entire library, inviting Rodney’s attention. The whole story would come out. She’d be forbidden the Treasure Room, and goodness knows what would happen to the volumes of . . . well, what could best be described as explicit drawings.

  If she could share the treasures she’d discovered with Rodney . . . If she could trust him in all things, as she trusted Terence, then, perhaps, she wouldn’t feel so . . . cloistered.

  She’d spent her life surrounded by loved ones and by servants who not only served her willingly but well. Who looked on her with loyalty, even warmth and affection. Here . . . here there was no one but Ellie Freeman. The servants, even Mrs. Ferris, owed their loyalty to her husband. And, worst of all, she didn’t have the love of a husband to replace her father, Terence, Tildy, and Jack. If she could get away for just a few hours, truly be by herself, perhaps her mind would clear, rid itself of the shock of discovering her husband was not the man she had thought him.

  It’s winter, that’s all it is, she told herself. Too many days of cold gray skies and spitting snow. She broke off a few stiff spruce needles, rubbed them between her fingers. Holding them to her nose, she inhaled the pungent scent. Odd that a girl from the city could so love the sights, sounds, and scents of the country. Perhaps . . . Beth drew in another breath of spruce, let the dark needles drift to the ground. Yes . . . already her head was clearer, her thoughts coalescing into something that made sense. In her whole life she’d never been alone, never had an adventure except with Terence or Jack at her side.

  Out there, on the wilds of the moor, she could perhaps find herself. The Beth who was her own woman, who could face danger, reveling in the open space, the silence, the sheer immensity of it all.

  Beth peeked through the branches. The pink sandstone manor house glowed in the morning sun, the perfect façade. Just like her life.

  On the surface life was good. Rodney’s trips to Exeter had become more frequent. Since they seemed to vanquish the demons that turned his handsome features to saturnine and caused shivers of something other than pleasure to tickle her spine, Beth avoided asking questions. Yet there were times when she displeased him, as when she’d tried to convince him of the value of the art work hidden away under lock and key. His fists clenched, his jaw clamped tight, his eyes bulged with the effort it took to keep himself in check. She could feel the terrible tension within him, even as it echoed full-blown within herself.

  There had been other times—nonsensical arguments when he had countermanded her orders, challenged her independence. She, who had run the Brockman household since was eleven! He had raised his hand to her. On one occasion when he’d been unable to restrain himself, he’d slammed his fist into the wall beside her head, making a dent Mrs. Ferris had covered with a not very good landscape by a local artist.

  That had been a month ago. He’d stormed out of the house and gone to Exeter, returning three days later with a groom driving a pony cart. A gift, Rodney said, all smiles, for his darling. His eyes were clear, hands steady, a smile lighting his face, vigor in his manly body. That was when she’d decided she didn’t want to know what he did in Exeter. Whatever it was, she was grateful for it.

  When the weather had turned unexpectedly balmy yesterday, she felt the call of the moor. She had to get away. A midnight raid on the kitchen produced the makings for lunch and a bottle of home-brewed ale. Only Ellie—who had strongly protested—knew her plans. After all, a Brockman was not foolish enough to wander the moor without letting anyone know which direction she intended to go.

  Smiling, Beth turned her back on the Refuge and, keeping within the shelter of the evergreens, walked downhill toward the river. Many times she and Ellie had enjoyed the path beside the stream which gurgled over a haphazard collection of broad sheets of granite, small rocks and boulders. But today her sights were fixed elsewhere.

  Today she was using the path, overhung by a tangle of winter-bare trees and bushes, as protection from prying eyes. When she reached the ancient bridge which led to Dunscombe, Beth climbed the river bank, checked the road for traffic, then scooted across the bridge, almost running now as she felt the call of the wild moor beyond. Rodney had always taken her to the downs above the house. This time, she would explore new territory. While driving into Dunscombe in her pony cart, she had spotted a path winding up toward the high moor. Today she was going to explore it. Perhaps she might see a hut circle or standing stones. She might even climb a tor or catch sight of a bog. She wasn’t afraid. Warned time and again about the vivid green color of a bog, Beth felt competent to keep on firm ground.

  The narrow path led steadily upward. Once on the downs, it became harder to follow, meandering past giant boulders on one side, marshy ground on the other. Beth looked for telltale shades of verdant green but saw only granite, moor grass in varying shades of dull green and brown, the winter skeletons of heather and gorse. She was truly alone. Not so much as a sheep as far as the eye could see.

  It was heaven!

  Well . . . with a jumble of boulders on one side and decidedly spongy ground on the other, she was beginning to understand why she’d been warned not explore on her own. There were certainly dangers here which she had never before encountered.

  Beth paused, looked out over the vast expanse of rolling moorland beyond the marsh. She laughed out loud. She was free! She had a whole day to herself, alone in the wilderness. Alone, truly alone, for the first time in her life.

  It was heady, exciting. Her blood bubbled in her veins. Was this an inkling of what her father felt when he forged his empire? What Terence felt? Men could do this—stand alone, move mountains. But women were supposed to be soft, encompassed by servants if they were among the fortunate, weighed down by children and chores if they were not.

  Women never knew freedom.

  But, today—for this limited space of time—she did. She was responsible for herself. Given time, she could conquer the world.

  Beth sighed, resumed her walk. Dartmoor was the perfect place for fantasies, for allowing the mind to soar. If only she didn’t have to come back to earth.

  The ground rose up out of the marsh, the boulders on
her right dwindling away, revealing a more barren down, devoid of heather and gorse. Just an uneven treacherous surface where grass had formed a thin coat over land which had once been strewn with bare rock. Now the path meandered its way through the maze of lumpy ground, marked occasionally by cairns. Beth was watching her feet, concentrating on avoiding stray rocks and desiccated sheep patties, when she looked up to find herself practically nose to nose with a pony.

  Well, no, she amended, even she wasn’t that short. The dark eyes, regarding her so solemnly, belonged to a miniature pony, a tiny creature whose back rose not much higher than her waist. His coat was brown, his mane shaggy and much darker. A white spot gleamed in the middle of his forehead. The dark eyes fixed on her seemed alight with curiosity. Beth was enchanted. Did she dare touch him? Would he shy, rear up? Bite her?

  Slowly, she extended her hand toward the pony. He never moved. Talking softly, she touched the shaggy mane, gently slid her hand along his back. The pony sidled a few steps, decided to stay. “You’re wonderful,” Beth told him. “Absolutely beautiful. How do you survive out here on the moor? I suppose there are more of you. You’re not really alone.” A soft whinny was all the answer she got.

  After five minutes of one-sided conversation, Beth bid her new friend goodbye and walked on. Being alone was good, but sharing the moment was also to be treasured.

  An hour later, Beth settled herself on a hand-cut chunk of granite two-feet high and unwrapped her small bundle of food. The tor she had hoped to climb lurked enticingly close, its dark shadow now revealed as a steep slope of patchy grass crowned with great chunks of granite which seemed not much smaller than the Refuge. A raven swooped low. Eyeing her food? What could he see from up there? Beth wondered. Although she had walked for hours, climbing up, down, and around, she guessed that, by raven flight, she might be not more than two miles from home.

  Nonetheless, she would have to start back soon. Even in Devon, darkness came early in February. The tor would have to wait for a time when the days were longer. Finding the hut circles was thrill enough. The knowledge she was sitting on one of the support posts for a dwelling constructed more than a thousand years before the time of Christ filled her with awe. This particular hut was about ten feet in diameter, the granite supports still upright and sturdy. There were six or seven more circles, as well as the remains of sheep pens, called pounds. Even without climbing the tor, it had been a wonderful day. She would return home with spring in her step and hope in her heart. Rodney always came back from Exeter transformed. Laughing, teasing, eager to spend a full night in his wife’s bed. Tomorrow he would return and . . .

  Beth’s teeth froze over a mouthful of bread and cheese. She’d seen . . . something. A glimpse of movement, a dark shape. Heart pounding, she shifted slowly around on her seat, surveying the entire area. Nothing moved, except the raven far above. Perhaps the pony had followed her. Certainly he was small enough to disappear behind one of the many granite outcroppings near the ancient village. Now that she’d taken a second look . . . there were pillars in the area where she’d seen movement. A group of stones rising considerably higher than the hut supports. Menhirs—wasn’t that the name for the standing stones? When another close examination of the tall thin rocks revealed nothing, Beth shrugged and returned to her lunch. Obviously, she was flinching at shadows.

  After licking the remains of cold roast beef off her fingers and swallowing the last of the ale, Beth repacked her bundle. When she had veered off the trail to explore the hut circles, she had carefully marked the distance and angle so she could find her way back. Now she looked longingly at the standing stones. From the menhirs, which seemed to be on a rise of higher ground, she would have a better view of the area—and perhaps discover if she was truly alone. If she left her bundle on the granite support where she sat to eat lunch, she should have no difficulty finding her way back to the path. Smiling with satisfaction over her good sense, Beth laid her bundle on the sturdy chunk of granite and set off across the stiff grass toward the standing stones. Perhaps she’d find her friend, the miniature moor pony.

  What had once been a perfect circle of tall monoliths, with the tops honed into rough points, had been reduced by wind and weather to four. The other stones, some in pieces, lay at drunken angles on the ground. All were patched with lichen. Beth could feel their age. This was once a sacred place. Now . . . it was eerie. She saw no sign of her friend, the pony. Nor of any other living thing. Her eyes must indeed have been playing tricks on her. There were so few places to hide on a treeless moor.

  She walked a few feet past the ring of menhirs and gasped. The ground, dropping off abruptly, was littered with small stones and chips of granite. Clitter. That had to be the clitter Rodney had warned her about. Nasty, unstable stuff, he’d told her. Never set foot on it. She didn’t intend to. But it was fascinating. She’d never seen anything like it. And at the foot of the clitter was a broad area which did not look at all like the ground beneath her feet. It was . . . mossy. Grey-green, brown, greenish-brown. Bright green. Beth stared. A wisp of fog—steam?—drifted upward from the center of the green. A lethal pool in the center of a quagmire. One of Dartmoor’s infamous bogs. She had sudden visions of ceremonies, perhaps judgments, at the standing stones. The sacrificial victim, the guilty, being thrown from the cliff into the seething bog below.

  A shiver shook her. This was no time for high flights of fancy. The sun’s weak winter light was already well past its zenith. Even though the way was mostly downhill, Beth guessed it would take at least two hours to get back to the Refuge.

  A flicker of movement directly behind her. The flutter of huge raven wings, black and . . . solid. Beth tumbled forward, screaming as her shoulder hit the sharp stones. She rolled, gathering momentum, the clitter cutting, stabbing, as she clawed frantically at the rocks, which gave way and rolled with her. Thudding at last onto something softer, she continued to roll. Suddenly, everything stopped. The last chunks of clitter following her down the cliff thudded around her, the sound muffled as the ground shook. Moved. Slurped.

  Bog!

  Her first thought: Rodney would kill her for being such a fool.

  Her second thought: she hadn’t fallen, she’d been pushed. Musn’t move. If someone was standing up above, waiting to see if she’d broken her neck . . .

  Waiting for the bog to gobble her up.

  Not moving seemed a good idea anyway. Maybe the bog wouldn’t notice her. Maybe, just maybe, if she were very careful, there might be a way out of this. The foolish chit from the city might still find her way home.

  Lying still as the dead, crumpled on her side with her face turned away from the clitter slope, Beth had no way of knowing what was going on above. She could, however, look into the heart of the bog. She was stretched out on spongy ground rich with soft brown sphagnum moss, the fingertips of her right hand only inches from the slimy green pool in the center of the bog. Dear God! Beth sucked in her breath and prayed. She hoped God would forgive her if a few of her nearly incoherent prayers were addressed to Terence and Jack as well. If only she could hear the sound of their beloved voices shouting down from above, assuring her they had put to rout whoever had been lurking there. The sliding of stones as they thundered down the cliff to her rescue.

  But all there was, was silence. As if only the stones stood above, as they had for thousands of years, unable to reveal the joys, the tragedies, the details of everyday living which had passed before them.

  How long should she wait?

  Was her attacker long gone? Or hovering above, like the raven, eyes focused on his prey?

  How long before the mists rose from the bog and night came down around her? Before a balmy day became a winter night?

  Her heart seemed to stop as the ground quivered beneath her. A granite chip teetering on the edge of the green pool, fell in, disappearing with nothing more than a soft plop. Beth swallowed, clenched her teeth, refused to acknowledge the tear slithering down her cheek.

  Sh
e hurt. Her arm, which was all she could see without moving, was scratched and bloody, her fingernails broken, her knuckles skinned and raw.

  She was dead if she moved. Dead if she didn’t.

  She was a Brockman. She already knew what it was to make hard choices. She could do it again. Night was inevitable, a law of nature. As was the fog. Trapped on the cold bleak moor overnight, she was unlikely to survive. The odds that her attacker had fled were better.

  Even if he had, her choices were few. Continuing to lie prone on cold, marshy ground with darkness fast approaching was not sensible. Standing up on the treacherous ground was even less so. Beth flexed her fingers, listened for sounds of life from above. All quiet. Gingerly, she moved her arm, drawing it close to her body. She raised her torso enough to free her other arm which, cramped to the point of numbness, almost refused to function.

  She eased her hip off several chunks of clitter which had been torturing her for sometime. Ah! And then she waited, still lying full length, while circulation returned to her arm, her bumps and bruises stopped screaming, and the ground beneath her ceased to quake.

  She had to move now. Time was running out. She could only pray that her attacker had fled, unwilling to chance the clitter in order to push her those fatal few feet to the bright green center of the bog.

  Beth slithered. Just like a snake, she thought as she wiggled across the mossy ground which undulated as she moved, like some giant beast. If she ever got home, she would remember this moment forever. Remember what the world felt like from as low as a person could go. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget the horror of that fifteen or twenty feet across unstable muck in a world as quiet as the grave.

  Her fingers struck a handful of stone. She kept going. At last! She could feel solid granite under the sharp-edged stones. Scrambling into a sitting position, Beth sat, panting, looking out over the bog.