by Amanda Scott
Mollie shuddered now as she recalled those first dreadful weeks in Kent after Hawk had gone. The old Marquess of Hawkstone had been a demanding, temperamental tyrant who wanted all about him to run smoothly without so much as having to lift a finger to assist in the running. Mollie had not found it difficult to understand why Hawk had previously spent as little time as possible at his family home, where his every move and opinion were belligerently questioned and cross-questioned by so harsh a parent. But understanding his wish to leave and forgiving him for leaving her had been two entirely different things.
At first there had been occasional letters from him, and she knew he had reached the Peninsula in time to take part in General Wellesley’s famous victory at Talavera. Then the army had moved into Spain, and there were fewer letters. Then none at all. When the dispatches arrived in London after the battle of Salamanca, his name had been listed among those wounded, and Mollie had been frantic for nearly a week. But then a letter arrived from Hawk, informing her that he was not seriously injured and had chosen to recuperate in a village near the Portuguese border. Thus, he wrote, he would be able to return more quickly to action when his wounds healed.
There was nothing but a brief note or two after that until several months after the old marquess relieved them of his presence by choking to death on a fishbone one night. He had expired in the midst of berating Lady Bridget for failing to note that several stones in the postern-gate causeway had been loosened by a recent storm, and it had been Lady Bridget’s fluttery protest that she never had reason to travel upon that causeway which had so incensed him. Consequently, Mollie had had her hands full for some time after the tragic event, trying to convince poor Lady Bridget that she had not murdered the marquess. When Mollie finally had a moment to consider the matter, she had assumed that Hawk would return as soon as word of his father’s death reached him. However, from some cause or other, it had been nearly a month before he learned of the situation, and when he did, he had simply scrawled a note informing her that he was too much occupied to return at once and advising her to rely upon his uncle, Lord Andrew Colporter, to attend to any matters of business that his bailiff could not cope with.
Having kept a close watch over the dispatches as they appeared in the London papers, Mollie had no doubt that Wellesley, now Viscount Wellington, might well have failed at Madrid without Hawk’s invaluable assistance, so she was able to swallow the fact that her husband was too busy to come home immediately, but she could not so easily accept his advice with regard to Lord Andrew.
Since by that time she knew as much as anyone and more than most about the running of the Colporter estates, and since she quite heartily despised both the sanctimonious Lord Andrew and his Polly-pry wife, she ignored Hawk’s suggestion with a nearly clear conscience. Because her conscience was not quite so clear with regard to certain other matters, she also breathed a sigh of relief at the delay, and went about her business as usual. Two months later, concerned by the fact that Lady Bridget still wore an expression of constant anxiety on her plump, normally pleasant countenance, Mollie had ruthlessly dragged the poor, feebly-protesting woman off to Margate, hoping the crisp sea breezes would restore the roses to her cheeks. That she had also taken the opportunity to liven up her own dull situation was a matter that she knew might well cause her an uncomfortable moment or two at some vague point in the future.
A little smile tugged at her lips now as she remembered Lord Ramsay’s earlier teasing reference to the episode. He had never blamed her for her behavior then. He had, in fact, asserted that he couldn’t imagine why anyone should expect for a moment that she ought to mourn his father’s passing. Anyone in his right mind, he had said, would expect the entire family to rejoice. But Mollie knew she had behaved badly. Others knew it, too. And if Lady Andrew Colporter had not immediately sent Hawk a full, undoubtedly exaggerated report of Mollie’s activities, then some other of his busybody relations must have done so. She sighed deeply, then glanced over to find Lord Ramsay regarding her quizzically.
“Tired, Moll?”
“A little,” she admitted, “but I was just thinking of Lady Andrew and the things she has no doubt amused herself by writing to your brother.”
“A pox on the woman. Has Hawk…Never mind. None of my affair,” he said hastily.
Molly smiled at him. “I have no secrets, Ramsay. Has he ever mentioned hearing anything? Isn’t that what you were about to ask?” He nodded. “Never,” Mollie said. “Of course, he has written so infrequently and never very much to the purpose.”
“Do you write to him?”
Color crept into her cheeks as she remembered the long, rather childish letters she had written after his departure, but she answered steadily enough, “Not for a long time. Or at least not the way you mean. I wrote to inform him when Haycock caught those poachers on the north ridge and when we had the causeway repaired, and last year when Mr. Brewer questioned my authority to draw funds for the refurbishing of Lady Bridget’s rooms when we returned from Margate. He replied to Mr. Brewer very quickly on that occasion, I’m glad to say.”
“I detect my uncle’s fine hand there,” Lord Ramsay murmured. “Punishing you for your raking, no doubt.”
“Punishing Lady Bridget, you mean,” Mollie returned angrily. “He read her the most dreadful scold. As if she could order my coming and going or would try to do so. I am certain I told you all about it when you were down for the long vacation.”
“You did, and I thought then as I think now that we’d all of us do better without Uncle Andrew’s interference. Why, even Gwen was saying, only last week when I passed through Pillings on my way here, that—”
But what his older sister had had to say was destined to go, for the moment at any rate, unrepeated, for Lord Ramsay broke off suddenly and gave his full attention to the roadway in front of them.
“I say, Mollie,” he said after a moment or so, while she watched him curiously, “I think we’ve got company up yonder.”
“What makes you think so?” She had noticed a number of tracks in the mud, but had given them little thought. The road was fairly well-traveled by the men from Hawkstone.
Lord Ramsay’s brow was furrowed as he concentrated his attention downward. “There shouldn’t be so many tracks as these. You forget the rain washed the road clear. There were a few ruts this morning, but scarcely any tracks beyond the ones we made ourselves.”
“Still it would take but one small group of horsemen coming from Hawkstone to make a number of tracks,” she pointed out. But then, even before he could speak, she realized a fact that contradicted her suggestion. “All the tracks are heading toward the castle, aren’t they, Ramsay?”
“They are.” There was a slightly grimmer note in his voice. “And they are fresh, too, Moll. Only observe that pile of dung yonder and the scrape there on that stone. A horseshoe made that recently enough that it’s still white, and you can see tiny bits of metal glinting. There’s another. If we’d been riding at a normal pace, I daresay we’d have overtaken them by now.” He reined in, cocking his head. “Listen.”
Mollie obeyed. In the distance, through the trees, she could hear the faint jingle of spurs and harness. There were riders ahead. “What shall we do, Ramsay?”
“Well, we can’t risk your being seen, that’s flat,” he replied. “And the only place they can be going from here is Hawkstone. We’ll have to cut through the woods and across the ridge to the postern causeway. Even if we hurry, we’ll be only a hop and a skip ahead of them.”
He wheeled his horse into the woods and gave a nudge of his spurs to urge it to greater speed. With a grin, Mollie followed, keeping her head lowered and attempting at the same time to keep the curly-brimmed beaver from flying off her head. They seemed to fly under rain-soaked, low-hanging branches, over fallen logs, through nearly marshy meadows, and across the gurgling, storm-swollen brook that fed into the river below, but both riders knew every grass and stone in these woods, and they suffered no mishap, th
ough the horses’ flanks were heaving and well-splattered with mud by the time they emerged into the clearing by the lakeshore and saw the postern causeway straight ahead of them.
The sight of the huge gray-stone fortress filling the island in the center of the sparkling blue lake sent a glow of pride racing through Mollie just as it always did. Fascinated from the first moment she had laid eyes upon it, she had come to know the castle’s history as well as anyone.
She knew that as a result of the number of successful French raids across the English Channel in the late fourteenth century and the great fear that the raiders might well begin to plunge farther inland, Sir Ninian Colporter, a well-known knight at court and a veteran of Edward III’s wars abroad, had applied for a license to crenellate Hawkstone House, a mansion he had built on a hillside overlooking the Bourne some years before. Permission was granted on the understanding that the castle would protect the immediate countryside from an invading enemy. Interpreting “crenellation” in a very broad sense, Sir Ninian had abandoned the existing house altogether and chosen a new site on the island in the middle of a small lake, the waters of which drained into the Bourne, thence to the Rother and on to the sea at Rye.
Though externally Hawkstone Towers displayed a symmetry of walls and towers common to the period in which it was built, the inside was much more sophisticated, a properly designed fortified courtyard house with splendid private suites, separate servants’ quarters, chapel, and other amenities remarkable for their number and extent. Therefore, its residents were quite comfortable, and despite the difficulties of those first weeks so long ago, Mollie had come to love this magnificent, ancient home of the Colporters.
The horses’ hooves clattered now on the cobblestones of the causeway, one of two leading to the castle gates from the lakeshore. Only the main causeway was part of the original castle, and it had been designed at a right angle to the entrance, so that an advancing enemy would be exposed on his unshielded right flank all the way to the little island, where he had to turn in order to proceed across the drawbridge to the barbican, a tall central tower that had originally been heavily fortified. From the barbican one still had to pass through a multiplicity of defenses to reach the central courtyard.
The second causeway was of a much later date and led through the postern gate to the stableyard. There were various trails leading away from it on the lakeshore, but there was no proper road such as that which led to the main causeway.
Though the second causeway was less elaborate, there was still plenty of room to ride abreast and they did not slow their pace below a canter, but suddenly Mollie heard an exclamation from her companion that caused her to glance at him sharply.
Lord Ramsay’s attention was riveted upon the entrance to the main causeway some hundred yards or so across the gleaming water to their left. Following his gaze, Mollie caught her breath in dismay. They had beaten the party of riders by only moments, but it was not sight of the horsemen themselves that stopped the breath in her throat. It was the banner flying proudly above them, a hawk displayed, beaked, armed, and crowned. Though the distance was too great to allow her to make out such details as the sword, argent, carried in the hawk’s left talons or the lily, or, in its right, she had no difficulty recognizing the crest of the most noble Gavin Remington Colporter, Marquess and Earl of Hawkstone, Viscount Corbin, Baron Colporter of Chilham and Bourne, Baron Colporter of Falmouth, and le Baron Faucon de Lys, Corbeil, et Grailion. Hawk had come home.
2
WITH A LITTLE CRY deep in her throat, Mollie clamped the beaver to her head and dug her spurs into the big bay’s flanks. Lord Ramsay was close behind her as she clattered through the postern gate into the stableyard and slid quickly from the saddle.
“Hand me your reins, Moll,” he ordered crisply as he dismounted. “Hawk will be detained in the main courtyard, but the sooner you play least in sight, the better. He will ask for you at once.”
She glanced quickly around the yard. Teddy, her groom, and Bill, who looked after Lord Ramsay’s mounts, were the only ones paying them any heed. She did not think any of the stable lads would cry rope on her, in any event. She was a prime favorite with most of them. Nevertheless, it would not do to be careless. She handed the reins to Lord Ramsay.
“You’d best hurry, too,” she said over her shoulder. “If they saw us, they can’t have recognized us, but if Hawk comes bang upon you here with a pair of muddy horses, he’ll want to know who your companion was.”
He nodded. “I’ll be along directly. But go, Mollie. I can hear them.”
She could, too. The noise from the main courtyard carried easily through the arched tunnel into the stableyard. She had no time to dally. On the thought, she ran lightly across the cobblestones and into the castle by way of a side door leading first to an anteroom and beyond to a large hall, where a fire roared in a mammoth fireplace. The well-worn furniture and threadbare wall hangings proclaimed it to be a family gathering place rather than a room for more formal entertainment, and despite its size, it was a comfortable room. A small, shaggy dog looked up at her sleepily from the hearth rug.
“All alone, Mandy?” The bitch’s ears twitched and her tail thumped in welcome. Slowing her pace, Mollie pulled the beaver hat from her head, freeing her long blond tresses to fall in a tangle of sun-streaked curls down her back. Just then there was a light clatter of footsteps on the simple, two-run wooden stairway at the left rear of the hall. Mollie waited, recognizing the quick, running steps and knowing who would appear on the landing. Seconds later a nine-year-old boy with light brown hair came into sight, his shirt tucked haphazardly into nankeen breeches, which were in turn tucked into black-topped boots. As he hit the turn of the stair, seeming to bounce off the stone wall in his headlong rush, he caught sight of Mollie and came to a precarious halt on the second step below the landing. Excitement lit his face.
“I say, Mollie, Hawk’s here! I saw him from the schoolroom window and old Bates said I could—By the Lord Harry, what have you been up to?”
Mollie chuckled. “Never mind that, rascal. I believe I’ve mentioned before,” she added more sternly, “that it does not become you to swear that particular oath. It was not, as you seem to think, devised out of respect for yourself.” The boy merely grinned at her and she shook her head fondly. “You run along and welcome Hawk. But mind, Harry, not a word about this. If he asks you, you may tell him I shall be along directly.”
Mischief gleamed in Lord Harry Colporter’s eyes as he let his gaze drift meaningfully from her tousled hair to her mud-spattered breeches and boots. “Where have you been, Mollie?” Just then Lord Ramsay entered the hall, and catching sight of him, Harry drew his own rapid conclusions. “You took her with you,” he accused, his gray eyes flashing. “You wouldn’t take me, but you took Mollie! You took a lady to see a mill! Only wait till—”
“Enough, Harry!” Lord Ramsay’s tone was sharp. “Go on, Moll. You’ve no time to waste. I’ll deal with this.”
“I’ll warrant Hawk wouldn’t care to hear about such goings-on,” Harry said musingly, watching his brother with wary eyes. Mollie, hearing Lord Ramsay’s indrawn breath behind her, held up a hand to silence them both.
“Harry,” she said calmly, moving up the steps toward the boy, “you are perfectly right when you say your brother wouldn’t like to hear that his wife has been to watch a mill. That is one reason we took pains to conceal my identity. But I know, if Ramsay does not, that I’ve nothing to fear from you.”
Harry’s eyes were dancing with mischief now. “What’ll you give me to keep mum, Mollie?”
“It’s what I shall give you if you don’t that should concern you,” Lord Ramsay said dangerously.
“Oh, pooh,” retorted Harry, unabashed. “Hawk won’t let you thrash me for such a thing.”
“But Hawk won’t know about it till after the fact, brat, which will do nothing to save your hide.”
Harry, bristling, looked only too ready, as always, to debate the issue, a
nd Mollie, knowing she had delayed too long already, pushed unceremoniously past him. “This is scarcely the moment for you two to engage in one of your tiffs,” she told them roundly. “Ramsay, you must get out of those clothes before Hawk sees you in them. And, Harry, I depend upon you to keep him talking with Lady Bridget so he does not notice how long it takes me to make my appearance. Hurry now, the both of you!”
Harry grinned at her and scooted down the stairs, but Mollie heard him say scornfully as he neatly eluded a smack from his brother, “As if I’d ever split on Mollie!”
Lord Ramsay was shaking his head in exasperation as he followed her up the stairway, but Mollie did not pause to exchange further conversation with him. Instead, she hurried along the stone gallery to another staircase and upward again until she came to her own sitting room and bedchamber.
“Oh, m’lady, I feared ye’d never get here,” exclaimed the buxom young woman awaiting her there. “I’ve a bath ready, but ’tis nearly chilled already! Here now, off wi’ yer coat and them dreadful breeches.”
“Bless you, Cathe,” Mollie said sincerely, “but how were you warned to expect the master?”
“His man come on ahead, m’lady. Lady Bridget sent fer ye straightaway, ’n I just said ye was out riding the day wi’ ’is lordship. She be in a dreadful fret by now, I’m thinkin’.”
“Indeed, she will,” Mollie agreed. “Wondering what the pair of us are up to this time and hoping, whatever it is, it won’t come to Hawk’s ears.” She chuckled, relaxing as she shed her disreputable clothing and sank gratefully into the tub near the crackling fire while Cathe caught her hair up in a knot at the top of her head.
“We’ve no time t’ wash yer hair, m’lady.”
“No matter. ’Tis clean enough, though it most likely smells of beaver hat. Fetch some oatmeal, Cathe. That will turn the trick. And send a housemaid to inform her ladyship that I’ll be down directly. Lord Harry was to tell her, but in the excitement of greeting his brother, he may have forgotten to do so.”
