No Choice But Surrender

by Meagan Mckinney

  "You have done it once, my lady. But you will never do it again. I'll not be struck by a Morrow." With that he flung her across the room. Her tears had no effect on him.

  "There will not be a second rime!" she shouted, thinking of the kiss. Wiping the tears off her soft cheeks, she berated her­self for being so weak. "I would sooner live in a stable than here with you!" With that she turned and fled, wanting only her few belongings so she could leave Osterley Park and Avenel Slane behind forever.

  But before she departed, he left her with the haunting words, "You may just get that chance, my lady."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  She is not what I expected her to be." Cumberland wiped his forehead with a square of linen. In spite of the cold damp day, he was sweating. He coughed as he examined Avenel, who was steadfastly looking out the window of the gallery. Avenel stood perfectly still except for the twitch of a muscle in his jaw, and he did not look at Cumberland. "I'm not quite sure I approve," Cumber­land continued. "She's not the woman I expected. I've talked with her, Slane. She has a gentle spirit."

  "She has her father's blood," Avenel retorted as his crystal­line eyes stared off into the far misty fields of Osterley. In the distance a doe foraged for her dinner behind the garden house. He seemed entranced with its gentle movement across the lawn and thus gave Cumberland little of his attention.

  "Yes, but she has her mother's blood in her, too. And I daresay the lass hardly looks like her father. Such coloring I've never seen. I never would have guessed her to be the earl's daughter."

  "Damn her mother! Damn her beauty!" Avenel finally faced Cumberland. "As long as her name is Morrow, I'll curse her."

  Hearing this, Cumberland sat down in one of the elbow seats and stared hard at the floorboards, deep in thought. Fi­nally he spoke, saying each word carefully and with much thought.

  "I've been with you now for twenty years, Slane. We've been through thick and through thin, riches and rags. You know I was just a bosun on that ship. But you, you were nobil­ity. Your brother was a viscount, and your father . . . The point is, damn it, that I trust you more than my own mother, but I'm not sure you're right this time."

  Avenel spun around and looked at him sharply. "It does not concern me whether I have your loyalty."

  "You have my loyalty," Cumberland answered simply, mop­ping his forehead again. "I haven't forgotten what we've been through. And I'll not forget as long as I live. It's not a question of loyalty, Slane. It's just that she's so young."

  "And what of Christopher? He was young, younger still than she is now. That bastard gave no thought to sparing my brother." Avenel turned to the portrait of Oliver Morrow. His eyes blazed violently at the image of the man in the giltwood frame. "What makes me so divine as to think of sparing her? All children must pay for the sins of their fathers. She will at least have her life to live when I am through. *Tis more than he gave to us, my good friend. And much more still than he gave to Christopher." He turned to look at Cumberland again. "You should be lauding me for what I have come to do, but yet you sit there like a reproachful old man."

  "It's not that I have forgotten! I bear the same scars!" Cum­berland stood up to him. "But I have a forgiving nature. I'll never forgive the earl, mind you. But what does his daughter know of his treacheries? Why must she bring about the means to his end?"

  "I did not know he had a daughter when I won Osterley! I did not plan this! But she exists, and she is here. 'Tis the opportunity we have waited for, and we shall make the most of it. Twill make the end come about sooner than we ever dreamed possible." Avenel let out a long, tired sigh and looked at his friend. "As you said, 'tis been twenty long years. Years of backbreaking work in the tobacco fields of Maryland. Years of honing our skills and hoarding our money to be able to take on the beast who has made every day of our lives a living hell. Any reason I can find to end this charade will be well worth the cost. I am tired, my friend."

  "Yes, I'm tired also. I shan't oppose you, Slane." Cumber­land shook his head wearily. "We've been through too much together, and I feel for you what I would feel for a son. But I tell you now, I'll not be a part of it. I'll not aid you in the lass's downfall."

  Avenel looked at his oldest friend. It was obvious he felt betrayed. "Already she has won you over?"

  "It's not just beauty she has, Slane. She has a kind spirit. She's innocent of her father's wrongdoing."

  "She's a Morrow." Avenel turned to watch the doe make its way closer to the house.

  "She has a good heart."

  "Yes," he retorted cynically, "and if we were able to cut it out, you would see that it is as mad and wicked as her fa­ther's."

  In the background there was a loud banging of pots. A man's voice was heard shouting Gaelic profanities at the doe from the ground-floor kitchen. Both men watched as the doe pricked her fine buff ears. There was further cursing, and she wasted no more time. She disappeared in an instant, leaving only the memory of a twitching white puffed tail.

  Cumberland smoothed his vest and stuffed the damp linen handkerchief under his sleeve. "Where is she now?"

  "Packing to leave, no doubt." Avenel still stared out the window after the doe.

  "I see. I suppose that doesn't mean you've had a change of heart and will let her go?" He looked at Avenel but did not' expect an answer. When there was none, he walked to the door of the gallery, saying, "I won't cross you on this, Slane. You've been right so many times, I dare not act on my own judgment. But I will not participate. I want to make that clear.

  There's going to be a time when you are wrong, and I pray to God this is not the day."

  He paused by the door and looked at his friend. Avenel stood silently at the window; his tall frame was rigid with re­pressed anger.

  Shuddering to think that the sweet, violet-eyed beauty up­stairs would be the recipient of his rage, Cumberland left a parting comment. "Would that she could outrun you, my friend." But Avenel only stared out the window at the bleak, darkening grounds.

  Furiously, Brienne threw her possessions into the woven bag, not .caring about their disarray. Her extra shifts and stock­ings were balled up and tossed with no regard for their ex­pense into her sack. She swung around to the honey-colored wardrobe and threw open the doors to gather her sparse ap­parel and be out within the hour.

  But she stopped dead in her tracks. She saw only one dress standing out from the rest. The pink polonaise hung wretch­edly on its hook; its strange new form was limp and tattered. Slowly she pulled it down from the large wardrobe and ex­amined the rips and tears in the soft pink silk. She knew with­out a doubt who had ruined it. Annie had feared her too much to steal the dress but not enough to make sure she never wore it again. She threw the dress onto the yellow taffeta coverlet of the bed.

  Sadly Brienne thought of the day she had first worn the gown. She and her mother had gone to the fair in the center of Tenby. They had sipped a drink made of lemon juice and sugar and had chatted gaily with their elderly neighbors, the Thomases. The day had ended with a walk down to the an­cient walls of the small town, where swimmers dove into the blue sea from the battlements of the old ruined Castle. With innocent eyes, she had stared at the naked, sun-bronzed boys until her mother bade her look away.

  With reborn fury, Brienne stuffed her belongings into the bag and then went to retrieve her valuables. Opening the third drawer of the satinwood commode, she saw the small hinge in the back that she had discovered at the beginning of her stay. With a slight twist of her hand, she sprang open the secret panel, revealing the hiding place for her miniature and her amethyst comb. Pulling the comb from the cubbyhole, she looked at it, knowing that she could get a fine price for it.

  Besides the death of her mother, the comb dredged up an­other bitter memory as well. Placing the bejeweled piece into a kerchief, she recalled the day the earl had arrived unan­nounced at the neat little house near London where she and her mother had first lived after their flight from Osterley. De­spite her mother's precaution
of refusing funds from Oliver Morrow and despite the passage of years, he had found them.

  At first, she had been enchanted with her father, who was tall and strong. Her mother's anxiety had not affected her, and she was happy to have even for a few hours what most chil­dren took for granted: a father. But after the visit wore on, her father had taken her to his lap and he had touched her— simply, at first—on her shoulders. Then he had placed a mild kiss on her cheek.

  But there had been something wrong with his affection, and soon she shared her mother's uneasiness. To her horror, his hand had begun to enclose one of her small, developing breasts. Her mother shrieked, and the earl had thrown Brienne from his lap. Then he rose from his seat and pro­ceeded to slap her mother almost senseless.

  "You've stolen it from me. Would you exchange it for your daughter's innocence?" Oliver Morrow had demanded.

  "I haven't got it," her mother had pleaded.

  "My proof! It's my only proof!" He had slapped her mother again. In the end he had taken Grace Morrow upstairs. Brienne could sometimes still hear the quiet, desperate sobs that had come from that bedroom. She had crawled into a space behind one of the cabinets to hide. Even after the earl came down the stairs and told his driver to head back to Lon­don, she had stayed there, unwilling to move until her mother had coaxed her out. They had moved again and again until they found peace in Tenby. But a knock on the door still made Brienne's nerves jangle, and the earl's last words still rang horrifyingly in her ears: "Brienne love, someday I'll have you both."

  She was now nineteen, old enough to know about hus­bandly rights. However, every time she recalled that day, she thought of rape. Her mother had been raped because of the comb she now held in her hand. It was the same old-fashioned comb that she had found with the miniature so long ago in Tenby. Brienne turned it over and over again in her palm, as if by doing so, its mystical power would finally be revealed. But it was of no use. It would be worth a few pounds, especially with the seal of the Labordes stamped into its back, the initials QE, and then the crossed fasces. . But she would never under­stand the price her mother had paid to keep it from the earl's clutches. In many ways she felt she would be well rid of it.

  Hating these terrible memories, Brienne vehemently wrapped both articles in her embroidered kerchief and placed them carefully at the top of her bag so they would not be crushed. She then wasted no time in leaving Osterley. She was out the front doors before even a footman saw her, and she made good time down the carriage drive, hearing only the crunch of the pebbles beneath her pattens. She found it a happy sound, for it told her that she was putting Osterley and its foul past behind her.

  Already she was making plans for her new life. Perhaps once she sold the comb, she would have enough money to make her way to Bath after all. If she had any luck, she might be able to find a job at one of the booksellers. Her thoughts centered pleasantly on her new freedom. She didn't notice the two new men who manned the gatehouse. She stopped at the closed gates, eyeing both distrustfully.

  "I have need to be leaving here. Please open the gates," she called to the man nearest her. She pulled her cloak closer to her figure to ward off the cold and the men's stares.

  "She wouldn't be the one with the purple eyes, would she, Hans?" The man, a blond giant, stepped from the gatehouse and walked up to her. Brienne lowered her eyes and moved from his path, but the giant bade her look at him. He gave a sharp whistle between the gap in his front teeth.

  "If I wasn't here to see it myself, I wouldn't believe 'twas true. Hans!" the giant called to his mate.

  Another large man walked out of the gatehouse. This one was also blond but was bearded, with a slight tint of red in his whiskers.

  "She's got 'em, just as Slane said." The man named Hans peered into her eyes and then took a step backward.

  " Tis like nothing I've ever seen. So where are you off to, Brienne Morrow?"

  She tried to hide her dismay that they knew her name.

  "I shall be leaving Osterley, Please open the gates." She spoke in a brusque manner, not knowing quite what to make of the two Nordic giants.

  "Master Slane gave orders to the contrary." The giant with the smooth chin moved back to the gatehouse.

  " 'Tis of no consequence. I ask you again, open the gates." She was not yet intimidated by the still-closed gates. Her free­dom was too close at hand for her to worry that the guards would not open them. When neither of them made a move to comply with her wishes, she walked over to the heavy wrought-iron gates and tried to open them herself. But they would not budge.

  "I will not stay here!" she cried out as she placed her bag on the damp ground and put all her strength into pulling the gates open.

  After watching her tug futilely for several minutes, the giant with the reddish whiskers came over to her.

  "There be no point, my lady. The Master Slane bids you not leave, and we follow his orders."

  "The Master Slane, is it?" she spat at him, now furious. "Well, there are other ways of leaving than through the gates!" With that, she walked over to the side of the wrought- iron fence and tried to swing her bag over the ten-foot height of it. Her first attempt missed, but her second succeeded. The tan woven bag landed with a thump on the other side of the fence.

  She eyed the two giants, who had left the gatehouse and were now timidly watching her; both were obviously unaccus­tomed to female rage. It was then that she took her chance. Swiftly she ran along the fence and through the open doors of the gatehouse. She had almost gotten to her bag and was about to disappear into the underbrush when she felt herself being picked up off the ground. Two gigantic hands wound them­selves around her waist, and she knew without a doubt that there was no way she could struggle out of them.

  It was Hans who carried her back through the gatehouse, but both giants walked her back to the house. Neither one of them dared to speak. Throughout the guarded journey she shot quelling looks at both of them; her fiery jewellike eyes sent off sparks of purple fury.

  By the time they reached the house, her cloak clung damply to her chilled body, and her hem flopped around her ankles, wet and muddy. Even her hair was soaked from the pervading mist that blanketed the English countryside. And like this, soaked and bedraggled, she was deposited in Osterley's gal­lery like so much baggage.

  With a nod from Avenel Slane, the two blond giants left Brienne and himself alone. He was sitting comfortably by the south fireplace, very close to the portrait of the earl that she hated so much, and she stood before him feeling like a half- drowned cat.

  "I will not stay here with you, so accept that fact and let me go. I can imagine no reason for your wanting to keep me here except to use me as some kind of perverted bait for my father. And I must tell you now," she said, taking a deep breath, "it will not work. I refuse to stay, and my father will refuse to come." She spoke through clenched teeth—whether from an­ger or to keep them from chattering, she wasn't sure.

  "Why don't you come closer to the fire, Lady Brienne, and warm yourself? You seem to be catching a chill."

  "Your gigantic cohorts can't be everywhere all the time. I shall find a way to leave if you refuse to be rational about this." She stood where she was, making threats but not daring to move closer to him.

  "Now calm yourself. There is a fine bedroom for you up­stairs. I have offered you a place to stay. Why must you get yourself so upset?" He stretched out his long legs before the fire and leisurely sipped a crystal glass of brandy. As she ob­served ail this luxury, an image of the very man before her came involuntarily to mind. She saw him placing his lips inti­mately upon hers and making her feel things she permanently wanted to avoid.

  The image made her fingers move unconsciously across her lips to stop them from tingling. She moved away from the culprit who had caused the sensation.

  "I will not share a house with you, no matter how large and grand it is. I must leave!"

  "You shall not leave!" Suddenly he stood up and started over to her. What he lac
ked in size compared to the two gi­ants, he made up in fierceness. Brienne knew she had to stand up to him, but she wasn't sure how to. Since she could not possibly overpower him physically, she looked defiantly into his cold, silver eyes and repeated, "I will not stay in this house with you!"

  "Then you will stay in the stables." He looked at her and then motioned to a dark corner of the room. "Cumberland will show you your new room, Cinderella."

  Cumberland arose from his seat in the corner and walked over to her. His eyes were full of sadness.

  "And don't forget your ball gown." With that, Avenel picked up her tattered pink polonaise from a nearby stool. She had not noticed it there before. "You see, Cumberland, she walks about in a threadbare dress because she has taken a knife to the one decent gown she owns." He flung the useless pink silk at her and gave a deep malicious laugh. "Perhaps she is as mad as they say."

  Incredulous, she found herself about to be led away. It was difficult to find her tongue after Cumberland had taken her

  shall find a way to leave if you refuse to be rational about this." She stood where she was, making threats but not daring to move closer to him.

  "Now calm yourself. There is a fine bedroom for you up­stairs. I have offered you a place to stay. Why must you get yourself so upset?" He stretched out his long legs before the fire and leisurely sipped a crystal glass of brandy. As she ob­served all this luxury, an image of the very man before her came involuntarily to mind. She saw him placing his lips inti­mately upon hers and making her feel things she permanently wanted to avoid.

  The image made her fingers move unconsciously across her lips to stop them from tingling. She moved away from the culprit who had caused the sensation.