No Choice But Surrender

by Meagan Mckinney

  "Maryland is not anything like you picture it. In many ways it resembles England, with its sown fields and country estates. There is a city named after Lord Baltimore that has many fine homes, buildings, and cabinetmakers who are almost as skilled as Osterley's John Linnell." He smiled at her in a preoccupied manner and then said, "Come, I will take you there some day and prove to you that the United States is far less heathen than that dinbycb you grew up in."

  "I will never go there." She cantered ahead in defiance. Concentrating on keeping her heels down and her hands in their proper position, she forced herself to ignore him.

  "But you would go back to Tenby, wouldn't you? Tis all but sow fodder now. Yet you would return to it rather than stay here with me." There was a hard edge to his voice as he cantered beside her.

  "Tenby was a nice township. It has been forgotten. But it will be nice again, and I cannot help but want to go home." She set her mouth in a firm expression but slowed Queenie down to a walk so that she could talk to him. "How did you find out I was from Tenby? I've wanted to know ever since the night of the ball. I never told you where—"

  "I had someone find out. Once I knew you could speak Welsh, I simply inquired about the hired coaches. My fortune was that you are not easily forgotten." He slowed down be­side her.

  "And you? You speak Welsh. How is that?"

  "My mother was from Wales."

  "Your mother? Now, that is hard to believe. You never had a mother." She looked straight ahead, watching Orillion, who was still ahead of diem, going deeper and deeper into the woods.

  "Not for long, 'tis true. And I suppose it does show—that I will grant." He laughed; her dry comments obviously bounced off him like so many leather balls.

  "She died young?"

  "Aye."

  "I am sorry." She paused and then gave him a mildly taunt­ing look. "However, lack of maternal care does not explain every aspect of your rude personality." Playfully, she turned to canter away once more, daring him to follow. But before she could start, she looked back and saw he had stopped again. "There is nothing there, Avenel. What do you expect to find?" she asked, becoming worried over his behavior. But before she could question him further,' he seemed to brush aside his premonitions and took a chance. His hand snaked up and grabbed the hat from her curls. "Oh!" she cried furiously at his back as he galloped off.

  Squeezing Queenie into a canter, she followed him deep into the woods. Orillion had circled back and was now at Idle Dice's feet, which moved along at a well-controlled speed. When she finally got to Avenel's side, he held the hat out to her, teasing her in the hope that she would reach for it. But he only laughed when she turned up her nose to his unspoken dare and galloped ahead.

  They were now very far from the Park; she was not at all familiar with this forest. The sky was becoming overcast, and soon deep, dark shadows revealed themselves underneath the evergreens. The air was also quite cold, making her serge rid­ing jacket seem inadequate.

  "Your boyish pranks have amused us all," she said as she stopped Queenie in a small clearing. "But I think it best if we turn back now. Nightfall is coming, and I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea which way is Osterley." She looked around the clearing, brushing her dark windswept locks from her eyes.

  Avenel rode up to her side. "Aye, and 'tis cold enough. There's an old hunter's cottage that I know of, not far from here. Perhaps it would be wise to go there . . . and get warm." There was a silver glint in his eye as he pulled up beside her, but she refused to reply to his wicked suggestion.

  Instead she looked away and muttered vaguely about certain people's bad upbringing.

  "How far is the Park from here, Avenel? I am not sure—" She turned to look back at him but was struck dumb by the expression on his face. Orillion let out a low growl, and when she looked down, she saw large, tufted hackles raised along the dog's neck and back. "What is it?" she asked in rising terror. Looking back at Avenel, she saw every muscle in his body tighten; his shoulders were visibly raised for combat

  "Go!" he said quickly to her, pulling out the pistol from his waistband.

  "What?"

  "Go! Tis your chance! Get out of here, I tell you! I give you your freedom." He looked off to a dark, thickly ever- greened niche in the clearing, and his eyes narrowed from tension.

  "Avenel, I cannot—" Suddenly her ears drummed from the horrible sound of a shot coming from the thicket that he had been watching. The horses reared in fright, and several mo­ments were lost as both riders attended their mounts. Before Brienne finally brought Queenie down onto all four legs, Avenel had already grabbed her reins and was forcing both animals out of the clearing. They found meager cover behind a mass of holly bushes, and Brienne noticed that Avenel's face had gone white. Soon the reason for this became apparent Several bright red streams of blood ran down Idle Dice's belly and trailed off onto the needle-covered forest floor. "My God, Avenel, you've been shod" she whispered, edging Queenie over to him.

  "Get out of here, Brienne!" he rasped at her through clenched teeth.

  "Avenel," she pleaded with him, "we've both got to run." But he did not listen to her. Instead, he jerked out his whip and furiously beat her mare's delicate rump.

  "Get out of here!" he said, each time giving Queenie a stiff welting. It didn't take much more to make the animal rear, but miraculously Brienne was able to take control and steer clear of Avenel's whip.

  "I can't leave you here." She winced at the blood streaming from his thigh. Another shot rang out, and she saw Orillion dash madly into the thicket where the attacker must have lurked. From Orillion's growls and snarls, she knew that the dog had turned dangerous because of the smell of his master's blood that was spattered on his brilliant white coat.

  "Brienne, this is your chance. Orillion will rout the bastard. Go now! There might be others lurking about—"

  "You're right. There might be others about. Come, we've got to get back to Osterley." She put an end to his speech; it was pointless to talk of her abandoning him. Looking off into the battleground clearing, she shivered, knowing somehow that her father was behind this attack. Turning to Avenel, she saw the pain he was in as he tried to stanch the flow of blood with his hand. "We can't hide here forever, Avenel. Whoever's shooting out there will come looking for us. You must try to follow me. We must get back to Osterley." Again she ran terrified eyes over the clearing.

  "Go on, then. Lead the way." He gripped his leg and clenched his teeth. Brienne prompted Queenie into a trot. Without waiting for Orillion to return, they began the route back to the Park.

  After picking their way through the dark forest for almost half an hour, it soon became apparent that they would have to bind Avenel's leg if he were to make it back to Osterley. Blood dripped a trail on the forest floor, and even the strength of his hand upon the wound did little to inhibit the crimson stream. Seeing the vulnerable state Avenel was in, Brienne forced herself to be brave. Her heart leaped to her throat every time there was a sound behind them, and the merest rustle of forest creatures was terrifyingly loud in the stillness of the twilight forest. But she took courage in the fact that they'd been able to travel this far without being followed. She only hoped that Avenel had been right and that Orillion had found his target.

  "Avenel, I think we must rest," Brienne said. "Your leg—"

  "Go on to Osterley. I'll stay the night at the hunter's cot­tage." His words were thick with pain.

  "Where is the cottage?"

  "Not far." Unexpectedly, he handed her his pistol. "It's still loaded, Brienne. Take it and go. But do me this one thing: tell them at the Park to fetch Cumberland from London."

  "Show me the cottage, Avenel. We'll make sure Father's minions aren't nesting there, and then we'll return to Osterley in the morning."

  "Wildflower, your fondest dream has come true. You—may —leave." He obviously thought she didn't understand him.

  "Where is this cottage?" She tried to sound commanding, but seeing his ashen face, her wor
ds came out as a whisper. "Please, Avenel. I won't go back alone."

  He took a minute to think about what she'd said; then, a$ if he already knew it would be harder to convince her to do otherwise, he nodded in the direction of the cottage. "I think it's less than a mile from here."

  Brienne took note of his labored breathing and his pain- racked posture. She gave him a trembling, fearful smile. "All right, then. Let's be off."

  They reached the small woodland cottage in a matter of minutes. Brienne dismounted and made her way up the path, taking the pistol with her. She was not exactly sure how to fire it, but she held the heavy weapon in front of her and hoped that would keep away any attackers. Behind her, Avenel's shadowed form could be seen, weaving sickly on his saddle.

  After making a quick assessment of the area, Brienne was comforted by the fact that the place looked utterly abandoned. She walked up to the cottage threshold and peeked into the dark, open doorway.

  Then she had the fright of her life. From out of the cottage there leaped at her what seemed to be a four-legged ghost.

  "By all that is holy!" She gave a quick sob, relieved that she didn't know how to shoot the pistol. "Orillion! How did you know to come here?"

  "He's been here before," Avenel answered behind her. Having dismounted, he now grasped his wounded leg, waver­ing on the brink of collapse. "I tied the horses." He talked like a drunkard; his loss of blood already slurred his words.

  "Good." She walked over to him. Gently she put her arms about him and helped him into the cottage. She swallowed her revulsion as two large rats eyed her from the windowsill. Not­ing a straw-covered pallet on one side of the room, she walked Avenel over to it and helped him lie down. With every move­ment, he groaned, and Brienne couldn't help but feel faint herself in sympathy with his agony.

  "Let me get us some light. Then I will bind your leg." Before turning to the dusty fireplace, she went over to the soot-blackened door and shut it. A shiver ran down her spine when she thought of what, or who, might be lurking outside the cottage in the darkness. But she forced herself to ignore her fears. She had to be brave; there was no other choice.

  Finding a small stack of wood in one cobwebbed corner, she piled a few logs under the flue. Then, blessedly, a flint was found on the mantel, and soon a cheering fire crackled in the hearth. When that task was completed, she went back to Avenel.

  "Let"—she swallowed, seeing the dried blood on the hand Avenel had placed over his wound—"let me know if I hurt you."

  "How ironic that you should be tending my wounds," he said with a grim smile.

  Smiling tremulously in return, Brienne bent down and grasped the hems of her particularly fine batiste petticoats. She tore them into strips to use as bandages. In the soft firelight she slid the knife from Avenel's boot and started cutting the leg of his breeches. It took a painfully long time for her to cut through it, but when he was finally free, she took the strips of cotton and bandaged his wound. The shot had seared the mus­cular flesh of his thigh. It was an ugly wound, and Avenel moaned several times during her ministrations. With each sound he made, her heart skipped a beat. When she was fin­ished, she dropped her shaking hands and gratefully moved to the hearth, seeking the fire as a balm to her overwrought nerves.

  She stirred up the fire with a suck, quickening the flames. Hearing a rustling noise behind her, she nervously looked around and saw that Avenel had slid over to the side of the pallet nearest the wall. He patted the straw beside him, indi­cating that she should join him. He watched her with an inten­sity she had never before witnessed. If she hadn't known bet­ter, she would have thought it was tenderness.

  "There's hardly enough room for you," she whispered. "I might hurt your leg."

  "You're small enough, my love. You can do nothing worse than keep me warm." Again, he patted the empty place beside him.

  Brienne left the hearth and slowly walked over to him. Feel­ing awkward and not a little bit reluctant, she lay down beside him, but she quickly found she could not avoid touching his body lest she fall onto the floor. Avenel laid one well-muscled arm around her and forced her to relax against his broad chest. Quickly his breath deepened in slumber, but Brienne found sleep elusive. She attributed this to the hardness of the grass pallet, but deep down she knew the sensual warmth of the hard, masculine body next to hers was what kept her awake.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Christopher!"

  Brienne awoke at the cry, abruptly rising from the pallet. Although the fire had died down to red embers, she was drenched in perspiration. Looking down, she found the reason for this. It was Avenel, and he seemed to be burning with fever. "It's all right, please," she whispered to him in the dark. Hoping he was simply having a nightmare, she tried to wake him. But her efforts were to no avail.

  "Christopher, my God!" He cried out his brother's name with agonizing clarity. Then his body went rigid upon the pallet, experiencing anew the excruciating pain that gave him such a terrible dream.

  "Avenel, Avenel!" Touching his arm, she made a tentative move toward him. But then to her surprise his ice blue gaze met hers squarely. It was dim in the cottage, but nonetheless Brienne could discern the glazed-over appearance of his eyes. It frightened her.

  "Who are you?" he demanded in a surprisingly strong voice.

  "It is I, Brienne." She brushed his damp black locks from his forehead and frowned at the alarming heat emanating from his skin.

  "You are some peasant girl?" He looked at her tattered, dusty skirt and the grass clinging to her bodice. Self-con­sciously she brushed some of the straw off her garments and then pulled and twisted her hair from her face.

  "I'm Brienne, Avenel. Don't you know me?" Her eyes grew wide with concern.

  "I know of no woman named Brienne. How is it I know you then, maiden?" He cocked an eyebrow and looked at her intently.

  "I am the earl's daughter," she began again, twisting her hands in nervous agitation. "We met at Osterley Park." Hesi­tating, she whispered, "You do not recall?" She bent down, failing to conceal the worry lines on her forehead.

  "You are the earl's daughter?" Avenel laughed madly. "In those rags you have done yourself up in? I hardly think you should be impersonating Lady Venetia when you cannot even dress the part."

  "I do not claim to be Lord Culpepper's daughter," she said sharply. Looking down at his feverish visage, she softened. "I am afraid I'm the daughter of the Earl of Laborde."

  "You? The daughter of the Earl of Laborde? How is it you are so old, then?" He laughed as if she'd made some hilarious jest. Then he tried to sit up against her gentle, restraining arms.

  "I am not so old. Perhaps in my disheveled state I give that impression." She pulled him back onto the pallet but found him amazingly strong to grapple with.

  "What are you? Eighteen if you be a day." He laughed loudly. "Now, how could the earl have an eighteen-year-old daughter?"

  "I am nineteen. But please do not concern yourself with these frivolous matters now. You must rest—" She pulled him down again, frightened by his ramblings.

  "Frivolous matters?" "'It's all right. Everything will be all right," she said, mostly for her own reassurance; Avenel was raving like a madman.

  "You ate a lying, little wench, aren't you?" He sat upright, scaring her so badly that she jumped back.

  "No. I only want to help you."

  "You care for me, then?" He turned his glassy eyes upon her. "Are you perchance my mistress?"

  "No." Her voice caught in her throat, and she made a cou­rageous attempt to get nearer to the pallet. "I am who I said. I'm Brienne."

  A crazed half-smile was on his lips. "You are my mistress. We have been familiar with each other." He caught her hand and gently started to pull her on top of him.

  "Nay, stop this! You are wounded and ill. This will not do!" She forcibly backed away, wondering how she would handle him in this state if he chose to force himself upon her. He was strong—amazingly strong—despite his present affliction. While he
labored his movements, the wild, hot gleam in his eyes would not leave.

  "Admit we have been lovers!" he demanded, still gripping her hand. "I know I find you more than desirable. Tell me I haven't let you pass me by."

  She looked down at him and saw his expression become mournful. He seemed to want so badly for them to have been lovers that she finally gave in to his wishes, hoping then that he would be satisfied and find his rest.

  "You have not passed me by, sir. We have exchanged some—"

  "I am your lover then. Say it," he demanded.

  She paused and then lied with a pensive frown. "You are my lover."

  "Aha!" He shot up, grabbing her with two very powerful hands. "Then you were lying! You are not related to the earl!"

  "I am not lying." She swallowed hard and attempted to pry his fingers from her arms, for they were bruising her.

  "You're a beautiful, lying piece of baggage! How can we be lovers when you claim to be my daughter? What kind of father would I be?" He lay back on the pallet, triumphant and ex­hausted, obviously waiting for her confession.

  "Your daughter? I am not your daughter, Avenel. Look at me, at least. I am much too old." Chiding him, she wiped down his brow with an extra piece of her petticoat.

  " 'Tis as I said. You lie." He mumbled this tiredly, and she saw his eyelashes flicker. "You are not the earl's daughter! You are not the earl's daughter, because I am the Earl of Laborde." As soon as the words left his mouth, he fell back into a tormented sleep, leaving her utterly confused.

  The next morning when Brienne opened her eyes, several moments passed before she could remember why she was sleeping on a hard pallet in a beggardly abode. With stiff, cold motions she raised herself up on her elbows and saw in the unnatural darkness a man sleeping on the pallet next to her. Then she remembered where she was and what had befallen herself and Avenel. She walked over to the hearth to rebuild the fire. Next, she tentatively opened the oaken door and was delighted to find Orillion sitting on the threshold. He saw her familiar face, and his tail drummed against the door in greet­ing.