‘I am sorry, my lord…’
‘For what, Lady Allerton?’
Marcus was sitting forward, his own glass held between his two hands. His dark eyes were fixed on her face. ‘Are you apologising for suspecting me unjustly, or for running away from me or even for locking me in a cellar?’
Beth looked up at him, then away quickly. There was something in that intent gaze that disturbed her and though his tone was light she had the oddest feeling that he had been hurt by her behaviour.
‘For all of those, I suppose, my lord. I did try to apologise to you before about the cellar incident…’ Beth groped for words. ‘It was…very bad of me and I truly regret it…’
‘Do you?’ Marcus’s face was unyielding. Beth, who had hoped that time would have softened his anger towards her, felt her heart sink. She had not thought him a man who bore grudges, but perhaps she deserved it.
‘It is just that I thought I had to do it in order to reach Fairhaven first!’ she burst out. ‘That had been my intention all along and I did not think I could expect you to help me.’
‘You mean you did not think you could trust me to keep my word even though I told you I would give Fairhaven to you.’ Marcus’s quiet tones cut through her excuses and silenced her. He looked at her, a hint of amusement coming into his eyes. ‘Well, perhaps you had good reason, my lady. I had broken my word to you twice and you have no reason to suppose I would not do it a third time.’
‘No, I…’ Beth frowned. That seemed all wrong, but she was tired and light-headed and unable to frame her thoughts properly. She knitted her fingers together in her lap and stared fixedly at them.
‘I do not think that is fair, my lord.’ She spoke very quickly, before her courage deserted her. ‘I do trust you and it was very wrong of me to behave as I have and, if I have hurt—offended—you in any way, I am truly sorry.’ She looked up swiftly and gave him a watery smile. ‘At least we are speaking to each other again!’
Marcus moved so that one of his hands was covering her clenched fingers. ‘Did it trouble you that we were at odds?’
Beth stared at him, unable to tear her gaze away. There was warmth and tenderness in his eyes and she felt such a rush of relief that the tears came into her eyes and she almost cried.
‘Oh…’ She cleared her throat, embarrassed. ‘Well, it was decidedly uncomfortable…’
Marcus smiled. He raised his hand and turned one of her curls absent-mindedly about his fingers, but his eyes never left her face. ‘I thought so too.’
‘Then—’ Beth held her breath ‘—are we to be…friends…again, my lord?’
‘Friends?’ Marcus’s gaze became thoughtful. ‘I do not think so, Lady Allerton. Of all the things we are or could be, that is far too tepid a description! Passionate enemies or equally passionate lovers, perhaps, but nothing less than that!’
His fingers brushed her cheek and he took her chin in his hand. His gaze dropped to her lips. ‘Are you sure that you trust me?’
‘Yes,’ Beth whispered.
Marcus laughed. He bent his head and kissed her, a brief, hard kiss, before allowing his hand to fall to his side.
‘What a way you have of taking the wind from a fellow’s sails, Lady Allerton!’ His tone was rueful as he pulled Beth to her feet and steered her out into the hall. ‘If you could see yourself, ever-so-slightly drunk and more than a little tempting…’ He shook his head. ‘And for the first time, you are looking at me with utter trust in your eyes! Your sense of timing is immaculate!’
He lit a candle for her and handed it over with a quizzical lift of his brows. ‘I hope that you can find your own way to your room? It would be a mistake to trust me to deliver you there safely!’
Beth took the candle and scurried away up the stairs. She was aware that she was indeed more than a little tipsy, although the blame for that could be laid squarely at Marcus’s door for giving her so much brandy. She was more concerned, however, about that casual kiss and the promise behind it. For although Marcus had behaved as a perfect gentleman, there had been an assurance in his tone that Beth was certain would be fulfilled. Enemies or lovers; she knew which she would secretly prefer and it was not just the brandy in her blood that was speaking. She closed her bedroom door behind her and locked it carefully. For now it was enough to know that she and Marcus were reconciled as friends, but for the future…Beth undressed quickly, lay down and blew out her candle flame.
Chapter Eight
I t was in fact a little over a week before Beth found the time to visit Jack Cade and ask about her grandfather. Salome Trevithick had seen it as her duty to show Beth the island and had bundled her into the gig every day, taking her to meet the farmers and cottagers, and to view all the places that Salome whimsically referred to as ‘the sights’. By the end of the week Beth’s head was spinning with names and faces, but her overriding impression was how deeply Salome was involved in the life of the community and how much the islanders loved her. Beth they greeted with a guarded respect that was cold in comparison, but she knew that love and loyalty had to be earned and were not given for nothing. She set about following Salome’s lead and spent hours at the school or in the different houses, chatting to the villagers, reading to the children or playing outside with them when the weather was fine. In the rare moments when she was left to her own devices, Beth would wander for hours along the cliff tops, admiring the view or just watching the clouds chase across the sea.
Meanwhile, Beth could not help but notice that Marcus was setting out to make a particularly good impression on his tenants. Not only did he spend a great deal of time with Colin McCrae, discussing his plans for the farms and the harbour, but he did not scruple to get his hands dirty. A new barn was being built alongside the five-acre field, and Marcus could be seen there every morning, stripped to the waist and lending a hand.
When Salome had stopped the gig by the gate one day and called Marcus over to tease him about his industry, Beth had tried to look away—the sight of Marcus’s bare brown torso and firm muscles had been curiously disturbing. But instead of fixing her gaze on a nearby flock of sheep, she had found herself staring, until Marcus had looked at her with raised eyebrows and asked if she was feeling quite the thing. And certainly Beth had not been feeling at all well. Her face was flushed and her pulse was racing and she wondered if she had contracted a fever. Salome had taken one look at her, smiled, and said that she thought Beth was suffering from a certain affliction, but had not said which.
Marcus had sought Beth out one evening and explained that he did not wish to leave Fairhaven until he had had the chance to discuss the future with his uncle St John as well as with Salome. This was clearly impossible with St John in Exeter, and Beth, anxious not to appear to be pushing the Trevithicks from their home, made no demur about extending her time on Fairhaven. She sent a letter to Charlotte, explaining what was happening and saying that she intended to be back at Mostyn Hall for Christmas, then, when she finally had a spare morning, she set off to find Jack Cade.
Jack Cade’s cottage sat about a mile away from the main village, on a small hill that looked out westward across the harbour to the coast of Devon. Marcus had said that Cade had been a fisherman all his life, but that he was too old to go to sea any more and had retired to live alone. The other villagers considered him something of an oddity, but as one of the longest-lived inhabitants of Fairhaven he was given grudging respect.
Beth trod up the shell-lined path to the cottage door. A few straggling plants huddled in the shelter of its white-painted wall and there was a collection of floats and old rope tumbled amidst the grass of the headland, with a sheep grazing placidly nearby. Beth knocked tentatively at the door. Now that the moment had come for her to meet one of her grandfather’s contemporaries, she was almost sick with nerves.
The door creaked open to reveal a bent old figure in the aperture. Beth’s smile faltered a little.
‘Mr Cade? I am Beth Allerton. I heard that you knew my grandfather
, Charles Mostyn, and I wondered if you would be able to tell me about him, please?’
The old fisherman looked at her. His eyes were as sharp and bright as a hawk’s in a face of old leather. He smiled, showing the stumps of blackened teeth. ‘I thought you’d be a’coming, my lady. Yes, I knew Charles Mostyn. I could tell you about him.’
A trickle of anticipation crept down Beth’s spine, making her shiver. She was shaking at the prospect of being so close to the truth at last and hearing directly what had happened to Lord Mostyn on the night he had died.
‘Take a seat, ma’am,’ the old man said courteously, stepping back to allow her to precede him into the cottage. He swept a pile of floats and nets from the armchair nearest the fire and Beth sat down, looking about her with interest.
There was only the one room but it was snug and wood-lined, with a roaring fire in the grate. Various bits of flotsam and jetsam adorned the walls: a set of antlers, a brown glass bottle, a twisted piece of bleached wood—all the bits and pieces that Cade must have picked up throughout his life at sea.
The old man sat down on the settle opposite Beth, groaning and creaking like the old wood as he found a comfortable position. He pulled a bottle of whisky towards him, knocked his pipe out on the arm of the chair and stuffed it full of fresh tobacco. He did not speak until it was lit and he was puffing away, with several clouds of evil-smelling smoke adding to the alcoholic fug in the room.
‘Charles Mostyn…’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘He was the one before the old Earl. The Evil Earl.’ He cackled suddenly. ‘Not like this young ’un, for all his London ways. Seems like some good can come out of the old stock after all!’
Beth held her tongue and kept her patience. There was no point in hurrying the old man and she had heard plenty of people sing Marcus’s praises over the past week.
‘The Old Earl,’ Jack Cade said again. ‘Aye, he were a bad ’un and no mistake. And Mostyn too—as alike as two brothers, with nothing to choose between them!’
Beth sat up straight in her chair, frowning slightly. This did not sound right. ‘Nothing to choose? But, Mr Cade—’
Jack Cade puffed hard on the pipe. ‘Trevithick had a violent temper, but Mostyn was cruel hard—cold and vicious where Trevithick was loud and brutal. But Mostyn was clever, see?’ His sharp gaze pinned Beth to her chair. ‘He brought the trade in here, though we said as we wanted no trouble. But he wouldn’t listen. Needed the money, I reckon, and the silly lads with him.’
‘The…trade?’
‘Smuggling!’ Cade said triumphantly. ‘Smuggling, m’lady! Big business here in the straits it was in them days. Trevithick and Mostyn at each other’s throats, allus a struggle to control the trade along the coast. That’s all! No more to it. But Mostyn held Fairhaven, see, so he had the advantage and a hard landlord he was, into the bargain.’
Beth swallowed hard. This was not at all as she had imagined it, nor indeed how the old stories had been spun to her in the nursery at Mostyn Hall all those years ago. She cleared her throat.
‘Mr Cade, are you sure? I mean—’ she saw his piercing gaze resting on her ‘—it is simply that I was told a vastly different story.’
‘Bound to tell you something different, weren’t they!’ Cade said simply. ‘Little lass wi’ no family to speak of! Who’d want to tell the truth? Plenty to hide, that family, plenty to hide!’
Beth took a deep breath. She was shaking so much that she had to lock her fingers together to still them, but it was not with anticipation now. There was a pain lodged somewhere in her chest and another that blocked her throat until she could barely speak. But she had to know the truth now.
‘What happened?’ She whispered. ‘In the end, I mean.’
There was pity in Cade’s face. She could see it there and it struck another blow to her heart.
‘In the end there was so much rivalry for the trade in these waters that Trevithick and Mostyn came to blows.’ The old man coughed. ‘Trevithick won and he took the island, and no Mostyn has been here since. ’Til now, my lady.’
‘How did Trevithick take Fairhaven?’ Beth asked. She stared as the old man took a deep swig from his whisky bottle, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and smacked his lips.
‘Ah! The last quarrel. It was all over a load of brandy Mostyn was waiting for, see? The free traders brought it in, but Mostyn was late for the meet and Trevithick got here first. Offered to double the payment for the men if they traded with him, not Mostyn, and helped him take the island into the bargain.’ Cade shook his head. ‘Didn’t need much persuasion. Everyone hated Mostyn. Trevithick was little better, but at least he was paying well. So when Mostyn came they ambushed him and cut him to pieces—saving your presence, my lady.’
‘But I thought—’ Beth stopped, swallowed hard, and started again. ‘I had heard that he was ambushed by the Earl of Trevithick’s men, and the Earl stole the family silver.’
Cade cackled with laughter. ‘Weren’t no silver, m’lady. Mostyn was too mean to pay his dues! There was just the sword and the ring.’ He got to his feet and hobbled over to an old sea chest in the corner, rummaging about inside. ‘I’ve never worn this. Didn’t seem right, somehow, after Trevithick had cut it from his finger! Best for you to have it now, perhaps, seeing as he was your grandfather!’
Beth held out her hand automatically and Cade dropped the signet ring into it. Through the blur of her tears, she saw the arms of Mostyn cut deep into the gold, the motto that was barely legible after all these years: Remember. She closed her fist tightly about it.
‘What happened to the Sword of Saintonge?’ she asked, marvelling at the steadiness of her own voice. ‘Did Trevithick take that too?’
Cade was shaking his head. ‘The sword broke in the fight, my lady. I have the stump of it here, but it’s nothing but rust now—’
Beth was suddenly, devastatingly aware that she was about to cry and she had absolutely no wish to do so in Cade’s cottage. She stood up abruptly.
‘Excuse me. You have been more than kind, Mr Cade, but I fear I must go.’
The old man patted her arm clumsily. ‘Forgive me, my lady. I did not know what to do for the best, but his lordship said that it was important I tell you the truth.’
Beth paused, her tears suddenly forgotten. A ray of sunlight struck across her eyes from the open door and she moved impatiently into the shade. ‘His lordship said so? Lord Trevithick? When?’
Cade shifted awkwardly. ‘When he came to see me, ma’am. Said you were looking for someone who knew your grandfather and that I was to tell you everything, honestly. Imperative, he said it was—’
Beth wheeled round and ran out of the cottage door, scaring the sheep that had been calmly grazing by the gate. She plunged down the village street, conscious that people were looking at her curiously, and practically crashed into the farm gate where she had last seen Marcus helping to stack some hay. He was still there. The last of the bales had been moved into the barn and he was standing nearby, talking to Colin McCrae.
‘Lord Trevithick!’ Beth had intended to sound imperious, but her voice came out with a desperate wobble in it. She tried to steel herself. ‘Lord Trevithick, I require to speak with you! At once!’
Marcus exchanged a few quick words with Colin McCrae, then came across to her, vaulting over the gate and taking her arm. His gaze was searching.
‘You have seen Cade, then, Lady Allerton? Are you all right?’
‘No, I am not all right!’ Beth said stormily. Two bright spots of angry colour shone in her cheeks. Despite the chill of the day, she felt feverishly hot. ‘How dare you, Lord Trevithick!’ Her voice rose. ‘How dare you let me go to speak to that old man when you knew the truth about my grandfather and could have told me yourself and spared me the pain!’
‘Not here,’ Marcus said. His grip tightened on her arm. He was looking over her shoulder at the crowd of farmworkers and villagers who were now providing an embarrassed but none the less interested audience. Beth shook hersel
f free. At that moment she would not have cared if the entire island had gathered for the entertainment.
‘Let go of me!’ she hissed. ‘I detest your behaviour, sir.’
There was the flash of something elemental and angry in Marcus’s eyes. This time his grip bruised her skin. ‘And would you have believed me if I had told you that your grandfather was nothing but a common free trader, Lady Allerton? I think not! Your trust in me has been notable for its absence up until now! You had to hear the truth from someone else!’
Beth stared into his angry eyes for what seemed like hours. Behind her the crowd shifted and murmured and even through her preoccupation she heard one buxom lady saying to another: ‘Cade has told her all about Charles Mostyn…They’d told her he was a good man, poor lamb…’
It was the pity that broke Beth. She could see it on the faces of all those about her as they witnessed her terrible distress. It was the same sympathy that had been reflected in Jack Cade’s eyes at the end. Probably they had all known the truth about Charles Mostyn, but no one had wanted to mention it to her. At first they might even have imagined her to be a chip off the Mostyn block, come to take them back to the bad times. She and Marcus both. Trevithick and Mostyn, at each other’s throats, dragging their people down with them when they should have been defending them.
There was no sympathy on Marcus’s face. He looked at her and his expression was carved from stone. With a cry, Beth tore herself from his grip and turned her back on all of them, running down the hill towards the castle until her legs were going so fast that she was almost falling over herself. The wind roared in her ears and her hair whipped about her face, blinding her. She slammed the castle gate open and raced across the greensward to the cliff edge.
‘Beth! For God’s sake! Stop before you fall!’
Lady Allerton's Wager Page 18
