“But of course. This,” he pointed to his injury, “must be avenged.”
Straeford shrugged indifferently. “Until we meet again then.” With a slight incline of his arrogant head, he strolled away, dismissing all further thoughts of Colonel Dubois.
Ever since last summer when the Earl of Straeford and her brother John left for Portugal, Marisa Loftus had been following the newspaper accounts of the Peninsular Campaign, but not much was being written about the men in battle these days. Most of the news stories were concentrating on General Wellesley’s decision to sign the armistice with the French. She wondered how that man was holding up under the barrage of attacks being made against him. If he were as arrogant and cold as Colonel Lord Straeford, there was no doubt he would survive. She sighed, putting the paper aside and picking up a length of red velvet brocade. Kneeling on the window seat, she held it up to the mullioned window of the gallery.
“Perfect,” came Lady Maxwell’s voice as she walked across the gallery to seat herself beside Marisa.
“Do you really like it, Lady Maxwell?”
“I couldn’t have chosen better myself. You have an eye for color and design, my dear. Justin should be well pleased with your choices.”
“Do you think so?” she asked teasingly, yet there was a touch of sincerity in her tone which was not missed by Lady Maxwell. “You know what I think, my lady? I think Lord Straeford wishes me to blazes.”
Her ladyship frowned. “Now, my dear child, do not be put off by Justin’s brusque manner.”
“How can I not be?” Marisa asked honestly. “He’s made his feelings clear to me. Your grandson views me as an interloper, an upstart, and he does not cavil to show his disdain for me. His behavior has been exceedingly rude and his manner arrogant…” Seeing the dismay on Lady Maxwell’s face, Marisa fell silent, ashamed of her own poor manners. “Oh, forgive me, your ladyship, I had no right to say those things to you.”
“No, do not apologize. I know how difficult my grandson can be, and I will not deny much of what you say about him is true. But, my dear child, there is another side to him. There is a fairness of mind and a generous nature beneath that cold, vain exterior.” She held Marisa’s gaze. “Believe me, it’s there. Do you think I would let you marry him if I did not know it to be so?”
The sincerity with which Lady Maxwell spoke touched Marisa deeply. It gave her sagging spirits a lift. “Thank you, Lady Maxwell, you’ve made the prospects for the future seem a little less bleak.”
“I want your happiness as well as Justin’s because I’ve grown to love you as if you were my own granddaughter.” The elderly woman smiled reassuringly and clasped the young girl’s hand.
“You have become very important to me too, your ladyship.” Impulsively Marisa kissed the lady’s parchment-like cheek. Lady Maxwell appeared slightly flustered by such affection, but she quickly recovered.
“You are just what my troubled grandson needs. Someone who is sincere, honest and loving. Give him time to become accustomed to his good fortune. He’s too intelligent not to realize it.” The urgency in her voice and the tightening of her grip on Marisa’s hand expressed the intensity of emotion she was feeling. It disturbed Marisa, who found it so uncharacteristic of this usually cool, self-controlled woman. Evidently the earl’s welfare was extremely important to his grandmother.
Noticing the troubled expression on the girl’s face, Lady Maxwell relaxed her grip on Marisa’s hand. She had no wish to frighten her with her own anxiety. To lighten the mood, she waved her walking stick at the portraits lining the wall.
“Did you ever see such a motley crew? Come, let me introduce you to some of the saints and sinners.” Marisa followed Lady Maxwell as she passed before the notables and continued to expound on their virtues as well as their vices until they stood before the portrait of the seventh Earl of Straeford and his wife.
“You were a very handsome couple.”
“I used to think so,” she smiled fleetingly, “but you and Justin will be a much more striking pair. I look forward to seeing a painting of the two of you.”
Marisa smiled at the prospect. “I’m afraid I do not see the present earl sitting still for a portrait painter.”
Lady Maxwell cackled as she pictured the scene of her scowling grandson sitting before the portrait painter. Then she led Marisa down the gallery to the figure of the ninth earl, a pale, green-eyed, light brown-haired youth. “Justin’s brother Robert.”
“He looks so different from the earl.”
“As night is to day,” Lady Maxwell agreed. “Not only in looks but in temperament as well, and yet they were devoted to one another.”
“How did he die?”
Her ladyship did not answer immediately but stared at the portrait of her dead grandson as if willing him to speak for her. When she finally did reply, her voice was strangely hollow. “He broke his neck in a fall from a horse.”
“How dreadful!”
“Yes, it was, but there are reasons why some things happen.”
It was a strange comment for her to make, Marisa thought; however, she had little time to reflect on it as Lady Maxwell continued speaking.
“Although Robert was a nice boy, he was also shallow and self-indulgent like his mother. She dominated him completely and he was too weak to withstand her blandishments. Only Justin was capable of doing that. Naturally, that did not endear him to his mother.”
Now was the opportunity Marisa had been waiting for. “Lady Maxwell, will you tell me about the earl and the late countess? Something about the kind of relationship they had. It’s a question which has had me curious ever since I met the earl.”
It took her ladyship so long to answer that Marisa feared she was angry with her. Finally, however, the elderly woman nodded her head affirmatively.
“Let us sit in the warmth of the sun. This room has a chill upon it.” An expression of distaste passed over her face, and she pulled the black lace shawl closer about her shoulders.
Was it the gallery or her own question which had produced Lady Maxwell’s chill? Marisa wondered.
“Actually, child, it is not my story to tell,” she explained after they were seated with their backs to a sun-drenched window, the rays filtering across the room to the still faces of the Straeford ancestors. “It is Justin’s tale, and some day I hope he will see fit to confide everything in you. Nevertheless, I think it my duty to give you some idea of the situation. It had its beginnings so very long ago, but it still affects Justin’s life today. You see, my daughter-in-law was not overly fond of children—even her own. And Justin incurred her wrath even more by being an inquisitive, independent daredevil.” She smiled, remembering the bright little boy who always delighted her. “He was very much like his father.” A twinge of pain seemed to cloud her dark eyes. “My son’s marriage was not a happy one. Marian hated her husband, and she transferred that hatred to her own son because he was a constant reminder of the earl. So whatever affection she was capable of giving went to Robert, and Justin grew up without the love a child needs.”
Marisa looked across the gallery at the portrait of Straeford at his mother’s knee. It was intended to create a tranquil image, the child’s look of innocence giving no hint as to the anguish he must have experienced according to Lady Maxwell’s account. To Marisa the painting was a contradiction, the innocent young child a contrast to the impassive, enigmatic man she now knew. She was about to offer this observation but decided it better not to interrupt her ladyship’s running commentary.
“Perhaps he would have adjusted to the lack of a mother’s love in his life if he had not discovered as a young man her… infidelities. I am afraid that was the last straw…” She paused as if to go on, but thought better of it. “Well, maybe now you will have a better understanding of why he has neither love for nor faith in women.”
This last disclosure disturbed Marisa greatly. If his lordship’s feelings were of such long standing, what chance did she have of altering them? An
d she said as much to Lady Maxwell.
“Don’t think like that! You must not be discouraged.” Her ladyship was vehement. “He can change and he will! What he has needed is someone in his life like you, a good woman who will give him compassion and love.”
“Lady Maxwell!” Marisa rose to her feet and twisted her hands in agitation. “You don’t realize what you’re saying. There is no… love between your grandson and me, and I cannot promise there ever will be!”
There was a strained silence as the two women stared at each other. Then Lady Maxwell rose and took the girl by the shoulders. “Forgive an old woman for being so insensitive. You barely know Justin and I will have to be content to let matters take their course.”
Marisa relaxed and then apologized for her outburst. “I… I overreacted, my lady, I did not mean….”
“Never mind, child, there is no need to explain. It is I who said too much. Now I am going to let you return to your decorating while I go check with Bess about tonight’s dinner.”
With great dignity the elegant lady crossed the chamber. Pausing at the exit, she turned to face Marisa. “There is one thing more, my dear. Do my grandson a great kindness and remove the portrait of the late countess from the drawing room.” Without waiting for a reply she stepped out of the gallery and only the sound of her tapping cane lingered.
The interview with Straeford’s grandmother had done little to reassure Marisa about the earl and her future. The future Countess of Straeford felt as confused and uncertain as before. And at this moment she was exasperated, too. Stalking over to the family portrait, she glared at it. The serenity of the picture angered her for it was a lie. A deceitful lie! And as for that innocent looking little boy on his mother’s knee, he was a total enigma. To listen to Lady Maxwell, he was the victim of an unloving mother who was responsible for turning him into the cold, ruthless man she knew. Even if that were true, could she give him the tenderness, understanding and… and love he needed to soften his outlook on life? But wasn’t she jumping to conclusions? There was nothing in his behavior that suggested he wanted to change… except for that one evening at her father’s home when she thought she glimpsed deep sadness behind his haughty manner. Possibly that was only her imagination, too. Wasn’t he simply a professional soldier, a man of war, who was perfectly satisfied with his life and brooked no interference in it? She shook her head. It seemed doubtful that she would ever come to understand the man who was to become her husband.
Straeford glared at the top of the surgeon’s balding head as he bent over him and dabbed at a wound on his right shoulder.
“Well, Nevins, will you finish up! I’ve got things to do.”
“But, my lord,” the doctor said as he lifted his eyes from his work, “I must make certain that the wound is clean. You were very lucky that it went through the flesh. There is less likelihood of infection, but there is still the possibility of fever.”
“It was a mere scratch, so stop fussing and bandage me up, will you.” He was anxious to see what his men were up to now that the fort was secured.
“Very well, Lord Straeford,” the doctor muttered in annoyance, sighed heavily, and began dressing the wound. Nevins worked quickly and soon Straeford’s shoulder was covered with a white cloth. “There, I am finished.” With the help of Straeford’s batman, the doctor gathered his equipment.
“Send Major Harding in on your way out,” Straeford ordered Nevins.
The surgeon shrugged his shoulders. What good would it do for him to protest or suggest that his lordship should rest? The man was inhuman. Already he was rotating his shoulder and flexing his arm, testing its agility. Without another word, he left his lordship in the capable hands of Billings, who was helping him into his shirt and jacket.
Only after the door had shut on Nevins did Straeford permit himself to wince. He could trust Billings not to make a fuss over him and that was the way he wanted it. Fortunately the wound was not serious. Yet he could not help wondering how many more times he could cheat death. There was an urgency creeping over him to have the marriage sealed. With a son, an heir for Straeford, the line would be assured. All these years he had ignored the possibility of his demise. Now he suddenly felt vulnerable. What had caused this doubt? Perhaps it was a sense of responsibility which was stirred in him after his return to England and his ancestral home. The heritage that was Straeford was solely dependent upon him. And he was no longer so young to believe in his own invincibility.
“God, is it cold out there!” Harding stepped into the room shivering and clasping his hands about his shoulders. “Bet it snows before morning.” He came to stand beside the small fire in the grate, holding his hands over it. “At least it’s comfortable in here.”
Straeford chuckled as he looked about the abandoned stucco structure he was using as a temporary headquarters. Through the cracks in its frame the wind howled, and a few pieces of dilapidated furniture were scattered about the room, yet the experienced soldier considered this more than adequate accommodations.
“Have the sentries been posted?” Straeford asked as he and the major accepted a glass of port from Billings.
“Uh huh, and the men are dividing the spoils.”
Straeford frowned over his glass. “Who’s in charge of the operation?”
“Markham.” Harding began brushing off a chair that had only one armrest left.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Ed. I want you to check on this detail for me. See how Markham is handling it. I don’t want the men to get out of control. And see that they are ready to march in the morning. Our victory today was partly due to the fact that the French didn’t expect to see us this far north. Now that they know we are here, they won’t be caught napping a second time. Billings will go with you and report back to me.”
“All right, I’ll attend to it at once.”
The door had barely closed after them when there was a disturbance outside. Suddenly Drake came stumbling into the room with a senhora following closely behind him. The strong wind whipped wildly at her long black hair, and her dark eyes were flashing angrily. Although her black and red costume was torn, exposing much of her body, she radiated defiance with her hands on her hips and her feet planted firmly apart.
“I beg your pardon, sir…” a breathless Drake stammered and pointed to the woman, “but she demanded to see you.”
“Senhor!” she shouted defiantly.
“Speak when you’re spoken to, woman!” Straeford commanded. “Who is she?”
“Claims to be a Colonel Dubois’s lady.”
“Dubois?! Does she indeed?” Straeford suppressed a smile. “Very well, Lieutenant, I’ll talk to her….alone.”
“Yes, sir!” Drake seenfed to be relieved to escape the woman’s presence and swiftly left them.,
Straeford sat on the edge of the rickety table while the woman remained standing. “Name?” he shot at her.
“Isabella Costanza.” She tossed her head sideways and swept the tangled mass of hair behind her with one hand, then stared at him boldly. “I demand that you return me to Colonel Dubois!”
His face darkened. “Do you indeed? I think you’ve forgotten that you have been captured behind enemy lines and are now a prize of war.”
“No matter.” She gestured with her hands. “I am Dubois’s…”
“Whore!” Straeford put in with contempt, shattering her confident demeanor.
“You bastard!” she swore and lunged toward him, swinging her long nails at his face. But he met the attack by blocking her arm with a thrust of his own, sending her to the floor. “I’ll keeell you,” she choked as her breath returned.
“I wouldn’t try it!” He glared so fiercely at the disheveled woman that she remained where she was. “That’s better. Now, we can get down to business.”
“What will you do with me?”
“There’s no policy governing…ladybirds.” He let the statement hang as once again he seated himself on the edge of the table. His leg swung freely as
he eyed her thoughtfully.
Isabella scrambled to her feet, a note of fear creeping into her voice. “You will not turn me over to your men?”
“That is one possibility,” he threatened callously.
“English pig!” she swore and her hand went out to strike him. He expected her to attack him again and this time he grasped her wrist with an overpowering grip and yanked it behind her back, forcing her to her knees.
“Are you finished attempting to claw me, you wildcat?”
“Sim,” she screamed in capitulation.
Straeford stared at the woman huddled at his feet and nudged her roughly with the toe of his boot. “So you are Dubois’s… woman.” There was a pause. “He has spoken of me?”
“Sim” She edged away from his encroaching foot. “He wears the black patch over the eye because of the English colonel, and he swears vengeance one day.”
“Looks as if he’s going to have more than one reason for vengeance, eh wildcat?” His eyes gleamed wickedly. Isabella feared her seductive charms held no sway with this man. If her beauty failed to arouse him, what would he do with her? A savage grin revealed white teeth against his dark face. “And now what’s to be done with you? Shall I amuse myself with you first, or simply turn you over to my officers who then can give you to…”
Isabella let out a scream and grasped at his boot. “No, colonel, I pray you will not use me so cruelly. By the saints…” she pleaded.
“Let go of me, woman!” Straeford roared, pulling his boot free from her clutching hands. Disgusted and angry with himself for taunting his helpless victim, he waved an imperious hand at her. “Go!”
Confused and frightened, Isabella stared at him dumbly.
“We already have a number of camp followers,” he explained. “One more won’t make a hell of a lot of difference. Find yourself a protector. Now go!”
Slowly she came to her feet and studied this fearful man. She wanted his protection, not some lowly infantry soldier’s. “You will not take me first?” she suggested warily.
Tender Torment Page 9
