The Earl's Captive

by Lorna Read

  Perhaps her family would assume that she had had a fall and died. Tears flooded her eyes at the thought of her mother's sorrow. If only there was some way of getting a message to Ann to let her know that she was alive and well …

  A group of half-grown lads jostled past her and Lucy flinched. But she had nothing to fear now from greedy thieves and pickpockets; she had no valuables they could want to snatch. At the first fair they had been to, she had replaced the hated cream satin gown with a sensible plain homespun dress and warm cloak. Reluctantly, she had parted with the gold necklace that had been a gift from her father to mark her sixteenth birthday.

  The necklace had fetched a price well below its worth, but it had paid for her other purchases, a pair of strong leather boots for herself and a blue woven shirt for Rory and there had even been some money left over. But, during the past few weeks, the rain and cold had often obliged her and her companions to seek refuge in a series of inns, and Lucy's supply of coins had rapidly dwindled.

  She paused as a scent of herbs and dried flowers wafted to her nostrils. It came from a large straw basket placed on the damp mud. Little dried bundles of thyme and rosemary and other species she couldn't name, were mingled with sprays of lavender and small muslin pouches containing the withered petals of summer roses which gave off a heady perfume.

  On impulse, she bent down, picked up one of the fragrant bags and held it to her nose, inhaling deeply.

  “Two for a farthing, only a farthing,” a cracked voice intoned.

  Lucy saw that it came from a wizened old woman who was bobbing behind the basket like a sparrow. She fished in the near-empty pouch beneath her cloak and produced the required sum, selecting a bag of rose petals and a sprig of lavender.

  She had turned to leave when the dry, rasping voice called her back.

  “Here, lady …”

  Lucy ignored her at first, suspecting that the aged crone was about to accuse her of cheating or theft, a common fairground trick to extort more money from an innocent customer. But there was something in the hag's tones that made her obey.

  The old woman hopped out from behind her basket and clutched at Lucy with a bony, spotted hand. Lucy drew back in alarm. She had no desire to catch any nasty disease that this ancient bone-bag might be carrying.

  “Ye're not married, are you, me dear?” said the hag. It was a statement, not a question. Lucy was about to show her the hand bearing her gold ring, then changed her mind.

  “I am, mother,” she retorted.

  “A pretty bride ye'll make, in a silk gown, with your husband at your side. A tall man with light brown hair. And such a beautiful emerald.”

  She pronounced 'beautiful' in such a way, giving it four syllables and implying a gloating covetousness, that Lucy thought the woman must be mad and seeing senile visions. Just as she was wondering how best to detach the scarecrow-like hand from her sleeve, she spied Rory looking for her.

  She waved with her free hand and called his name.

  “That's my husband,” she informed the old woman, “that tall, dark man with the beard.”

  The old crone bobbed back behind her basket and squatted down, shaking her stringy white locks. She didn't say another word or even look at Lucy but, as Lucy pushed her way through the crowds to join Rory, she heard a laugh like a jackdaw's cackle following her and was glad when she could tuck her arm into his reassuring elbow.

  “We've sold the chestnut and you'll never believe it, we've got rid of the old grey cob at last,” he informed her, eyes sparkling and a high colour in his cheeks.

  Lucy thought that he grew more handsome every day. He certainly grew more loving. He was possessed of a passionate nature, quick to express anger and impatience, quick to forgive and always ready to love. Lucy responded to his sexual demands with alacrity.

  She had thought their love-making was wonderful that day on the moors, when he had first seduced her, but even this experience had paled into insignificance in the face of the many blissful occasions since. Even now, she felt a little thrill of desire as she moved her hip against his and lengthened her stride to match his.

  She had surprised herself many times since meeting Rory. Hot as he was, she was always ready and burning for him. At first, she had worried in case there was something wrong with her. Surely it was only men who were supposed to feel this way?

  Had her mother or her sister ever felt this aching need, this languorous melting, which she experienced whenever Rory looked at her or spoke to her a certain way? Whenever their bodies accidentally or deliberately touched? Rory said that he loved her. Well, maybe this was love. She must be the luckiest wife in the world to inhabit such a paradise of mutual feeling and shared happiness.

  Her mind flickered to the previous day, when, giggling and protesting, she had allowed Rory to pull her into a patch of thick woodland. Before his hands had even reached to unfasten the bodice of her dress, she was already aflame for him, both hating herself for her body's quick response, which she felt sure placed her on the same level as any common slut, and loving the sensation of being so fully, vibrantly alive.

  She feared getting with child. She wasn't ready. She hoped it wouldn't happen for a long time – a year, at least. In fact, she had secretly purchased a herbal tea which she sipped every morning and evening and which was meant to prevent her catching. She also had a phial of a special tincture which, if she did suspect that she was with child, she was to drink without delay. Yet she doubted if any preventative would work when sex with Rory was so sweet and her feelings so strong.

  “You're looking very pretty today,” Rory said, his voice hauling her out of her happy recollections. Lucy wondered if the warm flush on her cheeks was responsible for her radiance.

  “Here, me darlin' girl, I bought you a present.”

  He fished in the pocket of his grey britches and brought out something that flashed golden. Could it be the long-promised wedding ring? Her heart leapt.

  He placed it in her hand and, to her disappointment, it turned out to be nothing but a trinket, a mock-gold chain bearing a small green stone in a setting shaped like a flower. Lucy reflected ruefully that it wasn't quite the emerald the old woman had spoken of, then thrust the mad witch's words out of her mind. It might not be valuable, it might not be a gold wedding ring, but still it was a pretty trifle, and a present from the man she loved.

  She thanked him, stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, then fastened the necklace around her throat.

  “Someday, when I'm rich like your father, I'll buy you a sapphire to match your eyes,” Rory promised.

  He knew her father, Lucy had discovered, having met him at horse sales in the past. The world of horses was a small one. Lucy found that Rory had a lot of respect for Martin Swift, although at first, he hadn't connected him with Lucy.

  She had never thought of her family as being rich, exactly, but to Rory, who was used to years of sleeping in the open or in rough inns, a large farmhouse with several acres of land, a collection of good horses and a couple of servants, to say nothing of hired field hands and stable boys, must have sounded like luxury indeed.

  Lucy didn't like to think of the future, preferring to live from day to day, but she had to admit that it worried her. She certainly did not wish to spend the rest of her life wandering like a gypsy. What way was that to raise a family?

  She knew full well what lovemaking led to and could only hope that the natural consequences would be delayed, at least until she had persuaded Rory to abandon Pat and Smithy and the roving life and either take a job on a farm, where a tied cottage would be at their disposal or, better, save enough to start his own smallholding.

  Rory had a good eye for a horse and a few clever deals could do it. Why share the proceeds with Pat and Smithy? He didn't need them, especially now that he had her, with all her expertise.

  As they passed a stall where a foolish volunteer with his head through a hole in a board was being pelted with rotten fruit, a prize being awarded according to how
long he could endure such insulting treatment, Lucy lapsed into a daydream in which she was at a major race gathering, draped in furs, the owner of the best race-horses in the country.

  As her streamlined thoroughbred sped past the winning post, the name of Lucy Swift was on everybody's lips. Champagne glasses were raised to her. Royalty invited her to dine. She would have a fine town house with her own carriage and servants, plus a mansion in the country where her horses would be kept and trained. Her racing colours would be emerald green and kingfisher blue, with her initials, LS intertwined, on the sleeve.

  But I'm not LS any more, I'm LM, she reminded herself, mentally re-drawing her design. 'Lucy McDonnell' just didn't have the same ring to it.

  She was still chiding herself for being a snob when Rory ducked into the doorway of a canvas tent where a cockfight was going on, pulling her in with him. Lucy couldn't bear seeing any creature hurt. She detested the way in which the birds were fitted with cruel spikes on their legs with which to tear their opponent to pieces, but Rory ignored her protests.

  All the men in the audience, and the few women present, too, appeared to be drunk. Like a pack of wolves, they howled in glee as one unfortunate bird's belly was slit and, slipping in the slime of its own entrails, it was hacked to pieces while still alive by the fierce beak of an evil-looking red-eyed rooster whose black feathers dripped blood. Realizing its foe was vanquished, the bird opened its gory beak and crowed, and the whole audience, with the exception of Lucy, stamped on the ground and roared.

  She felt sick and wanted to leave, but Rory informed her he had a bet on the next fight and promised to go as soon as it was over.

  The handsome white fowl on which Rory had unwisely placed his money was soon reduced to raw meat and feathers. Cursing his ill-luck, Rory kept his word and led a grateful Lucy out into the fresh air again. These were sides of her husband she didn't like; the ease with which he gambled and his obvious enjoyment of blood sports. Dog fights, bull-baiting, cock-fighting, it was all the same to him.

  He'd place a bet and watch the contest with mounting excitement, weaving this way and that as his body followed the movements of the animal that his money was on, yelling in delight at the sight of a spurting wound, groaning as his champion fell. After the contest, he would turn to Lucy and murmur something ardent in her ear, or give her a caress that would leave her in no doubt that he was feeling stimulated and lusty. And she would pretend to respond although she was feeling sickened and disgusted.

  But men were like that. Would she be able to respect Rory if he turned pale and ill at the sight of blood, or if he preached sanctimoniously against the evils of drink and gambling? She knew, in her heart, what the answer was.

  “Got to get back to Jamieson's Field, darlin', see how we're faring with the nags,” said Rory, lengthening his stride.

  He seemed to have put his gambling disappointment out of his mind already. His moods changed so rapidly that Lucy was hard-pressed to keep up with him. No sooner had she got used to the fact that he was cheerful and whistling, than his brow would crease and suddenly he would fly into a rage about the weather, the fact that Smithy had been late getting the horses watered, or about his way of life in general.

  She would immediately adapt her mood to his and be about to say something consoling when, out of the blue, he would be joking and laughing again and asking why there was such a worried crease between her brows.

  Lucy gave up. Rory was Rory and maybe she would never understand him.

  “Pat's bidding for a dapple-grey that must be three-quarter bred or I'm a fiddler! Smithy tickled her near hind with me magic potion when he examined her feet and she should be limping by now. I've said to Pat, if we don't get rid of that chestnut mare today we'll all be starvin' men.

  “She eats so much and bloats herself out with wind so, that she looks as if she's about to give birth to a whole herd. I think we could fool anyone that she's in foal. What say we give it a try, me darlin' lass?”

  He was in irrepressible spirits and Lucy was longing for the fair to be over, so that he and she could be alone together. They were putting up that night in the Ram's Head, a bustling inn in the market square. They had been lucky to get a room to themselves, with accommodation on fair days always being in short supply. Often, Lucy had been forced to lie awake for half the night, scratching flea bites, her ears tormented by the sound of Smithy's cough and Pat's powerful snores emanating from their straw pallets.

  Jamieson's Field was a small, fenced patch of grass where the horse traders always congregated. The animals were paraded one by one and the asking price given and greeted by guffaws, whereupon the seller's sights were sensibly lowered and the bidding started in earnest.

  Lucy and Rory reached the spot and had to push their way through a crowd of coachmen, who had left the vehicles and were busily and noisily quaffing quantities of ale from cracked and battered tankards. A solid knot of men were shouting bids, each intent on snaring a bargain. A sale was agreed, a study hack led out, and it was the turn of their chestnut mare, led in by Pat.

  Although a lot of people knew him by sight, his size and appearance still shocked the crowd into silence. Lucy had to admit that the mare certainly looked as if she were in foal. Her sides bulged and she walked with the splay-legged gait of an expectant mother, a kind of smug waddle. She was a handsome animal with strong quarters, a deep chest and a slightly dished nose that spoke of Arab blood.

  Pat declaimed her falsified ancestry, told of the well-bred foal she was carrying, and asked for twenty guineas. To Lucy's great surprise, a man's voice answered, “Aye.”

  Rory gave a gasp of amazement and even Pat rolled his eyes, trying not to show how taken aback he was at this departure from the norm. The confidence of the unknown bidder prompted another man to offer twenty-five. The first man countered with thirty. The bidding rose in rapid leaps to the staggering sum of fifty guineas, whereupon the mare was knocked down to the man who had first spoken.

  Rory and Lucy rushed up to Smithy, who was standing with the rest of their animals. The old man was wheezing with mirth.

  “Heh-heh! To think 'e thought 'e was getting two for the price of one! Uh-oh, that's rich! Some people don't know anything about 'orses, do they? Heh-heh – should 'ave sent 'is ostler!” Smithy doubled up, gasping, clutching his thighs.

  Rory slapped him on the shoulder. “Shush, ye fool. Hold your cackle. Here comes feller-me-lad now!”

  Lucy could hear Pat's booming tones and a well-bred voice answering him.

  “Yes, I know. Sired by Fleetwood out of Darley Court, eh? I don't believe it, but I'll take your word for it – and if she births a hairy jackass, I'll string you up personally!”

  The voice was light, young, refined, and Lucy looked up in interest. The man walking beside Pat was tall, slimmer than Rory and dressed in a magnificent yellow brocade coat worn over a dove-grey waistcoat and britches, all exceedingly well cut. While Rory's thick, black locks tumbled wild around his shoulders, this man's dark, gleaming hair was tied back neatly with a black velvet ribbon.

  His complexion was pale and his features finely chiselled and there was a haughty set to his bearing that made Lucy feel slightly insulted, as if he were implying that it was beneath him to mix with such riff-raff.

  “I have some business to attend to today and won't be back till morning. See that the mare is delivered at eight o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. Darwell Manor – about three miles on the West Road, up on the hill. Ask anyone at the inn where you're staying. They'll give you directions.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Pat, with a bob of his head. It was strange to see the giant deferring to a man a whole head shorter than he was.

  “And who shall I deliver her to, sir?”

  “Philip Darwell, the Earl of Darwell's son.”

  The haughty demeanor, the expensive clothes, the aristocratic tone of voice: Lucy had known he couldn't possibly have belonged to anything but the upper classes. As he turned to walk away, he paused
and looked directly at Lucy and Rory. Rory was murmuring something to Smithy in a low voice and Lucy thought that maybe the horse's new owner was suspicious, imagining them to be talking about him.

  Lucy glanced at Rory, then back at the stranger, and suddenly realized that it was at her that his clear grey gaze was directed. Embarrassed, she looked down at her feet, then at Rory again, then finally she returned the stranger's stare with a haughty one of her own. Two could play at that game!

  A faint smile curved his lips. Then he gave her a brief nod, turned and went on his way.

  Almost immediately, Rory rounded on her. “Hussy!” he hissed.

  “What do you mean?” asked Lucy indignantly, feeling doubly wronged.

  “I saw the way that fancy man looked at you, and how you looked back at him – in front of me, your own husband!”

  Rory had never been angry with her before. Lucy felt desolate. This onslaught was extremely unfair of him; she had done nothing to invite the stranger to look at her other than blush in embarrassment. Maybe Rory had mistaken the pinkness in her cheeks for another kind of flush entirely. His brow was knotted in anger. He looked wild, handsome, feral. Lucy could hardly believe that he belonged to her, that he loved her. She must find some way of patching up this silly tiff.

  But it was not to be. All the way back to the inn he argued and would not see reason. By the time they reached their small attic room with its rickety wooden bed and crudely fashioned table, Lucy felt weary and depressed. What had got into him that had sparked off this totally unfounded jealousy? She had eaten nothing all day, and her stomach rumbled from hunger. She was used to better care from him than this.

  “Rory,” she said, covering his hand with hers as it lay across his thigh. They were both sitting on the bed, she on the side nearest the window, he on the end facing the door. “Rory, I love you. I'd never look at another man. There's no one who can match up to you. You've got me, body and soul, for as long as you want me. And if ever you don't want me any more, just tell me and I'll go. I'd never bother you. All I want is for you to be happy.”