The Earl's Captive

by Lorna Read

  Except that it was not his ancestral seat any more. Not since his father's last card game with Hardcastle, when the Earl had put up his last big stake, Darwell Manor, and lost it to that … that trickster, that cheat and swindler.

  Philip had offered to fight a duel to win back the deeds to his home, but Hardcastle – fat, purple-nosed, crude, cowardly Hardcastle, who lacked any trace of blue blood but had made his money in the cotton industry, using the local townsfolk as slave labour – had declined, citing a violent attack of indigestion as an excuse. Indigestion! Philip would have liked to have pricked him in the bloated belly with the tip of his sword to relieve the old windbag's internal pressure!

  And as for his horse-faced daughter … Philip just hoped he could carry off the wedding successfully. Once their marriage had brought Darwell Manor safely back into his hands, Philip would soon teach her her place, the haughty hussy. But for now, he would play the charming fiancé, all cooing flattery and honeyed words. Later on, once he had planted an heir in her stringy body and gone back to join his regiment, there would be plenty of time for love.

  Then Philip heard the stamp of a hoof on the cobbles. Peering through a distorted diamond pane of the mullioned window, he made out a figure on a plump horse. This was the moment he had been waiting for. There might be a lot of unfair things in his own life, he reflected, but some of them he could do something about, and by Jove he was going to put paid to this one.

  Rogues and tricksters of any sort would be better off leaving the country than coming up against Philip Darwell. It would give him immense satisfaction to see the hangman's noose biting into their necks.

  * * *

  Lucy thought she had never seen a place that looked so neglected and devoid of life. Yet it could have been a beautiful, graceful house, with flowered creepers twining up the walls, rich tapestries in the windows and smiling servants at the door. There should have been children's laughter, constant visitations of titled ladies and gentlemen in smart carriages, instead of this brooding air of silence and neglect that dripped from the broken guttering and rotted windowsills.

  Perhaps she was too early and the occupants of the Manor were still abed. As the young gentleman had said the previous day, the great house was easy enough to find. Indeed, it would have been hard to miss, with its grey turrets sticking like jagged teeth out of the clump of trees that surrounded it, a patch of majesty and mystery set in the fair pastureland of the Pendleton Hills.

  It had taken the lazy chestnut mare over an hour to toil up the long slope to the Manor. Lucy had expected some kind of welcome, even if only from the head stableman. Surely they were waiting for her? Or had Philip Darwell regretted his purchase already and gone into hiding in the far recesses of his grand house? Maybe his 'business' had kept him away longer than he had expected. After her recent experience, Lucy had grave doubts about the nature of any man's absence from home.

  She had no intention of leaving the horse without collecting the payment for it. The nobility, Lucy knew only too well, could cheat as much as any common man, and think less of it. No, she would wait; all day, if necessary.

  It was a cold, dank morning and the dawn drizzle was giving way to steady, soaking rain. The mare disliked it as much as Lucy did, and stood with her head drooping and her tail clamped to her hocks. A vivid memory of Philip Darwell came back to Lucy now, as she sat shivering in her saturated cloak. Those grey eyes, so haughty and aloof, had held a flicker of interest when they met Lucy's, which was not merely physical appraisal, but something more cerebral, a kind of recognition, as if he realized that Lucy was different from her companions and in some way superior.

  Behind his aristocratic, commanding facade, Lucy had sensed gentleness and humour. Maybe it was intuition, or perhaps she was totally fooling herself, but she had felt there were some admirable qualities about the dashing young man, which was why she was feeling so guilty now about bringing him a horse with no pedigree, a mere mongrel, who was not even in foal.

  She would not be trying to take his money under false pretences if she did not need it so much herself. Her natural honesty urged her to apologize, explain and refuse to sell the animal to him, even though it meant facing the fury of the others when she got back.

  Yet, if this were just an ordinary day, she would not be sitting here now, wet, cold and confused. Instead, Pat or Smithy would have delivered the chestnut mare and she would be back at the inn with Rory, making preparations to move on to their next destination. Laughing, joshing, taking advantage of having the room to themselves, and making love.

  Lucy felt a pang of emotion spear through her like a rapier. There would be no more intimate hours of laughter and love with her husband. It was over. Rory had gone. He had let her down in the worst way a man could ever betray a woman, through another woman.

  That slut! Lucy thought of her now, the tousled brown hair, probably lousy, the blubbery, sensual lips, the lard-like skin and big, drooping dugs. A slow-witted, bovine animal, sensate only when brought to life by a glass of wine, a gold coin and a man between her floppy thighs. Ugh! Lucy wished she could have marked that dull, common face with her fingernails, torn her hair out, kicked her black and blue and sent her naked out into the rain and fog for daring to seduce her beloved Rory.

  Yet, she thought, deliberately calming her thoughts, perhaps it was not totally the girl's fault. Maybe – no, it couldn't be true, surely he wouldn't? – maybe Rory had been attracted to the grubby drudge. If that were so, then Lucy could only be glad that he was gone, for how could she ever bear to let him near her own body again? And the strain of always having to watch him when he was in the company of other women, whether fine ladies or common wenches … No, it would never have worked. She would have suffered years of misery.

  The anger raised by her reminiscences fired her to dismount, place the reins around a mounting block to prevent the animal from wandering and walk round the side of the house to the great oak main door. Grasping the heavy iron knocker, she raised it, then let it fall with a ringing thud on the studded wood.

  Almost immediately, as if someone had been lying in wait for her, the huge oaken structure creaked open to reveal a familiar figure standing inside. Clad in a ruffled white shirt, a lovat jacket over a grey waistcoat, cream britches and highly polished brown boots, Philip Darwell was a spectacle to set any maiden's heart fluttering.

  Lucy, in her overwrought state, was in no mood to be impressed. Uncomfortably aware of her wet, bedraggled state, she hoped he might at least invite her in to dry her sopping clothes by the fire and take a warm drink.

  But there was no friendliness or invitation in his face, just fathomless coldness which she didn't understand, and when he spoke, his tone was like splinters of ice.

  “I suppose you were too ashamed to come straight to the door. I watched you from the window, sitting on that wretched nag, trying to pluck up the courage to rob me.”

  “I … I d-don't understand,” stammered Lucy.

  The trouble was, she did understand. So Darwell wasn't a fool, after all. He did know horseflesh and now she was to suffer for his knowledge. She watched the cold glint in his eyes change and become purposeful, and she backed away, hoping she could scramble onto the mare and be gone before he could pursue her.

  She turned, made a sudden dash and a spring and was across the chestnut's back, but Philip Darwell was right on her heels. Seizing her blue cloak, he tugged hard. Unable to keep her grip on the saddle, Lucy found herself tumbling towards him. She kicked out furiously, sending the mare shying away from beneath her. For a second she felt as if she were suspended in the air, then, with a painful thud, she landed on her hip and elbow on the hard, slippery cobbles.

  Before she could scramble to her feet, Philip Darwell had bundled her up and was dragging her towards the open door of the stables.

  “Let me go, do you hear? Take your hands off me, you –”

  All the breath was knocked out of her as he curled his foot behind her ankle and sent
her spinning into a large bale of straw at the back of the dark stable. Winded and breathless, Lucy raised her arms to protect herself as Philip, his eyes narrowed and cruel, stretched out a hand towards her.

  In that instant, the memory of the beating she had received from her father the night she ran away from home came back to her in discomfiting detail. Then, she had fought, bitten, scratched and kicked, yet still she had been overpowered.

  Perhaps there was another way of dealing with this kind of situation – with calm reason and cool logic. Philip didn't look like the kind of man to be swayed by a woman's pleas or tears, but perhaps, if she could stand up to him, win his respect …

  She gazed at him and caught his attention so that his movement towards her was arrested in mid air.

  “I understand why you are angry,” she said.

  She meant it. She would have been mad, too, in his position. Then she paused, thinking hard. If he already knew that he had been tricked and the mare was not in foal, he must have known at the very moment when he was bidding for the horse.

  Or had somebody informed him later, Pat or Smithy perhaps, in return for a financial gift from Philip for exposing their trick? No, they would never do that. It would be the end of their livelihood if they did. They had to be careful, especially when so many of the horses they handled were stolen property. A man could be hanged for less than that.

  Hanged! A sudden shudder possessed Lucy as she gazed into Philip's steely eyes. He was coming towards her again. He gripped her arm, twisting her flesh, making her cry out in pain.

  Her face must have shown how much he was hurting her, because he suddenly smiled coldly and said, “Go on, you little thief, cry! There'll be time enough for tears when the hangman is marching you to the gallows!”

  Lucy's mouth dropped open in disbelief. What had she done? She was innocent of everything. It hadn't been her idea to pass off the mare as being well-bred and in foal. It had unfortunately fallen to her to deliver it, that was all. Yet, even as she thought this, she blushed, remembering her plan to keep Philip's fifty guineas for herself.

  He held her down on the prickly straw, his fingers digging cruelly into her upper arm. Lucy remained still. There seemed no point in crying out or struggling. No, her first idea was the best – to reason with him.

  But she would have to choose her words very carefully for, if she failed to sway him, he might just fulfill his promise of throwing her into the lock-up, until she was taken before the magistrate and sentenced to death by hanging. The danger she was in served to sharpen her brain. She would listen very carefully to what he said, then try to counter his arguments with logic, if not the truth.

  He started speaking, slowly, as if talking to himself. “Thieves, crooks, swindlers. They've taken so much from me.”

  Then, fixing Lucy with a glare that frightened her, he spoke directly to her, venom in his words. “I've been watching you lot. I've been following your progress, you know. Oh yes, you might have thought you'd got away with disguising Silver Maiden, that grey that went missing from Lady Pettigrew's orchard last June!”

  “I had nothing to do with any of it,” Lucy pointed out quietly, though her heart was hammering in her chest. “I didn't even know them then. If you would just let me explain –”

  “Hold your tongue, wench!” snapped Philip, shaking her. “It's your misfortune to have fallen in with them and so, as far as I'm concerned, you're all as bad as each other. You know what the penalty is for stealing horses and cheating honest citizens. I've got you in my hands now, and you're going to lead me to the others. And then …” He paused.

  Lucy's heart was pounding so loudly that she could hardly hear his final words, which he spoke softly and sibilantly, with an air of smug triumph. “And then it will give me great satisfaction to watch you all hang together.”

  “No!” The word tore itself from Lucy's lips before she could check it. Suddenly, her calmness left her and she twisted herself violently round in order to try and escape from Philip's determined clutches.

  At the same time, she calculated how far away his leg was, and landed a mighty kick in the centre of his left shin. But Philip's leather riding boots were of excellent quality, and he reacted no more than he would have done had a butterfly landed on him.

  “You heard what I said, didn't you?” He moved so close to Lucy that she no longer had enough room to take a swing at him. “People like you are the scum of the earth. They don't deserve to live.”

  Hot anger beat in Lucy's throat. “Son of an earl you may be, but your manners are no better than a butcher boy's,” she said, trying to match his cold, cutting tone. “I demand that you release me right now and, what's more, give me the apology that's due to me for your unforgivable behaviour towards a lady.”

  Philip's bark of laughter was so loud that at the far end of the stable, there was a sudden flutter of wings and a huge white barn owl swooped low over their heads and glided out of the door, causing Lucy to squeal in terror as she felt the wind of its flight ruffling her hair.

  “Pretending to be a lady now, are we, now that the shadow of the noose is round your neck? You're going to recant, are you? Call a churchman and confess your sins? Well, maybe God will forgive you, but I'm not God and I have no intention of letting you get away with your theft and fraud one moment longer.

  “I've been trying to track down your particular little group for a long time. There's that huge oaf who pretends he's of the church.”

  “But he is!” interjected Lucy vehemently.

  Philip ignored her. “That shrivelled little rat with the consumptive cough, and that bearded lady's man.”

  Lucy's first instinct was to spring hotly to Rory's defence and tell him he was her husband and an honourable man. Then the events of earlier that morning came back to her and she held her tongue.

  “And then there is you, my pretty one.” He rolled his upper lip back from his teeth like a dog about to tear out her throat.

  Lucy shrank back from him. Was he going to have a fit? She had heard that the aristocracy frequently had fits; something to do with inbreeding, she'd been told. Or was he going to strangle her there and then, to save her the public agony and humiliation of hanging?

  It soon became obvious to her that he was going to do neither. Pinning her arms behind her back, he reached for the clasp of her cloak and unhooked it. The sodden garment fell from her shoulders and Lucy felt suddenly vulnerable, knowing there was nothing but her flimsy dress and her undergarments between his eyes and her bare skin.

  It felt horribly like the situation she'd been in with Rory and his companions, but on that occasion she'd been saved by Rory's intervention – although, she reflected now, it hadn't exactly done her a lot of good.

  She was beginning to learn a lot about men, to discover what motivated them: money and sex. With both, their instincts were acquisitive and urgent. She was no longer a virgin, it was true, but she still had no desire to be ravaged by anybody, least of all a cruel, unreasonable man who refused to let her explain her circumstances and seemed intent on taking not only her body, but her very life.

  “Philip Darwell.” She had to try reasoning with him again, to appeal to his better nature, if he had one. It was her only weapon. If rape was indeed what he had in mind, he was certainly taking his time, fingering the laces that held the front of her dress together.

  Her body gave a sudden tingle and betrayed her. He really was very good-looking. What a pity they hadn't met in better circumstances.

  “If you are a gentleman and an intelligent, fair-minded human being, then at least let me put my case before condemning me to be handed over to the authorities. I was not with that group of men of my own free will. I –”

  Her words were cut short as Philip's hard lips closed on hers. He had been toying with her, like a cat plays with a mouse; now the game was over and the prey was to be devoured. The prickly straw scratched Lucy's back as he seized the neckline of her dress. It ripped at the side seam so that one
of her shoulders was exposed.

  Lucy kicked and twisted and panted. Despite her better judgement, the struggle was arousing her. The smell of Philip's fresh sweat was like an aphrodisiac. She realized she desired him. Even the smell of his sweat was like an aphrodisiac to her. What's wrong with you? she asked herself. No woman should be feeling this way when a man was trying to force himself on her. She should be looking for ways to disable him, rather than feeling her body throb and melt for him.

  Suddenly, there was a piercing scream from the direction of the doorway. “Philip! What are doing with that girl?” The voice was female and sounded aghast and tearful. Then there was the sound of running footsteps across the yard.

  “Rachel! Oh no – Rachel! Rachel, wait!” Philip released his grip on her and raced off in pursuit.

  She was free! The miracle had happened after all. She could go now. Her mother had always said she had a guardian angel and, for the first time ever, Lucy thought she must have been right. Grimacing at the clammy feel of her wet cloak, she draped it once more around her shoulders and fastened the clasp to hide her torn dress.

  She was just about to tiptoe out of the stable block when she heard voices approaching the door. They were arguing. Philip was pleading and apologetic, Rachel furious and unforgiving. Lucy shrank back into the shadows to listen.

  “No, Philip, I won't forgive you! You heartless traitor! How could you do this to me? Two months before our wedding, and I catch you with … with a trollop!” Her voice broke into sobs and Philip's took over.

  “Rachel, my dearest love, it's not how it looks, I promise you. There's a good reason. I'll tell you if only you'll listen. It's nothing to do with you, or with love. It wasn't even a passing fancy. It's nothing. That girl – she cheated me, stole from me. She had to be punished, so –”