The Earl's Captive

by Lorna Read

  Lucy waited, her feet and tongue paralyzed. Surely he would say something? Would he not even speak her name, ask her the reason for her unexpected visit?

  He did not move, just stood with his back to her, ignoring her. A rush of tears sprang up from deep within her. Stifling a sob, she turned and fled from his room, feeling that her world had truly ended. Now, at last, she knew she meant nothing at all to him – if, indeed, she ever had.

  Not only Philip, but the whole of Darwell Manor was rejecting her, telling her she did not belong to its world but should return to her own lowlier one. She had aspired too high. How could she ever have dreamt that an Earl could feel anything more than either friendship or base lust for the daughter of a horse trainer?

  She had found her true match in Rory, she knew that now. For all her pretensions to being a lady, her ability to read and write, to sew and draw, to grace social events with pretty talk and play simple melodies on a lute, nothing could alter the fact that she was a girl of no breeding, not fit to make a match with a gentleman of quality.

  Philip was too polite to point it out to her, that was obvious, but now she knew her station. Why else had he forced her to play such menial roles in the working out of his schemes? Because he thought her fit to play the part, not only of Rachel's serving maid, but also of Hardcastle's whore. Ugh!

  A shudder of pure self-loathing gripped her body and almost made her want to vomit. He had used her, and now he was finding it embarrassing to dismiss her. Well, she would spare him the trouble of saying the words. By the time the next day dawned, she would be gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The blue silk dress, now the subject of Lucy's burning hatred, lay on the bed in a careless heap, its pleats and folds creased and disordered. Lucy sighed to herself as she knotted the last lace on the old, stained, torn dress which she had worn the day of her arrival at Darwell Manor. She wished to leave the house with no more than she had brought when she came, with the sole addition of the earrings which she knew she would be unlikely to be able to possess for long, unless Prebbledale was much closer than she had imagined.

  She was about to douse the lamp and find her solitary way out to the stables when she remembered Martha. The motherly old woman had been so kind to her that Lucy could not possibly disappear for ever without bidding her farewell, even though it was now nearly midnight.

  She rang the bell to summon her, and when the bustling little woman finally entered the room, wearing a nightgown and shawl, Lucy silenced the questions which were on her lips by announcing, “As you can see, Martha, I am leaving. I regret not being able to take the lovely dress you gave me, but unfortunately I find it bears too many reminders of episodes I would prefer to forget.”

  She looked at Martha's glum face, and felt herself softening. “I'll never forget you, Martha, and your kindness. And Matthew, too. I wish . … wish I could stay, but …”

  What could she tell her that would convince Martha that she was doing the right thing?

  Martha took the opportunity of Lucy's silence to ask the question she was obviously bursting to ask. “And where, pray, might you be going?”

  Smiling wistfully, Lucy spoke the one word, “Home.” Then she added, “Please tell Matthew I shall take the chestnut but I will see that it is returned as soon as possible.”

  Martha's eyes held hers for a moment in a searching gaze. Then, giving her arm a squeeze as if to say, Be brave, girl, everything will turn out all right, she left the room.

  There was no moon that night but the stars were twinkling in a clear sky. Lucy was not sure in which direction Prebbledale lay, but something told her she should take the hill road. Really, she decided, it did not matter how far away her home lay, thirty miles or a hundred, so long as, by dawn, she had put as much distance as possible between herself and Darwell Manor.

  And Philip.

  Letting her mount pick its own way up the rough track, she allowed her mind to wander and found that, in her imagination, she was in Philip's bedchamber, eavesdropping invisibly on his thoughts. Almost immediately, she stopped herself. These were not Philip's thoughts, but her own make-believe. She would never know the way he felt about her, so what point was there in speculating?

  If only she could stop aching for him like a girl who had been separated from her lover! There had never been anything between her and Philip. Why could she not wake up and realize that it was all in her head?

  She was mortified to find her thoughts straying to that morning in the stable when he had displayed such violent passion towards her and had only been prevented from ravishing her by the untimely arrival of Rachel. If only he had displayed one ounce of that same passion since! If Rachel had not arrived when she did, might not one taste of her body have led him to desire another?

  No. She must shut these thoughts out, banish them from her mind forever. The chapter of her life concerning Darwell Manor and all that had passed therein was over. She had to forget, for the sake of her own sanity.

  “What sanity? Am I not already completely mad to be thinking about Philip this way?” she muttered with a hollow chuckle, not realizing she had spoken aloud until she noticed her horse flicking its ears. Sanity had deserted her. She was indeed mad – mad for a man who cared not one jot about her or her future happiness.

  She reached a crossroads on the lonely path. It was too dark to read the signpost, so she let her horse plod on, not caring where it was taking her, letting the reins lie loosely in her curled fingers.

  Suddenly, without warning, the whole world seemed to tip up. The signpost described a somersault before her eyes and she found herself flying through space, to land on her side with a jolt that knocked all the breath out of her. Her horse, whose rearing had been the cause of her dizzying flight and undignified landing, was standing panting by the side of the road.

  Lucy could see no reason for the steady, well-mannered gelding's unprecedented behaviour but, as she lay gasping, trying to get her breath back and work out where or not she had sustained any injury, the thought came to her that crossroads were notorious among the superstitious as being haunted places where witches met and hanged men reappeared. Animals were gifted with the second sight. Perhaps her mount had seen or sensed something which her less sensitive human senses had failed to recognize …

  Her arms seemed to work all right. She moved her feet and ankles, then her legs. They, too, seemed whole. As she sat up, she felt a stab of pain in the shoulder on which she had landed, and briefly closed her eyes as she gave it a rueful rub. When she next opened them, she screamed aloud in terror and alarm, for a dark-clad man was standing in the road, staring down at her.

  She scrambled to her feet but stood no chance of running away for, with two swift strides, the man was at her side, gripping her arm. As he drew closer, she recognized the familiar features of Adam Redhead.

  Fear and shock made her angry. “You! It was you who made my horse rear and throw me. Why did you not make me aware of your presence instead of appearing like a ghost?”

  “You were not riding sidesaddle like a woman. With your cloak wrapped around you and your collar turned up like that, you could have been anybody, perhaps even a highwayman,” he explained. “In better weather, when there is more traffic about on these hill roads, highwaymen are a frequent hazard.”

  He smiled at her and she began to relax. At least Adam cared enough for her not to allow any harm to come to her. Perhaps he could set her on the right road for Prebbledale and home. Yet she sensed something was not quite right.

  “If this spot is so dangerous, what are you doing here alone so late at night?” she inquired.

  A guarded look came into Adam's eyes. “I … I have somebody to meet,” he explained, not very satisfactorily, his eyes scanning the darkness all around them.

  Then, hauling his gaze back to Lucy, he asked, with a sudden note of concern in his voice, “I forgot. You may be hurt and it will be my fault. Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” rep
lied Lucy, trying to laugh. “No bones seem broken.”

  “I am glad. Now perhaps you can tell me where you are bound at such an hour. Who was the thoughtless person who allowed a young, pretty, defenceless woman to stray alone on the moors at night?”

  “I suppose you could accuse Philip Darwell of that,” said Lucy lightly, and regretted her words the instant she saw the vicious expression that drew back Adam's lips in a feral snarl.

  “That arrogant, callous toad!” he exclaimed venomously. “I hate that man more than I hate the Devil himself!”

  Lucy felt the blood draining from her face and she stared at him, aghast. This was not the soft-voiced, fawning valet who had deferred to Philip in such a servile manner … the man she had scorned for seeming weak and feeble-spirited. This was a creature driven by bitter hatred, the reason for which she could not begin to guess.

  “It was he who I was looking for, that cheating cur of a brother of mine. I meant to kill him, but he escaped me. I know he is here somewhere. Just one movement, one rustle in the bushes and I will have him!”

  Lucy's eye lighted on the carved handle of a pistol protruding from Adam's pocket and felt a stab of terror. She did not understand. He said he hated Philip, and in the next breath he was talking about his brother. Philip had told her that Adam was the only son of Martha and Matthew, so who was this brother of whom he spoke?

  As she stared at him, puzzled, he clutched her arm so tightly that she cried out.

  “He's taken everything that is mine, the house, the jewels … We made a deal, but he has no more right to them than I. Why should he live a fine life in the Manor, when I am forced to slave for the Hardcastles and waste my noble blood in servitude?”

  Noble? What did he mean? He was the son of servants!

  'Jewels, money, let them hang. Let him hang! I shall kill him and then I shall have the Manor –and you as my wife!”

  “No,” Lucy said. “I will not be your wife. I do not care for you.”

  She tried to wrench her arm from his grasp but he tightened his grip and hauled her towards him, staring at her with mad, popping eyes. He's going to kill me! His face loomed close to hers and she raised her free hand and struck him a sharp slap across one cheek.

  He appeared not to feel the blow. Instead, he gave a chuckle that sounded almost demonic. “So you like to play rough, do you, girl?” He yanked her arm and pulled her down to the ground. Summoning all her strength, she kicked him hard in the shins.

  There was a sharp thudding sound and he fell backwards and landed beside her. She couldn't think what had just happened – had he tripped and winded himself? – but she knew she had to get away as fast as she could, before he came round

  Scrambling to her feet, Lucy set off down the hill to where she had last seen her horse … and had scarcely gone two steps before she came up against something solid and unmoving but unquestionably alive – the silent, terrifying bulk of a cloaked and masked man.

  The scream died on her lips as a hand clamped itself across her mouth. Now she could see plainly what had befallen Adam. A heavy tree-branch lay beside his head and his light brown hair was stained dark with blood.

  “Your money and your jewels, pretty lady,” demanded the man, in a thick country accent which held a hint of laughter. “Come on now, me lovely lass. Your jewels and your gold, or you'll wish I'd never saved ye from that lusty scoundrel over yonder.”

  Lucy thought quickly. She had no money, only her amethyst earrings which were hidden in her pocket. But what would she do without them? They were her only currency. This thief must have known hard, penniless times in his life, or else why would he have taken up this way of life?

  Thinking that perhaps she could plead with him and win his sympathy, Lucy pulled back her cloak to reveal the old, ragged dress beneath. “Please sir,” she begged, “if you have any pity in your heart, spare a poor girl. See my clothes? I have no money, no valuables at all, not even a home to go to.”

  The latter was almost the truth; her father's smallholding certainly did not feel like home and in any case, she might not be welcome to return.

  “I thank you kindly for what you did to save me,” she added, hoping to appeal to his better nature, if he possessed one. “But now, having preserved my life and my virtue, could you not simply release me and let me go on my way?”

  He laughed loudly, then thrust his hand into the small pocket inside her cloak. When he withdrew it, her earrings were dangling from his fingers, the silver gleaming in the dim glimmer of starlight.

  “So ye would lie to me, would ye, ungrateful wench?”

  “No! Please … I'm sorry. I didn't mean to conceal anything from you.”

  Now he had discovered she was lying, what fate would lie in store for her? Whatever it turned out to be, she would accept it calmly and philosophically. She had been through too much already. Her fighting spirit was spent. She was weak, tired and hungry. She should have known better than to travel the dangerous moors alone at night.

  She had brought this on herself. Two days earlier, when she had lain sobbing on her bed, she had imagined her bleached bones lying on the moor. She had inflicted a death-wish upon herself and there was nothing she could do to prevent it happening.

  “I … I n-need those j-jewels,” she stammered, through chattering teeth. “They're … they're the only thing I have. I am on a long journey. I shall s-starve if I c-cannot sell them.”

  Her words appeared to make no impact on the surly figure who had her wrists imprisoned in his strong hands.

  “Please … You have my only possessions now. Will you not let me go?”

  “Yes, me little spring filly. When I've 'ad me fill o' those pretty lips o' yourn!”

  Her lips were covered by a pair which were warm and surprisingly gentle. But the sudden sensation of cold metal against the fingers of her right hand made her gasp and jump.

  He was going to kill her! She could almost feel the blade slipping between her ribs, filling her with agony so that her thoughts, her memories, all the things that made her the individual human being she was, came draining out with her blood. Perhaps, if she were to remain very, very still and not annoy him …

  There was that sensation of ice-cold metal again. He was not moving as if to cut her, however, but was pressing something against her hand. It could not be a blade. It was something much smaller.

  Now he was fumbling with one of her fingers, doing something to it, trying to force something against it, over it. Was it some kind of instrument of torture, a thumbscrew perhaps?

  Her hand was suddenly freed and she snatched it up to her eyes. The object around the third finger of her right hand was a large, ornate ring. In the faint starlight, she could just make out a design of clasped hands around a many-faceted stone.

  No, she thought, her heart sinking. Philip had only just got his mother's ring back and now he had lost it all over again. How had this man stolen it? He had already killed, or nearly killed, Adam. What had he done to Philip? And what was he going to do with her?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  As Lucy opened her mouth to scream and beg, the 'highwayman' removed his mask. She could not speak, she could not think – all she could do was feast her eyes on Philip Darwell.

  I am such a fool! she thought. I should have known.

  She should have recognized that laugh, those white teeth. Philip had told her how good his highwayman act was when he held up the Hardcastles' coach. If she hadn't been in such a fluster after her fight with Adam, she felt sure she would have seen through his disguise. Nevertheless, he shouldn't have frightened her like that and she told him so.

  “I am sorry. I couldn't resist playing a trick on you.”

  “Call that a trick? You scared me half to death! Especially after being set upon by Adam.”

  “Yes. What was that all about?”

  “He was out of his mind. Raving. And he had it in his head that I was going to agree to be his wife!”

  “He what? Just
as well I knocked him out then. Though you did a pretty good job at putting him in his place!”

  His kiss still lingered on her lips and the unaccustomed weight of the ring felt strange on her finger. Had he followed her simply to give it to her, because he knew she coveted it? Or had he suspected that Adam might be up here at the crossroads?

  Philip has kissed me! Was that part of the trick, too?

  Then Adam's words came back to her. He had arranged to meet his brother, he said – but he and Philip could not possibly be brothers. It did not make sense.

  A sudden groan alerted them to the fact that Adam had come round.

  “Here, help me.” Philip was kneeling by Adam's side, tying his wrists behind his back with a cord before the stunned man could recover enough to make a dash for freedom. He motioned to Lucy to secure Adam's ankles, offering her a piece of halter rope.

  Finally, Philip fashioned a gag from his leather mask and, with the cheery observation, “Don't want him shouting his head off and waking the whole valley up, do we?”, he slung the trussed man over his shoulder, then lifted him across the back of his bay horse, securing him to the saddle with some extra lengths of rope.

  Lucy's chestnut was some way down the hillside, cropping at the bracken. Philip called its name and the obedient animal cantered up and stood rubbing its head against its master's chest.

  “You'll have to carry two, I'm afraid,” Philip informed it.

  Bidding Lucy mount first, he swung himself lightly up behind her and they set off down the path, leading the bay with its awkwardly balanced human load behind them.

  “What will you do with him?” Lucy asked, nodding her head towards Adam's inert body.

  “He tried to shoot me this evening.”

  “No!” Lucy leant back, feeling the protective strength of Philip's body behind her.

  So her earlier suspicions had been correct. Philip could have been lying dead on the hillside at precisely the time she was looking at the clock and worrying about him. The chestnut stumbled under its double load and Philip twitched the reins to pull its head up, and tightened his embrace on Lucy in the process.