Linda Barlow

by Fires of Destiny

  “Weren’t you and Will supposed to marry and unite our estates? God’s blood, I’d forgotten that. Was that what you meant? You’re not really his widow, are you, Alix?”

  His use of her old nickname made it seem as if no time at all had passed since they had last met. “No. We had a pre-contract but no actual wedding. We were to have been joined next spring.”

  He hesitated briefly before putting his next question. “Pre-contracts are binding. Was your union consummated?”

  “No.” She spoke without embarrassment. He was not the first to wonder about this. Many young couples considered the pre-contract a license to engage in lovemaking, but Will had never pressured her to anticipate the formal ceremony. “There’ll be no posthumous heir to supplant you.”

  “That’s not why I asked. I was only thinking of you. I don’t even want the bloody barony.”

  This was an intriguing disclaimer. She wondered if it were true. If so, why had he returned so fast?

  “We weren’t lovers.” Smiling ruefully, she added, “I’m a virgin.”

  Roger’s eyebrows went up, and his dark eyes gleamed with amusement. “God’s wounds, Alix, you say it the way someone might say, ‘I’m a leper.’”

  She laughed. The stone wall echoed the sound, and she endeavored to affect a more solemn mien. Surely both the subject and the levity it induced were inappropriate in this particular setting. But Roger seemed intent to pursue the matter:

  “The marriage could have been solemnized long before this—you’re certainly old enough. Was the disinclination on my brother’s side or on yours?”

  She began to feel a trifle uncomfortable. Disinclination? Was that what it had been? “Nobody seemed to be in any particular hurry. I didn’t love him, if that’s what you’re asking. Not that way.”

  “And he? Did he love you ‘that way’?”

  “No. It wasn’t in his nature, I don’t think. He wasn’t passionate. He wasn’t at all like—” she stumbled a little “—like most people.” She had been about to say “like you.”

  Roger’s eyes were making another survey of her body, skimming over the small swell of her breasts under the laces of her square-necked bodice, the narrow span of her waist, which was accented by the tight leather girdle that bound it; and her long legs, disguised by her voluminous kirtle and overskirts. Her slim ankles, visible because she wore her skirts a few finger-widths shorter than was proper, so she could walk quickly, or upon occasion, run, received his full consideration. She tossed her head in what she hoped was a careless gesture. She wasn’t accustomed to such attentions.

  When his gaze returned to her face, she was smiling bravely. “I feel like a slave girl you’re contemplating buying. They do buy slaves in the Mediterranean, don’t they? How much would you give for me?”

  “If you were on the auction block, you wouldn’t be wearing so many confining garments, and neither would you be looking so saucily into my eyes. You would be properly intimidated, Alix.” He met her saucy grin with one of his own. A moment later, though, he looked back at the gravesite, and his merriment faded. “You and Will weren’t in the least suited. You were marrying out of a sense of duty. Obeying the dictates, no doubt, of my honored father.”

  The subtle mockery underlying his words reminded her of all the strife between the baron and his second son. She wanted to ask him if he still blamed his father for Lady Catherine’s death, but she couldn’t bear to open his old wounds, especially not here, where his mother was buried. Instead, she returned his appraising stare. He was older, that was certain. He looked as if he might be thirty or so, instead of twenty-four. His body was lean and hard, and his skin darker than she remembered it, due, no doubt, to the Mediterranean sun. He was broad across the shoulders, although by no means brawny, and slim at the waist and hips. Lithely built and graceful, while at the same time uncompromisingly masculine.

  And he was handsome—rather strikingly so. His brown eyes were large and thickly lashed; expressive eyes, eyes that could fix upon you and draw your soul out of your body. And his mouth had an undeniably sensual twist to it. Defying fashion, he wore no beard, which further accented the well-shaped, angular lines of his face.

  Alexandra also noted that he seemed prosperous: his doublet and hose were richly fashioned, if rather severe in style. His sword belt, boots, and gloves were of the finest leather, but the only true ostentation about him was found in the fat jewels around his Spanish collar; they were deep in color and flashed fire when he moved.

  He cocked his head a little to one side. “You like what you see?” He was obviously amused by her scrutiny.

  “I haven’t decided. I believe I expected you to be much fiercer. A gold earring or two and a scimitar held between your teeth.”

  “God’s blood, you make me sound like a Mediterranean corsair. Is that what everybody imagines I’ve been up to all these years?”

  “Naturally. You have a colorful reputation. Kindly don’t disabuse anyone. Alan and I have taken great trouble to make a legend of you.”

  “Is that so?” One of his hands reached out and tugged a lock of her thick red hair, which, as was usual at this time of the day, was coming loose from its somewhat untidy braid. The sensation of his fingers whispering through her hair sent a series of curious little quakings through her. “On further consideration I’ll wager that I could make my fortune with you in the Mediterranean slave markets. Red hair is rare and much prized in that part of the world. And if you’re really still a virgin at eighteen, that’ll send the price soaring.”

  Alexandra managed to jerk her head free without hurting herself unduly. He was jesting, of course, but hadn’t it occurred to him that all her life she had been the intended bride of the heir to the barony of Whitcombe? Now that Will was dead, Roger was the heir.

  He cast a more somber look around the church. “Let’s get out of this dismal place, shall we?”

  Perhaps he wished to mourn his brother in private. She chastised herself for not having thought of this sooner. “Would you like to be alone for a bit? I can wait for you outside.”

  But he stepped away from the altar and, taking her arm, steered her down the steps. “I’ve had enough of churches, thank you. They’re little more than tombs. What’s wrong with this one, incidentally?” He looked curiously at the bare walls as he walked her down the center aisle. “Where are the candles, the plate, the altar cloth, the sacred hangings, and the priests, for that matter? Has my father tried to save his immortal soul by erecting a newer, more elaborate house of worship?”

  “No. He’s trying to save his soul by practicing Luther’s heresy. Or is it Calvin’s? All religious articles that smack of popery have been removed from this church. Hardly anyone comes here anymore. They hold Scripture readings every day in the great hall at Whitcombe Castle.”

  “How very interesting. My father used to adjust his religion to suit the times, along with anyone else with any sense. Monasteries out, Book of Common Prayer in, but this chapel always retained its popish flavor. Surely that would be the wisest course now that Bloody Mary’s so avidly burning Protestants at the stake.”

  “The more martyrs the ecclesiastical courts burn, the more converts the dissenters make. It’s a kind of stubbornness, I think.”

  “Have you joined them, Alix?”

  She clenched her fingers, thinking of Will’s unshriven soul. “No. No, I haven’t, despite Mr. Lacklin’s determined efforts to convince me of the error of my ways.”

  Roger stopped short by the old stone baptismal font; she could feel his fingers biting into her arm. “Mr. Lacklin? Francis Lacklin?”

  “Yes. You know him?”

  There was a long silence. Roger seemed to have turned in upon himself. “Aye,” he said finally. “Is he here?”

  “He’s at Whitcombe, yes. He’s the one who persuaded your father and Lady Dorcas to become such faithful Protestants. Now he’s working on Alan, who is proving to be less malleable than usual. No doubt he’ll be delighted to s
tart in on you too.” She glanced down at his hand on her arm. “You’re hurting me.”

  He released her, his lips curving briefly in an apologetic smile. But he seemed preoccupied. She was seized with curiosity, not only about his interaction with the formidable Francis Lacklin but also about everything else in his wild and dramatic life. For the first time since Will’s accident, she was able to think about something other than the bitter power of death. She felt her spirits leap as they stepped into the sunlight. With Roger home, she was sure they would soon see the last of Francis Lacklin and of everything else that smelled of hypocrisy and gloom.

  *

  Instead of returning through to her own home at Westmor Abbey, as the converted monastery was still called, Alexandra decided to accompany Roger to Whitcombe Castle. The homecoming of the prodigal was an event she didn’t want to miss.

  Leading his horse, they walked the mile together over the rolling fields toward the old castle. She besieged him with questions about his life abroad, which he answered good-naturedly. He hadn’t been a slave, although he had been captured; he had toiled briefly as a clerk for a wealthy Turkish merchant in Smyrna, a man who became his friend and, later, his business partner. He’d learned piloting and navigation while at sea, and he’d talked his mentor into allowing him to lead a trading voyage from Turkey to Marseilles. “After that the challenge was in my blood. I had a light, fast ship built, hired an expert crew, and thereafter made two or three runs a year. Eventually I acquired two additional ships, which are still operating, engaging in trade.”

  “It sounds like an exciting life.”

  “It has its rewards,” he conceded, his dark eyes dancing.

  She supposed the rewards included a woman in every port and his own personal harem back in Turkey. She imagined all those women, each exotically beautiful with black hair and almond-shaped eyes.

  “Why did you give it up to return to this gray and damp climate?” As she spoke, she brushed a burnished curl out of her eyes. She wished she’d taken the trouble to dress more carefully today. Normally the state of her garb wouldn’t bother her, but the women she had just conjured up for Roger came swathed in silken veils, cloth of gold, and curled slippers. None of them had the curse of red hair, nor were they quite so tall and flat-chested as she believed herself to be.

  He seemed to hesitate. “Curiosity, mostly. I don’t know exactly how long I’ll stay.”

  “You mean you’re going back to the slave girls and the corsairs and the cargo holds full of figs and olives and wines and spices? But surely, now that Will’s dead, you have responsibilities here.” One of which, she added silently, might prove to be the match between the heir to the barony of Whitcombe and herself. “Your father, at least, is bound to think so.”

  Roger’s shoulders lifted in a gesture of indifference. Alexandra noticed an unremembered hardness around his mouth. “What my father thinks and what I agree with are likely to be two very different things.”

  He changed the subject by asking her to tell him some of the local gossip. Since Alexandra was on friendly terms with almost everyone who lived nearby, she was able to supply him with a steady series of anecdotes. She chattered on freely until they came to a place in the road that caused her to fall silent.

  The trail doubled back on itself to avoid a rocky mound, skirting the edge of the small but dense woodland known as Westmor Forest. There were many legends associated with the woodland, which lay in a valley to the south of the former abbey of Westmor. The woods were said to be haunted by demons, and few of the local farmers or villagers cared to venture very far into those gloomy trees.

  Alexandra paid no heed to these legends. She loved the forest. She had been playing there since childhood, and nothing unpleasant had ever happened to her; nothing, at least, that could not be traced to human agency. The worst fright she’d had there had occurred when the Trevor boys tied her to a tree at nightfall and left her to the mercy of a horrible shape that crept up on her, howling and shrieking. The demon had turned out to be Roger, clad in one of his mother’s fur-lined cloaks, and for once he had succeeded in making her cry.

  But there was something ominous about the way the forest stretched out a shaggy arm, encroaching on the road at the one spot where wayfarers were hidden from the lookout tower of Whitcombe Castle. “This is where Will’s horse took fright and threw him,” she explained, pausing underneath a huge oak and pointing to a ditch on the side of the road. “It still seems so difficult to believe. He was an excellent horseman. But he was apparently riding very fast that night, and the physician said that he had been drinking.”

  Roger also stopped, looking at her rather than at the ditch, giving her another of his deep, unnerving stares. He had a habit of focusing directly into her eyes, as if he wished to discern the thoughts behind her words. “Did he drink excessively?”

  “No. I can’t recall ever seeing him the worse for drink.”

  Roger went to peer into the ditch. The road curved sharply just before it.

  “There was an old stump in the ditch. Will struck his head on it. He died of a brain fever.”

  Roger jumped down into the ditch and looked around. He poked around a bit in the damp ground—the ditch had once been a stream, and the earth was muddy there—then climbed out and scraped clay off his boots. “It’s a gloomy spot, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, and a perfect place for an ambush.” No sooner had she spoken these words than Alexandra frowned, wishing she had more control of her wayward tongue.

  “What an uncomfortable thing to say.” Roger spoke in a lazy drawl, but his eyes had narrowed ominously. “I trust nobody had a grudge against Will?”

  He had expressed the fear that had been haunting her ever since the night Will had been carried up to Whitcombe Castle, his body hanging limp, his hair dark with blood. She was not the only one who thought the accident strange. She had heard that the baron had been asking questions in the village.

  “Nobody that I can think of.”

  Her voice must have betrayed her doubts, for he touched her arm. “But?”

  “But it’s peculiar the way it happened, that’s all.”

  Roger turned and looked into the woods. The masses of dark green plants were threatening to overgrow the path. “Someone could have hidden there on the edge of the forest and frightened Will’s horse at the critical moment. But it would have required precise timing, and besides…” He stopped, his body coming alert. He stared into the thick trees just across from where they stood, and one hand flew to the weapon strapped to his hip.

  “What is it?”

  She felt a sharp pain in her shoulder as Roger flung her aside and dived into the undergrowth, his blade drawn and flashing. It was not a long sword, she noted, but a shorter curved blade, like a scimitar. There was a scrambling sound as someone tried to run. Alexandra recovered her balance and leapt after him in time to see Roger tackle the figure who had been lurking here.

  With his blade to the fellow’s throat, Roger dragged his quarry out into the open. He was an ungainly youth with straggling hair and bad teeth. He lay on his back quivering beneath Roger’s weapon, his eyes rolling. Sounds of alarm were squeaking out of his throat.

  Alexandra dropped to her knees in the dirt beside them, unmindful of the consequences to her skirts. “It’s only poor Mad Ned from the village.” She placed a restraining hand on Roger’s sword arm. “Have a care. You’ll cut him with that thing.” To the youth she said, “We mean you no harm, Ned. You startled us, that’s all.”

  “Mad Ned?” Roger did not release him.

  “He’s the village halfwit. He can’t talk, and it’s not clear how much he understands, but he’s harmless, I promise you. Put your scimitar away. This isn’t the Moorish coast.”

  “I’d like to know what the devil he was doing spying on us.”

  Ned was shaking and vainly trying to squirm away to the safety of Alexandra’s skirts. “I’faith, you’re suspicious, aren’t you? Let him go. He and I are
friends. Come, Neddy, let’s brush you off, shall we?”

  Roger backed off while Alexandra helped the frightened youth to sit up. Slowly, with another wary look at Ned, he sheathed his weapon. “You have some curious friends.”

  “Aye, like ex-monks, ex-mercenaries, and sea captains,” she taunted him. “You’ve scared him out of his few remaining wits.”

  Ned’s head was twitching back and forth. He stole a closer look at Roger as Alexandra explained to him, “This is the baron’s other son, Roger, who’s been away for a long time. You needn’t be frightened of him, Neddy.”

  Ned did not appear to find this reassuring. In fact, the more he squinted up at Roger, the more alarmed he became. As Alexandra rose to her feet, he rolled over, jumped up before either of them could stop him, and fled into the woods. Roger tensed for a second as if he might chase him, then relaxed and laughed. “He’s not half-witted when it comes to saving his skin, is he?”

  “I warrant he’s not half-witted at all. He’s clever about some things. He knows the forest better than I do, and the birds and animals come when he whistles to them. He’s gentle, and he cries when the village children throw stones at him.”

  While she was speaking, Roger took another look into the ditch. “If only he could talk,” she said. “If someone did lay an ambush for Will, Ned might have seen it. He’s always in the forest, even at night.”

  She thought Roger’s mouth tightened at this, but he said nothing more as they walked on toward Whitcombe Castle. Rounding a rocky mound, they could see the ancient fortress with its towers, outbuildings and ramparts atop a grassy hill. Although the oldest walls of the outer enclosure were in a state of disrepair, the crenellated keep was still an imposing sight, a symbol of the power and privilege which the Trevor family had long enjoyed. It seemed inconceivable to Alexandra that the eldest son of this noble house could have been done to death in a ditch.