by June Francis
Alex stretched out on the ground with his head against his saddle. Who was his companion?
The attractive musical voice was not that of a servant. Perhaps his companion was a legal offspring of Sir James! A daughter who resented her stepmother and had raised the lady’s wrath by saying her father had been murdered. When threatened, the slightly crazed Mistress Appleby had fled and headed for Lathom House, only to encounter himself on the way.
It was now that Alex’s imagination stalled. His young companion had not behaved as if crazed, but that was women for you. Illogical. They were too often ruled by their emotions.
For one in fear of her life, who did not trust him, he reckoned she showed a foolish faith in her disguise. Alex made up his mind that for now he would play her game. But sooner or later he was going to have to inform her about what was needful to impersonate a man….
His Runaway Maiden
Harlequin® Historical #268—September 2009
JUNE FRANCIS’s
interest in old wives’ tales and folk customs led her into a writing career. History has always fascinated her, and her first five novels were set in medieval times. She has also written sagas based in Liverpool and Chester. Married with three grown-up sons, she lives on Merseyside. On a clear day she can see the sea and the distant Welsh hills from her house. She enjoys swimming, fell walking, music, lunching with friends and smoochie dancing with her husband. More information about June can be found at her Web site, www.junefrancis.co.uk.
JUNE FRANCIS
His Runaway Maiden
Available from Harlequin® Historical and
JUNE FRANCIS
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Prologue
January 1502
Alex steadied his restless horse with a firm hand but, just like his steed, he was impatient to be on his way.
‘You understand what I want you to do?’ growled the Earl of Douglas.
‘Aye,’ said Alex, meeting the Scotsman’s gaze. ‘You want me to act as your spy.’
‘I’m led to believe that you have a particular talent for gathering information and you will be well rewarded for your troubles. I had a particular fondness for your mother and propose to give you the house and land that she loved in recognition of you as my son.’
Alex thanked him in a dry voice, thinking that a house on the east coast of Scotland, close to the border with England, could prove useful, but such ‘recognition’ from his natural father was a little late in arriving. But the journey had not been a waste of time—the earl had provided him with information about the McDonalds that had shed a light on a matter that had vexed him during his investigations in London six months ago.
‘You have memorised the password?’ asked the earl.
‘Aye. I’m not a fool.’
‘Nay, you just showed a bad lack of judgement in the woman you chose to lavish your attentions on,’ growled the earl. ‘You’re not the first man to do so, and neither will you be the last.’
Alex’s jaw clenched and he wished his beloved grandmother had not been so frank in her missive to the earl about Ingrid. His romantic attachments were certainly none of his father’s business and, looking at the man before him, he wondered what it was that had attracted his own mother to him. However, it had been his grandmother’s dying wish that he make himself known to his father. Perhaps to make amends for the falsehood she had told him as a small boy, something that he had believed to be true until the day she died.
‘Well?’ demanded the earl.
‘I am to make myself known to the elderly Lady Elizabeth Stanley and she will see to it that I am enlisted in her troupe of performers for the proxy wedding of the Princess Margaret to your King James of Scotland at Richmond Palace. You trust this woman?’ There was a touch of irony in Alex’s voice.
The earl frowned. ‘She is kin by marriage to the wife of one of my allies, and both are related to King Henry’s stepfather, the Earl of Derby.’
‘Aye, so you have already said, but even those closest to us can prove false,’ said Alex.
‘According to your grandmother, she was also a highly regarded customer of your grandfather for several years.’
A vague memory stirred in Alex’s mind. ‘Where will I find her? If she is the person I remember, she was fond of travel.’
‘She is spending the twelve days of Christmas at Lathom House in the Palatine of Lancaster.’ Alex stiffened, but remained silent as his father continued. ‘If the weather worsens or you lose your way and find that she has already left by the time you arrive there, then make all speed to her mansion in London.’ The earl gazed at the shadowy, powerfully built figure beneath the dark, leafless branches of the trees. ‘If my enemies were to learn of your relations
hip to me, then your life could be in danger, so take care. We must stop the piracy in the northern seas so the peace pact can go ahead.’
Alex agreed, but his expression remained impassive. He had lived with danger for years, risking his life on several occasions during his travels gathering information for his Swedish grandfather and his country; but it was in London that Alex had come closest to losing his life.
‘Hopefully, I’ll find that all is as you say,’ he murmured.
‘Aye. Fare thee well, then, laddie.’ The earl clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Trust no one. A man can so easily be persuaded to reveal secrets when between the sheets.’
Alex ignored this sally and bid his father ‘Adjö!’
As he set off on the road south, his thoughts were not of his mission, but of the beautiful Ingrid and Harry, whom he had cared for like a younger brother, but whom he suspected had betrayed him for love and money.
His grandmother had told Alex not to pursue revenge. She had called Harry that crazy English boy, but did not believe him duplicitous. You must seek the truth, she had said with her dying breath. Part of him had wanted to yell at her, But you deceived me, just as they did, and this day you have taken something precious from me that was lodged in my heart and helped to make me the man I am. But instead, he had quashed his hurt and anger and gathered her emaciated body in his arms and wept, for she had cared for him since he was a babe and had loved him unconditionally.
Despite her words, the desire for revenge still burned in Alex’s heart and he decided to seek out Sir James Appleby, who had a manor in the Palatine of Lancaster, and see if he could help him find the treacherous couple.
Chapter One
They were coming!
With a rising panic, Rosamund Appleby gazed about her, searching for a place to hide. Her eyes alighted on the oak chest, carved with field mice and conies and curling tendrils of woodbine, and she hurried over to it. Bundling her faded brown homespun skirts about her thighs, she climbed inside the chest and hastily closed the lid. The slap, slap, slap of their leather-soled shoes on stone came nearer and nearer. Their voices grew louder. She buried herself amongst the garments in the chest and, scarcely breathing, prayed they would not find her.
‘Where in the devil’s name has she gone now?’ demanded Rosamund’s stepmother, Lady Monica Appleby. ‘I checked her bedchamber and she was not there.’
‘You frightened her, Mama. She fled like a rabbit with a ferret on its heels and has probably left the house.’ William giggled. ‘Edward said six months ago that she should be locked away. I know you agreed with him, so why did you wait until today?’
‘Because her death, so close to her father’s, could have roused suspicion. Whilst Sir James lived, I had to pretend to care about her well-being.’
Rosamund’s eyes filled with tears when she thought of her father and her fists clenched at the memory of her stepmother’s cruel duplicity. She wished she could spring out of the chest and tell her exactly what she thought of her—but that would be foolish.
‘Now time has passed since his very timely death, I must deal with her,’ muttered Lady Monica. ‘Especially since that woman’s servant called here yesterday. I cannot risk Rosamund voicing her suspicions to her.’
‘Who is this woman?’ asked William.
‘Lady Elizabeth Stanley. I knew her when I was a girl and I hated her even then. She’s been staying at Lathom House after spending years going backwards and forwards between England and Europe, but hopefully she should be leaving for London soon. I told her messenger that her goddaughter was sick abed and could see no one. Her taking notice of Rosamund right now is extremely inconvenient. I can see her proving a nuisance.’
Rosamund stuffed a handful of linen into her mouth to stifle a gasp. She had been a child last time she had seen Lady Elizabeth and her memories of that period in her life were hazy. She had believed that her godmother had died of the same disease that had killed Rosamund’s mother. If only she could speak to Lady Elizabeth, perhaps she could help her out of the terrible situation she was in.
‘You should have sent her a message asking her to call and given her one of your potions,’ said William with another of his irritating giggles.
Rosamund heard the sound of a slap and memories of past punishments caused her to shudder.
‘That would not have served us, dolt,’ snapped Lady Monica, sitting on the lid of the chest, so causing the wood to creak with the force of her weight. ‘I’d have the whole of the Stanley family down on my head. Oh, why couldn’t you have been born with your brother’s wits?’
‘That hurt!’ wailed William.
‘Well, think before you speak. At least I’ll be able to mould the wife I have chosen for you into shape.’
‘A wife for me!’ babbled William. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Bridget,’ replied his mother. ‘She is sixteen and the niece of a close kinsman of mine. You’ll be meeting them soon.’
‘You won’t leave me alone with her, Mama?’ William’s voice was sharp with anxiety.
‘Of course not,’ she said in a soothing voice. ‘There are questions her uncle and I need answers to from her. She’ll need a close watch kept on her, but first we need to find Rosamund. If only Edward was here instead of in London. He would have been able to deal with this troublesome girl. As it is, he is obsessed with his campaign to be the next Lord Mayor of London and that will need a fortune to fund it. But enough of this talk—we must get on with our search.’
William said, ‘Perhaps Rosamund has gone to the woodcutter’s hut. You know how friendly she was with Joshua Wood.’
‘If she has fled there in the hope of gaining his help, then she will be disappointed. He has gone, never to return. But you could be right about her visiting that hovel. We’ll hasten in that direction. If we find her, then…’ Lady Monica made a sound that sent a chill through her stepdaughter.
Rosamund waited until their footsteps had died away before pushing up the lid and casting aside the garments in the chest and climbing out. She felt heartsick, knowing that, with Joshua gone, she was utterly friendless. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she remembered two boys at swordplay. One of them was Joshua and the other her brother, Harry, who had drowned round about the same time as their mother’s death. His clothes had been found by a river where he used to swim. Sometimes in her sleep, she had dark dreams of her mother crying out to save her and of Harry, warning her to run for her life as he was carried away before he was silenced. She would wake up, filled with fear and drenched in perspiration. Perhaps, once she was away from this place, the dreams would fade.
She dried her eyes on her sleeve and considered her situation. If she were to make her escape in her present guise, she would be too easily recognised. She picked up the white shirt that she had thrown to one side and remembered the time when she had dressed as a boy. Delving into the chest, she found a pair of hose, a russet doublet and a boy’s hat with a feather in it. She gnawed on her nether lip. Did she dare? Last time she had donned these garments her stepmother had whipped her until she could scarcely stand. Rosamund’s father had been away at the time and Lady Monica had warned her that if she dared to speak of it to her father then she would be punished more severely. She needed the devil beaten out of her for such sinful behaviour.
Rosamund wished she’d had the courage to talk to her father about wanting to have been born a boy, then he might have cared for her as much as he had for Harry. Instead, fear had guaranteed her silence. But what was she thinking of standing here, wasting time? She had to escape. She must change her clothes. There was naught so comfortable as a youth’s nether garments for sitting astride a horse and riding hell for leather. Not that she’d had the opportunity to ride out alone since her father’s death. There was only one problem about pretending to be a youth now. She gazed down at her breasts and attempted to flatten them with both hands and knew she would need binding.
Fortunately there was no one in sight as she pas
sed, like a shadow, to the turret where her bedchamber was situated. It was the work of moments to find the binding she used for her monthly courses. She removed her clothes and bound her breasts before donning the shirt, padded brown hose and a green woollen doublet. Slipping off her shoes, she shoved her feet into a pair of stout boots before pulling on the feathered hat over the linen cap that confined her dark hair. Removing her winter cloak from a hook on the back of the door, she swung it round her shoulders and fastened its strings. Her heart was beating fast and, in her haste, she almost forgot Harry’s short-sword that she had found hidden away in a chest several years ago. Although England was more settled and peaceful than in those early years after Henry VII had defeated Richard III at Bosworth Field, it still did not do to go out unarmed.
She picked up her gloves and hurried downstairs, relieved that she could hear no sounds of activity coming from the kitchen. She left by the door that led into the yard and made her way to the stables. Her lips moved in silent prayer, hoping that the groom and stable boys were busy elsewhere.
To her relief the building was empty, but there was only one horse in the stalls and that was the oldest nag on the manor. Her spirits sank at the sight of Betsy, but she knew that she had no option but to saddle her up. She did so with hands that trembled.
Away from the house she found pleasure in the bite of the wind that whipped colour into her cheeks as she set out across the fields in the direction of Lathom House. Twenty-two years old and penniless, she could only pray that her godmother would help her. Fear and apprehension was a cold knot in her belly. Yet surely when she explained her situation, her godmother would understand her need for such a disguise?
