by Carie, Jamie
He had mentioned drawing out the man following them as a possible source of information as to what, exactly, Alex's parents had been looking for. Alex hadn't been able to answer many of Montague's questions, leaving wide gaps in their knowledge. But he was convinced that if they were being followed, it had something to do with whatever her parents were hired to seek. And that put their mission and their persons in serious danger.
They followed the crowd, as Baylor had directed, down High Street where the games were to begin. Alex rose on tiptoe and scanned the merrymakers for the giant—he couldn't be missed, so tall and with that hair the color of flame. A great crowd had gathered at the end of one corner.
Alex shouted toward Montague and pointed. "There! I think I see him." She grinned with excitement. "It's Baylor!"
"Aye."
"Come on! Let's get a closer look!" When Alex didn't get very far through the crowd, Montague clasped her elbow tight to his side and fought their way toward the front.
There, in the middle of the street, flanked by the tall buildings of Belfast, stood three men. They were all large and muscular, but Baylor was the tallest and strongest looking by far. They each held a metal ball of different sizes.
"Montague, do you know the rules of the game? What are those heavy-looking balls?"
Montague chuckled. "Those are cannonballs, my dear. Solid iron."
"But Baylor's is so much bigger than the others. Is that fair?"
"In Baylor's case it is probably more than fair. The others look to be throwing a twelve-pound ball, but I would wager that Baylor's is a twenty-four-pound shot."
"So they actually throw these cannonballs down the road?"
"I've not seen the game, but I believe they throw them as far down the road as possible and the first one to reach the goal, a few miles hence, is the winner."
Before Alex could ask another question someone shouted, "Clear the way!" The first man stepped to the center of the road. He was a younger man, more her age. He looked serious about the business though, dressed in brown breeches and a heavy shirt, shoes of sturdy leather. But it was his face that made him seem a contender. His dark brows studied the road ahead in a way that said he meant to win. The crowd quieted as he ran forward and then heaved the ball with an underhanded throw into the air. There was much cheering and clapping and Alex saw money changing hands as the spectators betted on their favorite competitor. Some shouted advice as the next man moved to the center of the road.
"Keep to the lee side, laddie," someone beside her shouted.
"No! Straight down the middle!" the man in front of her boomed.
Alex gathered her cloak more tightly around her and studied Baylor's next competition. The second man was middle aged. Gleeful was the word that came to mind when looking at his broad, happy countenance. Alex laughed and looked up at Montague. "I do believe he is excited to be playing this game."
"You've the right of that, my dear." Montague nodded.
They watched as the second man's ball flew down the street farther than the first player and then rolled to one side. It went out of sight in the tall grass.
The crowd went wild as Baylor stepped to the center of the road. With a great leaping run and a mighty roar, he wielded the cannonball around in a full circle and then thrust it into the air.
"But it's so much heavier, it's not fair," Alex complained.
"Just wait," Montague murmured.
The crowd had quieted, holding a collective breath as the ball landed with a loud thwack and rolled and rolled and rolled down the road, out of sight.
A great cheer burst from the crowd as they all surged forward toward the spot where the shortest throw had landed. It was impossible to tell where Baylor's ball had landed until the second man's turn because his starting point was so much farther down the road.
As the road curved and changed from cobblestone to dirt, Baylor remained in the lead but only by a few yards. The second man got closer and closer with each throw.
"Do you think he's tiring?" Alex asked after another twenty minutes. The first competitor was behind the crowd now without a chance of winning. When it was his turn, the crowd parted to the sides of the road and had to watch out for the flying ball not to hit them. It was funny to see them scatter as a cannonball came right at them. The second man had outthrown Baylor on the last turn, causing a great scowl to linger on Baylor's face. If Alex didn't know what a softhearted man he really was, his fierce face would be frightening indeed.
"He is getting tired, but the end is near. It will be a close game and please the crowds." Montague winked at her. So that was it! Baylor was holding back so it would be an exciting game.
As if to prove her right, on his next turn Baylor let the ball go with such force that it flew through the air so fast she couldn't track it with her eyes. The crowd surged forward to follow it and see if it had crossed the finish line.
Jostled and bumped along with the swelling fans, Alexandria lost sight of Montague. Panic washed over her as a big man practically ran her down. She tottered and would have fallen except for the fact that someone grasped her shoulder and swung her upright.
She turned to look at the person. "Thank—" Her stomach dropped as shock ripped through her body. Oh no! It was him—the man who had been watching her. The breath whooshed out of her as he leaned toward her. He was thin, his face gaunt, his eyes hungry and haunted.
His face snapped toward hers, eyes like a ravenous dog. He smiled a slow, ghoulish smile and took her arm in his bony fingers. What had she done letting herself get separated from Montague? Where was he? She wanted to scream out for help, but it wouldn't do any good against the cheering throng.
The man grasped her arm in a tight hold and rasped into her ear, "What is your business in Ireland, señorita?"
His accent was decidedly Spanish. She tried to twist out of his grasp, but his bony fingers bit into the tender flesh of her upper arm. "Who are you? Unhand me this instant!"
"Your name, señorita. Only give me your name and I will release you."
"Her name is my daughter and none of your concern." Alex turned her head to see Montague and Baylor standing behind her. Montague had unsheathed his sword and Baylor was lifting the heavy cannonball above his head, staring with a pleased smirk at the Spaniard's forehead.
The man abruptly let go of Alex's arm and backed away, hands outstretched. "Gentlemen, gentlemen. I mean her no harm. I am searching for a distant relative who was described to me such that she looks very much like your daughter. Her name is Louisa Martinez and her father is Antonio. You are not Antonio Martinez?" he asked Montague.
Montague took a step closer and then another until he stood toe to toe with the man. Alex slowly backed up until she was safely behind Baylor but still able to see around his massive side. "And what if I am this Antonio Martinez?" Montague taunted in a soft and deadly tone. "What would you do then, señor?"
The Spaniard's eyes narrowed but he backed up another step. "You are not him. I apologize. I will take my leave." With a short bow and a flick of a sinister smile toward Alex, he turned and slithered away.
Alex let out her breath. "He was lying, wasn't he? He wanted to know my name. I think he wanted to know if I am a Featherstone."
"You may be right." Montague flicked the sword through the air, making a hissing sound, and then slid it back into its scabbard. "You are in more danger than I thought when I first joined you. I fear he will not give up easily."
"We have to hurry and find clues." Guilt at being sidetracked from her mission by the festival gnawed at her stomach. "Baylor, can you tell me where the post office is located? It's the only clue I have."
"Not far at all, lass. Back toward town. On Church Street. I will take you there."
"But you've won the contest. Don't you want to stay and celebrate with the crowd?" There were
several groups of people who appeared to be waiting to talk to him.
"Don't worry your pretty head about that; it's just a game. I will join Montague in protecting you whilst you are in Ireland." He turned toward Montague and raised his brows. "If you'll have me."
"We would be honored to have your help. We need someone who knows the land, as I have a feeling we'll not be in Belfast much longer."
Alex had to agree that Baylor would be a fine addition to their party. "But what of your wife? She won't be pleased by this, I think."
"You've the wrong of it there. She'll be mighty pleased to stay in Belfast a wee bit longer. Gives her a chance to sing. We live in the cliffs of Blackhead. 'Tis a lonely place with only the whistling wind to accompany that fine voice of hers. She bid me to watch over you just this morning."
"She did? But I thought she didn't like me."
"Oh, she took a shine to you well enough. You would know it if she hadn't." He shivered as if just the thought of it caused fear to snake down his spine.
Alex shook her head in wonder. "Give her my thanks. Shall we go to the post office?"
Baylor turned back toward town, tucked the cannonball under one arm, and held out the other toward her. She grasped the huge forearm and smiled up at him. "While we walk, why don't you tell me what you know about your parents' mission in Ireland. What were they looking for?"
The three of them turned from the hills surrounding the city and returned to the rows of thatched houses on High Street and then on to Church Street while Alex told what she knew. "My letter has a postmark from the Belfast Post Office on it. I'm hoping the postmaster will remember my parents."
"Aye, he might. Mr. McCracken is the nosy sort. Let's see what we can learn here."
They came to the door and entered to find a quaint little parlor and an office with a long desk. Alex rang the bell on the counter, which soon brought a white-headed man with thin legs and arms and a round stomach. "Ach, what have we here but a pretty young thing? Do you need to post a letter?"
"Not exactly, sir." Alex pulled the letter from her pocket and held it toward the man. "I was wondering if this postmark came from here. It's a letter from my mother and I am desperate to find her."
"Your mother? She's missing?" He took the letter, pulled a wiry pair of spectacles from his pocket, and adjusted them over the bridge of his nose. Peering at the corner of the letter, he nodded. "Yes, indeed. I stamped this myself." His keen eyes studied Alexandria's face. "I remember your mother. Your resemblance is very easy to see." He stared off into space for a moment, thin lips working. "She was with a man."
"That would be my father."
"Yes, she seemed very much in love with him. He made her laugh—a distinctive laugh, that. Loud and happy."
"Did they say anything about where they were going or where they were staying? Anything at all?" Alex strained toward him.
"Hmm. Something about a castle if I remember rightly."
"There's castles a plenty in Ireland, man. Can you remember which one?" Baylor inserted in a booming voice.
"Yes, yes. Now give me a moment. I'm thinking." He turned away from them and paced over to the long desk, stopped, and then tapped his fingers on the top. "That's it! Killyleagh Castle. They asked for directions." He smiled at the three of them in triumph.
"Killyleagh Castle," Alex breathed. They would have to go to Killyleagh Castle. "Was there anything else? Did they say why they wanted to go there?"
"No, no, even though I probed a little." The postmaster grinned like a mischievous schoolboy. "They seemed to be in a hurry. But that was months ago. You don't suppose they are still there?"
"I don't know." Alex's voice turned soft and sad. "But I must speak to whoever lives there. They may know something important."
"Godspeed to you then." The postmaster nodded at her. "If something comes to me, I'll send word to the posting house in Killyleagh. It's not more than twenty miles from here."
"It's close then. Good. Many thanks for your help." Alex turned toward the door, Baylor and Montague behind her.
Belfast was an exciting town and a place she would like to visit again someday. But now it was time to get back on the search. It was time to find her parents.
Chapter Fifteen
Gabriel sat in the cramped library at Lindisfarne Castle on Holy Island, leafing through a book that told the story of St. Aiden and the Irish monks who had built the monastery of Lindisfarne and brought Christianity to Northern England. He laid it aside, stopped, and stared at the bookshelf, frustration making his temples pound.
Where was she?
What if she was in trouble?
Feeling restless, he paced to the long, narrow window and looked out. He'd toured the place and surroundings earlier that day and had been astonished that she was living like the people who lived here centuries ago, without any modern comforts. The castle was a cold, drafty hodgepodge of rooms, many of them uninhabitable. There wasn't a nearby water supply and the animal shelters were falling down in disrepair, not that he'd seen any animals aside from some wandering sheep. Her bedchamber was a stark place that somehow made him both angry and appalled on her behalf. There was a small bed with thin, lumpy bedding, a faded coverlet with no pillow, a set of drawers that he'd opened and found empty save for one pair of worn stockings.
Ann had caught him snooping and started screeching, which brought that beast Latimere around. What in heaven Alexandria did with a dog as big as a small pony was another curiosity to ponder. Upon arriving he'd been anxious to meet her. Now he was growing desperate. What if these servants of hers had sold her off to someone? Gabriel turned from the window and scowled. He had to convince them to talk.
Taking a seat at the small table, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back onto the hard wooden chair. Dear God, please keep her safe. He opened his eyes and looked up. There, in the dusty light of the library, was a book poking out from among the others on the bookshelf. He hadn't noticed that before. Maybe he'd done that rummaging through their books. He rose to push it back into place and then stopped, his fingers hovering over the spine. It was a book of poetry. There was a scrap of paper hanging out of it. He carefully pulled it free and opened it.
The familiarity of the handwriting slammed into him like a battering ram. Alexandria had written this.
He sat back down and smoothed out the pages, the first words caused the breath to whoosh out of him.
Dear Mr. Duke,
I find myself thinking of you often, wondering about your life and what it must be like. It must be the opposite of mine. You must attend glamorous parties and balls, surrounded by beautiful women and men who are powerful and wealthy. What do dukes do with their days, I wonder? Mr. Meade said only glowing things about you, but there is still so much I don't know. How old are you? What do you look like? I've poured over the copy Debrett's Peerage that my parents often refer to in their investigations, but I fear that I cannot find you; perhaps you were not born yet, as it is sadly out of date.
Gabriel's breath paused with the fact that she had thought of him thus. It was how he had been thinking of her. Wondering her age and what she looked like, wondering if the connection he felt for her through their letters could possibly lead to something more. She'd never hinted at it, and he'd tried to ignore it, but now. Now he knew what had really been lurking in her heart. He quickly turned back to the page.
Your tone in your letters makes me think you must be above forty at least, and I assure myself that you are too old and crotchety for my daydreams, but perhaps you are just used to bossing people around? You are a duke, after all, and must be used to people bowing and scraping wherever you go.
I shan't post this, of course. I couldn't let you know how truly alone and afraid I sometimes feel. My parents weren't here very often, but they've never been gone this long. What if I am truly alone in the
world? I can't let myself think it. I won't believe it. But I wish I had someone. I wish I could someday meet you and see your face.
It ended there, abruptly, and he was chagrined at how badly he wished there was more. Gabriel turned to the next page where she had started another letter:
Dear Gabriel,
He liked that address the best of all the ones she'd given him so far. Only the nearest and dearest to him called him by his given name—hardly anyone.
I've found this poem of Shakespeare's and thought of you. Have you read it before?
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
His breath whooshed out of him and he leaned his forehead into his hand, bent over the flowing words. It was one of his favorite poems, a poem he'd studied and memorized the lines of years ago. The beginning spoke of marriage and the wedding vows, and then it went on to describe an ideal form of love that was constant despite changing circumstances, a love that stood the test of time until death parted the lovers. A light, a star, of incalculable worth.
