Royalist on the Run

by Helen Dickson

  Very slowly he dropped a kiss on her forehead, a kiss as soft as the brush of a butterfly’s wing, trailing his lips, so capable and so sure of their path, to her cheek as he drew her into his arms. Her breath coming quickly, she waited expectantly for his lips to touch hers. When they bypassed her mouth to her other cheek, she turned her head, capturing his lips with her own, emboldened by the intimacy of the surroundings and her own need.

  She opened her mouth slightly under his, his short growth of beard brushing her flesh. She had never initiated a kiss and kissed him with a hunger she had never shared with her husband, and he responded in kind. The ardour of her response surprised him, she knew it, and she savoured the fleeting sense that she had surprised the most unpredictable man she had ever known. Answering her need, he deepened the kiss, his tongue probing and thrusting as their breaths mingled, warm and as one. He kissed her with that possessive ease that could clear a woman’s mind of all thought.

  When he finally released her lips she searched his face with a kind of wonder. Her lips still burned from his kiss. Recollecting herself and extremely conscious of her wanton response to his initial caress, very slowly and reluctantly she pulled herself from his arms and stood back from him, heat burning her cheeks. Despite everything he had done to her, despite her moral certainty that he should come to regret casting her off, she still longed to touch him, for him to touch her. He angered her, he infuriated her, yet never had she felt as alive as she did now and she desire him as ardently as she ever had.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. What must you think of me?’

  Their eyes met and each was aware that something had passed between them, something so strong that it had taken them completely unawares. The intensity of his gaze told Arabella that he wanted to bend his head and place his lips on her full, soft mouth once more—and if he was thinking that she wouldn’t resist then he was correct. He had kissed her possessively, thoroughly, igniting a spark between them to a smouldering fire. He looked at her knowingly, fully aware of the hunger he had awakened within her. He combed his fingers through his tangled hair and she noticed how they trembled slightly.

  ‘It wasn’t you, Arabella. I should have known better.’

  He was so intense that the air around him seemed to tremble with it. He drew back from her and opened the door, looking out into the blackness that shrouded the shed. Arabella remained silent. Now that he no longer looked at her, she gazed at the tall black figure, at the haughty set of his shoulders, the implacability in his stance and his averted head.

  When he kissed her the way he had just done, it was easy then to forget the resentment, the recriminations. Perhaps this was what she needed, but when he released her, so sure of himself, her pride came to the fore and she berated herself for her body’s betrayal. A kiss was only a moment of weakness. It did not break down the barriers of a bitter past.

  At length he turned and looked at her. In the dim light his blue eyes had gone dark and hard between the narrowed lids and he spoke with chill precision. ‘I have made up my mind to go. Forgive me. I should not have asked you to go with me, but I fear for Dickon if I am taken. Whatever you think of me, I did not kiss you to attempt to persuade you. That is the truth.’

  A spear-thrust of pain slithered through her breast, but she spoke as steadily as he. ‘Please don’t go. Edward, think carefully. Cromwell will have sent soldiers in every direction to trap any Royalists who fled Worcester. What chance will you have with a small boy to care for?’

  ‘I must.’

  Arabella knew he could not be dissuaded. Embers of desire had been fanned just now, embers that had licked at her greedily and almost engulfed her. But a silent objection lingered and a small, uncomfortable voice in her head said, What if he is simply using you? The suggestion was unwelcome and she pushed it aside. The thought that this might be so was not to be borne. She was angry: more angry with herself for failing to learn from experience than with Edward for his persistence.

  But she knew what she had to do. She would do as he asked, though she refused to examine why. All she knew was that he was offering her something infinitely special and she could not allow it to escape her. If she lost him now, she knew something inside her would wither and die. In a terrible painful moment of perception, she knew a sense of loss so strong it stole the breath from her body. She wanted to hold him back, for if he went without her she would lose him for ever.

  She was shaking inside, but she lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eyes.

  ‘Very well, Edward. I will do as you ask. I will go with you to France. But right now we have the more pressing matter of getting this shed ready for habitation. You have fought a battle and ridden far. You must be tired and hungry. We will talk about what is to be done in the morning when you are rested.’ Her eyes were sombre as they lingered on his blood-stained clothes. ‘We will have water brought across so that you can wash and some fresh clothes. Although it will be no simple matter bringing Stephen here.’

  * * *

  Everything was got ready quickly. Rushes were strewn on the floor of the shed. Sam and his son carried truckle beds and blankets. Food and water were carried across and fresh clothes that belonged to Alice’s husband. By the time everything was ready Stephen was conscious and able to walk with aid.

  When Arabella told Alice that she had decided to leave with Edward and Dickon, an uncomfortable silence fell.

  Alice was incredulous. ‘You are going with him!’ she exclaimed, finding her tongue. ‘Have you lost your senses, Arabella? Do you know the full import of what you are doing?’ Her mouth settled into a grim line. ‘Whatever possessed you to agree to such an outrageous thing?’

  ‘I cannot let him travel with Dickon alone. Why, anything could happen to Edward—if so what would happen to his son? Before the war, for a woman to travel alone with a man who was not her husband would have given rise to condemnation, but the war has made people less concerned about morality.’

  ‘You are of age and a widow so I can’t stop you doing this foolish thing. But I beg of you to reconsider. Do not go rushing off with Edward like this. You are acting without thought of the consequences. You must stop and consider what you are doing.’

  Arabella tossed back her head. ‘I have decided, Alice. I accept what you say—I am of age and a widow with no child. Our parents are dead and there is no one who needs me, so I have no one to consider—except, perhaps, Dickon. Apart from his father, who may well be arrested at any time, Dickon is alone. We have that in common at least. So I have a right to choose what I do.’

  ‘Choice you have, Arabella—you have always had it, but the choice to do the right thing. Your concern for the child is commendable and I know it is no good trying to dissuade you. I am simply afraid of what will happen to you when you reach France and there is no one to guide you. I believe what you are doing is perilous to your safety and the time you will spend with Sir Edward dangerous in other ways.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Oh, Arabella, listen to me,’ said Alice, reaching out and gripping her arms, looking hard into her eyes in an attempt to force some sense into her. ‘Sir Edward is an attractive man. Do not let him play with your sensibilities. Physically you may not be able to resist him if you spend too long in his company. There is also the matter of the grief you still carry in your heart for Elizabeth. You cannot replace your daughter by taking Dickon to your heart. There will come a time when you will have to let him go, you must know that.’

  Their eyes collided and Arabella looked away, mortified that her face had reddened. She was beginning to realise that something beyond her control was pulling her into a web, enmeshing her, and from which it seemed she would never be allowed to escape.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she said quietly, and she did, perfectly well. Alice was right, she did still mourn Elizabeth. She had ceased to weep outwardly and
the pain and sadness had receded, but only another child could fill the emptiness and loss she still felt. ‘But I cannot let Edward embark on such a perilous journey alone with a child to care for.’

  Suddenly Alice’s face tightened and the look that accompanied this was needle sharp. ‘Has he persuaded you in some unscrupulous way already? I saw him kiss you, if you recall, before he left for Worcester. He has not seduced you, has he?’

  Arabella was forced to smile. ‘No, Alice, nothing like that. My decision to go with him was entirely my own.’

  * * *

  In the confusion that followed the battle at Worcester, one thing was certain. The Royalist cause was in ruins. The bloody defeat brought despair to all Royalists. Those who were not taken prisoner to be marched to London or transported to Barbados were fleeing for their lives. Nowhere was safe from search by Roundhead patrols. It was only a matter of time before they came to Bircot Hall.

  In the meantime they had to make sure that the fugitives remained hidden. It was no easy matter keeping their presence from the children, but it was imperative they were kept ignorant in case Roundheads came to search the house and questioned them. The little ones could not have kept the secret.

  Edward hated being so confined and his patience was wearing thin. His mind was active and unease prowled through him like a wild animal penned in a cage. Margaret, who was anxious, her main concern being for Stephen, fed him broth to build up his strength and Alice dressed his wound daily. It was healing well, but he remained weak. Arabella kept away from the apple store, but she did send some books for them to read and cards to help pass the time and relieve the boredom, but Edward soon tired of them.

  Arabella was confused by her feelings for Edward. One half of her wanted to seek him out, to hear his voice, to see him, for him to touch her, while the other half was more cautious. She might have agreed to accompany him to France, but she was uneasy about the implications with regard to herself. Since making him comfortable in the apple store, she had kept him at arm’s length—emotionally and physically.

  It was a dreadful time, a time of waiting and living on a knife edge, not only for the fugitives but for the people who sheltered them. Arabella was frightened, yet she realised this kind of thing must be happening in many houses north, south, east and west of Worcester. There was courage, for if the soldiers came and found them sheltering Royalist fugitives they would all be hanged.

  Events thrust themselves upon them ten days after the battle when a small detachment of Roundhead soldiers rode through the gatehouse, intruding into their home and destroying its peace. Sam had posted Tom to be a lookout for them so they were prepared and quickly warned the fugitives.

  Arabella was in the hall with Alice. Margaret and Bertha were in an upstairs room with the children. The two women stood side by side, taking strength from each other, their eyes fixed on the door. The air was charged the way it was before a storm.

  Alice gave Arabella’s hand a comforting squeeze. ‘We will need all our wits about us to play our part, Arabella. Without a male presence, it falls to us, the women, to uphold the family’s honour and do our duty.’

  ‘We can do no more,’ Arabella whispered.

  They listened to the jangle of harness and the sound of men dismounting, the ring of booted feet on stone as they strode to the door. They both started when it burst open and three men walked in. The man in front halted, staring at the two women.

  A shiver of apprehension and fear scurried up Arabella’s spine as she watched the swaggering soldier wearing the orange sash of the Parliamentary force stride towards them. His face was hard and uncompromising. She shrank back as horror streaked through her.

  He studied the sisters with an intent bright gaze. His eyes were a cold calculating grey, his expression uncompromising. ‘We are here to find out if you are harbouring any Royalist rebels who have fled Worcester. If you are, I demand you give them up.’

  Alice lifted her chin and met his eyes steadily. ‘I would like to welcome you to my abode, sir, but I fear I cannot.’

  His eyes narrowed, assessing her, no doubt wondering if her emphasis had been deliberate. ‘You have little choice in the matter.’

  Fear coursed through Arabella. Did he intend to seize Bircot Hall wilfully?

  ‘There are no fugitives in this house,’ Alice told him firmly.

  ‘I would hardly expect you to hand them over if there were,’ he uttered coldly, his sweeping gaze taking note of everything in the hall. ‘We will search the house ourselves in case one or two found their way inside while you were abed.’

  ‘Do as you will, but you will find nothing. As you see,’ Alice said, indicating the torn wainscoting that had once been hung with the finest tapestries, ‘we have not been spared the realities of war. Your men have been here before. It is thanks to them that the house is riddled with holes from top to bottom. They left no stone unturned.’

  He removed his close-fitting helmet to reveal his cropped hair. ‘If there is the faintest sniff of a rebel, we will find him.’

  Arabella looked at the figure in the leather jerkin, disliking his narrow, pale face, the cold eyes and the thin mouth. He looked familiar, but she could not remember where she had seen him before.

  ‘Who are you, sir?’ A faint, contemptuous smile touched his lips and she felt the malevolence in him. Her heart was hammering low against her ribs as he strode slowly towards her, his eyes never leaving her face.

  ‘Sir Malcolm Lister, Colonel in the Commonwealth Army.’

  Arabella went cold. She should have known. May God help Edward if he was found, for this man would show him no mercy.

  Colonel Lister turned to his men. ‘Search the house—and the stables.’ His eyes slithered to the two women. ‘And leave no stone unturned,’ he said, quoting Alice’s words. ‘I am aware that this house belongs to the malignant Sir Robert Stanhope. You must be Lady Stanhope.’ His insolent eyes swept Alice.

  ‘I am indeed Lady Alice Stanhope,’ Alice said coldly, meeting his eyes squarely and straightening her spine. ‘We are a simple family going about our business, hoping the troubles will end so we can return to our normal lives.’

  ‘That is what we all wish for, Lady Stanhope, as soon as we run Charles Stuart and his supporters to ground. And your husband?’ His glance swept the hall, as if seeking places where the fugitives might by hidden.

  ‘He is in France. You find nothing but a house full of women and children, Colonel, and three servants.’ She gave him a thin smile. ‘This is a time of hardship, Colonel Lister. We keep a minimal household here at Bircot Hall.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I will have this house searched from top to bottom,’ he said in a low, accusing tone.

  ‘Search all you like, Colonel, but you will find nothing.’

  ‘We shall see about that.’ He nodded coldly, his eyes sliding to Arabella. ‘And you. You must be Mistress Charman.’

  ‘Lady Arabella Fairburn,’ Arabella corrected him. She forced her voice to sound calm. ‘I married Sir John Fairburn, who was killed at the battle of St Fagans in forty-eight.’

  ‘I was there. The Royalist forces—made of amateurs armed with nothing but clubs and billhooks—were routed.’ Colonel Lister’s eyes narrowed and he eyed her strangely. ‘I recall Sir John Fairburn. Dead, you say?’

  ‘Do you have reason to doubt it, sir?’

  He shrugged. ‘I thought he’d fled across the water with his tail between his legs.’

  A cold tremor shivered its way down Arabella’s spine. ‘You must be mistaken, sir. He was returned to me and I buried him.’ Her mind began to work frantically. Of course John was dead. Hadn’t the men who had been with him seen him fall? Hadn’t she watched his coffin lowered into the ground? She hadn’t seen his body, but she’d had no reason to question it.

  There was no tenderness in her memories of Jo
hn. She had to believe it. He had to be dead. If he wasn’t, then she couldn’t bear to think of the consequences. And yet, hadn’t the letter Alice had received from her husband in Paris placed doubts in her mind that he might not be?

  ‘Before that you were betrothed to Edward Grey, as I recall, Lady Fairburn,’ Colonel Lister said.

  ‘I was,’ she answered, more than a little uneasy about his comments about John. ‘As you know, he reneged on the agreement he made with my father in favour of your sister.’ She saw a flash of something unpleasant in Malcolm Lister’s eyes and she sensed the malice he held for Edward rippling beneath the surface.

  ‘Much good it did her. Edward Grey fought at Worcester. It is known that he fought alongside Charles Stuart and that he escaped. Have you seen him? Has he been here?’

  Arabella’s lips twisted with disdain. ‘Why would he do that? He is hardly likely to come to a house where he knows he is not welcome.’

  Colonel Lister smiled thinly, but there was something else there, too, something malicious and condescending. His eyes were very bright and Arabella had the uncomfortable feeling that he could see right inside her, that he knew that she was lying.

  ‘But how would he know you were here? Your husband lived in the Vale of Glamorgan, as I recall—where his wife would be.’

  ‘The house was burnt to ashes and two of the servants butchered before your soldiers left Wales, Colonel Lister. Their behaviour was indefensible.’

  He shrugged, unmoved. ‘Such acts and atrocities are not uncommon on both sides. It is war. I know Grey was in London before he went to join Charles Stuart. He spirited my nephew to God knows where.’

  ‘Perhaps he sent him to France where he knew he would be safe,’ Alice said. ‘I believe he has a sister in Paris.’

  ‘Perhaps, Lady Stanhope. Perhaps he has done just that. He escaped Worcester with your brother, Stephen Charman. It was reported that Charman was wounded during the battle and escaped with Edward Grey. Despite what was between him and your sister in the past, where would Grey take a wounded man if not to his family?’