Lovestorm

by Judith E. French

  “Oh. Oh.” Her body trembled beneath his. Against her will her hands found their way into his clothing to touch and tease him. And before she could gain control of her wayward body, they were locked in the throes of passionate lovemaking.

  Later, they lay in each others’ arms and gazed up into the spreading canopy of green leaves above. “I want to stay with you like this forever,” she murmured.

  “This is good land, but too many English. I see why they come to take Lenape land.”

  “You’re right, you know. Many people here are starving.”

  “How starve? We see many sheep in meadow, and I read here the tracks of deer and game birds.”

  “The common people may not hunt the deer,” she explained gently. “The King claims all deer, or rather the old kings did. Now many lords pay for the right to hunt them.”

  “How can a man claim deer? Does he feed these deer and bring them into his home at night like dogs? It is another sign that the English are soft in the head. No Lenape brave would let his wife and children have hunger when fat deer walked the forest.”

  “Such a man here would be called a poacher. He would be hanged or have his hands cut off as a warning to others.”

  “Let me take you into the forest, Eliz-a-beth. We could live there. No man would catch Shaakhan Kihittuun and cut off his hands. A man who tried would leave weeping women.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “We could build a bower of oak leaves and live like Robin Hood and Maid Marian. In summer it would be a lark—but what would we do when snow fell?”

  “Then this one would dress you in fur robes of rabbit and keep you warm in my arms.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “There be fish in those rivers and ducks in the sky. We could live as the true people do.”

  She sighed. “It’s a wonderful fantasy, but not very practical.” She lifted his hand and brushed his rough fingertips with her lips. “I love you, Cain, but how can I make you understand? We can’t run off to live like outlaws in the forest. They would hunt us down like beasts and murder us. I was wrong when I didn’t stay with you in America. Even then, I wanted to, but I was afraid to follow my own instincts. I believed we were too different to ever know happiness together.”

  “And now?” He cupped her chin in his hand. “What do you believe now?”

  She sighed again and covered his hand with her own. “I think our love is greater than the differences. But it’s too late for us, Cain. If I hadn’t been such a fool, you wouldn’t be a prisoner today.”

  He traced the outline of her lips with a forefinger. “Those days be past. My cocumtha say it gains nothing to shed tears over what be past. We must think of tomorrow, Eliz-a-beth. Our children cannot live like this.”

  He touched a raw nerve within her. “I don’t want to think about children,” she said abruptly. I’m not with child. I can’t be. There are a dozen reasons why a woman’s courses might be late. “I want your children someday, but not now. If I had your babe, Edward would not let it live.”

  “He will die before an apetotho of ours.”

  Elizabeth shivered at Cain’s ominous words. She had missed her flow last month, and she was two days late again, but she hadn’t been sick. She’d been as hungry as a stableboy for weeks. All the old wives’ tales said a breeding woman was sick.

  She raised her eyes to meet his. “You can’t understand his power,” she argued. “Edward is an earl. He can call up many armed soldiers to—” She broke off, at a loss for words. “Imagine a great chief of your people—a man who could lead hundreds of warriors.”

  “No Lenape warrior would follow a man who seeks to war on children.”

  “Then the English are different from your people,” she said sadly. “You must find a way to escape . . . to go home. There is nothing ahead but heartbreak for us here.”

  “This one say before, Eliz-a-beth. He does not go alone across the sea.”

  When Robert and Bridget returned, Elizabeth was still dozing on the blanket and Cain was riding his horse in slow, easy circles in the meadow. Every trace of his Lenape facepaint had been lovingly washed away by Elizabeth.

  Before Bridget could pack away the remains of the meal, Tom came galloping across the field. “M’lady!” he shouted. “M’lady! Ye mun come at oncet. They’s evil news from London. Lord Dunmore bids ye ’urry.”

  Minutes later, still dusty from her wild ride, Elizabeth ascended the wide marble stairs and joined her husband in the great hall. The ceiling was arched with dark oak beams, and the dusty heads of long-dead boars and stag antlers lined the walls. An open fireplace large enough to roast a whole steer dominated one end of the room, and the floor was covered with rush matting.

  Elizabeth’s nose wrinkled. The rushes were long overdue to be changed, and the half dozen hounds lying about the hall did nothing to improve the air. “Tom said there was ill news from London,” she began. “I—”

  Edward set aside the book he was reading and reached for his wineglass. One bandaged foot was propped up on a stool, and his eyes looked too large for his face. “Steel yourself, Elizabeth,” he said. His words were compassionate, but the tone was as brittle as frost.

  Her heart leaped in her throat. She had outridden the others, lashing the mare to get here. Now, suddenly, she didn’t want to hear what Edward had to say. She had the most dreadful premonition that the bad news concerned her father. “What is it? What’s wrong?” she forced herself to ask.

  Edward sipped his wine slowly, smacking his lips. A trickle ran down from the corner of his mouth to drip from his chin. Elizabeth watched the drop in numb fascination. “God has laid His hand upon your house,” he said finally. “Your stepmother has died of the plague.”

  “No.” Elizabeth shook her head. They had never been friends, but still . . . for plague to come so close to—

  “And your brother James and his wife, Margaret.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. The bastard! He’s enjoying this. “James?”

  “Dead and buried in the garden at Sommersett House.”

  “And my father?” She clutched the back of an oak settle until a fingernail snapped. The finger began to bleed, but she didn’t notice. “What of my father?”

  Edward smiled grimly. “God has taken him to His bosom.”

  Elizabeth felt as though the floor swayed under her feet. “Father’s dead?”

  Edward motioned for his valet-de-chambre to pour another goblet of wine. “A pity. I understand the title must pass to your brother Charles. He’s on the grand tour with his tutor, isn’t he? Hardly more than a child, and not robust, I hear.”

  Black spots whirled in her brain, and she fought back tears. “I must return to London at once for Father’s funeral.”

  Edward leaned over to pat a hound’s head. “There is no funeral. He was buried in the vegetable garden in the middle of the night by a gardener and a cook. Danger of spreading the contagion, you know. It’s happening everywhere. Dreadful loss, isn’t it?”

  Fury drove the faintness back. Elizabeth rushed to the table, seized the wineglass from Edward’s hand, and hurled it against the fireplace. The precious glass shattered and shards flew in all directions. Yipping, the dogs scattered.

  “How dare you?” Elizabeth cried. “You foul whoreson! How dare you sit there grinning while Sommersett’s body lies in a row of cabbages? Even dead, he’s more of a man than you’ll ever be!”

  Edward grabbed his ivory-headed walking stick and raised it defensively.

  “You don’t have to be afraid that I’m going to hit you,” she hissed. “I wouldn’t dirty my hands.” She whirled and started from the room.

  “I will excuse your hysterical behavior due to the sudden shock of your bereavement,” Edward called after her. “You may remain in your chambers until tomorrow evening.”

  She turned back to face him. “I’m not a child to be sent to bed without supper.”

  Edward’s face hardened. “You will do as I say, Elizabeth. Your father is carrion. We both know
that that puling child of a brother, Charles, is no threat to me. I am your master now. It would be wise for you to remember that and to make an effort to curb your shrew’s tongue.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. “And if I do not?” she dared.

  “Then I would begin ridding myself of those useless maids you keep about.” He licked his lower lip. “And I would forbid you the use of the stables.”

  “You bastard.”

  “That, my dear wife, will cost you an extra day. Remain in your room until Friday night, when—you will remember—we are expected to attend Lord Bittner and his guests for an evening of entertainment at Bittner Hall.”

  “I won’t go. You can’t expect me to accompany you—”

  “Oh, but you will, Elizabeth. And I’ll not have you in mourning. No dreary black—wear the gold and coral satin, the one with the puffed sleeves and the very daring decolletage. I’m certain Lord Bittner will appreciate your charms.”

  Her face blanched. “I’ll wear the ruby watered silk,” she flung back. “If I’m going with you, I need to chose something that won’t show wine stains.”

  Three days later, Lord Dunmore’s coachman guided his team cautiously off the Colchester Highway and onto the rutted track that led past Bittner Hall. A misty rain had been falling since morning, and the dirt road was already treacherous. The six horses threw their chests against the harness and sank to their hocks in the mire as they struggled for solid footing.

  Inside the coach, an elegantly gowned Elizabeth sat beside Edward and tried to keep from touching him as the clumsy vehicle swayed from side to side. Betty sat across from her mistress, holding Elizabeth’s fan and personal effects. Edward’s bad leg rested on the far seat, cushioned by a folded blanket.

  “ ‘Twill do you no good to sulk, Elizabeth,” Edward said, opening his gold snuffbox and placing a pinch in his nose. He sneezed and repeated the process with the other nostril.

  “It is barbarous of you to refuse me time to mourn my father,” she replied. “Making small talk with you seems pointless.”

  “I’ll not have you embarrassing me in front of my friends,” he repeated for the third time. “Bittner is the world’s worst gossip.”

  “Then he’ll have something to spread about, won’t he?” Elizabeth said. “ ‘Sommersett’s daughter seems to care little for her father’s passing,’ ” she mocked. “Have you thought of that, m’lord?”

  “Nonsense. London is a pesthole. Those of us who have escaped must carry on as bravely as we can. Lady Bittner will play the virginals and that wretched daughter of theirs will bore us with her atrocious harp. Then we’ll enjoy hazard or whist—hardly a bacchanalian evening.”

  “The plague can strike anywhere.”

  “Miasma spreads the plague. I’d not expect a woman to understand the principles of science, but-”

  Edward’s words were cut off by a musket shot.

  “Stand and deliver!”

  Horses whinnied as the coach stopped short and slid off the road. Betty screamed, and Elizabeth leaned from the coach window to see three men on horseback blocking the road ahead.

  “What’s amiss?” Edward demanded.

  “Your money or your life!”

  “Highwaymen!” the coachman shouted.

  There was a scuffle in the boot of the coach, and another shot rang out. Elizabeth heard a low moan and the thud of a body falling into the mud. Before she could react, the far door was wrenched open and a masked man shoved a pistol through the opening.

  Edward struck at the highwayman with his cane, and the pistol went off. Betty gave a startled gasp and tumbled into Elizabeth’s lap with blood running from her mouth.

  “She’s been shot,” Elizabeth cried, gathering the girl into her arms.

  Betty’s eyes widened and she uttered a low whimper. “M’lady,” she whispered. “It . . . it hurts. I . . . I . . . can’t . . .” She sighed once, and her body went limp.

  The masked man yanked Edward from the coach just as another opened Elizabeth’s door.

  “Out!” the man commanded.

  “Murderers!” Elizabeth accused. “You’ve killed a helpless girl!”

  “You’ll be next if ye don’t do as yer told. Get out, me foine lydy.” The outlaw thrust the muzzle of a flintlock into her face.

  Badly shaken, Elizabeth laid Betty’s still form against the seat and climbed from the coach onto the muddy road. She kept her eyes fixed on the robber’s face and tried not to think about the dead girl’s blood soaking the front of her gown.

  The masked man dragged a limping Edward around the back of the coach and tied him against a tree. “Do you know who I am?” Edward cried. “I’m Lord Dunmore. You can’t treat me like this!”

  Elizabeth caught sight of the footman’s body. The second footman, Robert, and the coachman stood shivering near the lead horses’ heads.

  “Please,” the coachman begged, “I’ve a wife and four younguns. Don’t shoot me.”

  The man with the mask wore a military coat of faded blue with tarnished buttons. He glanced at the coachman, then at Robert. “I s’pose ye got a sad story, too.”

  “Don’t wan’ no trouble,” Robert said. His speech was slow and slurred, and he tilted his head to one side.

  Elizabeth’s brow furrowed, and then she realized what game the footman was playing. “Robert will give you no problem,” she said. “He’s slow-witted.”

  The masked man laughed. “What? A big laddie like ye? Clod-skulled, is ’e?” He gave Robert a shove. The footman staggered backward and looked frightened.

  “He has the mind of a child,” Elizabeth insisted.

  “Leave him alone.” The third man, still on horseback, spoke with authority. “We’ve no time for your games.”

  Elizabeth turned her attention to the speaker. Her gaze traveled swiftly up the high military boots, over the full breeches, black wool coat, and broad leather baldric. His hands were expensively gloved, and a plain serviceable sword hung from his left hip. He wore a starched, white linen cravat, damp now with rain. The upper part of his face was covered by a black silk mask, and on his head was a wide cocked hat.

  He smiled and swept off his hat, revealing long yellow curls. “Captain Thomas, at your service, m’lady.”

  Elizabeth knew the name. Bridget had come home from the market singing a song about the rogue. Captain Thomas, the scourge of the highway, flashed through her memory. She raised her chin and stared back at Thomas bravely. “I don’t know you,” she replied, “but your occupation is obvious. You’re a common murderer and a thief.”

  “Your maid’s death was a regrettable accident, and more his fault”—he waved toward Edward—“than mine.”

  “Betty was hardly more than a child. She never hurt anyone in her life. Her blood rests on your soul and that of your cowardly accomplices.”

  “Shut yer gob,” ordered the blue-coated man who had taunted Robert. “Ye’ll get nowhere wi’ that high-nosed talk.”

  “Yes,” Edward agreed. “Hold your tongue, for God’s sake. Would you see us both as dead as your maid?” He looked back at Thomas. “I’ve little money on me, but you’re welcome to what I have. Take it. Take it all.”

  The third man, the only one not wearing a mask, searched through Edward’s pockets and came up with his snuffbox and some silver coins. “They’s little enough ‘ere, cap’n,” he said. “Shall I strip ’im?”

  Elizabeth pulled off her rings and her ruby necklace and earrings. “You’ll want these,” she said, holding them out. The horseman nodded to the blue-coated man, who snatched them greedily from her hand.

  “Now you have everything,” Edward insisted. “Take your ill-gotten gains and go.”

  Captain Thomas reined his black horse closer to Elizabeth. “This bold young woman, Lord Dunmore, is she your sister?”

  “She is my wife,” Edward replied.

  “Good. Then you should be willing to pay a handsome ransom for her safe return. Have a thousand pounds English ready
. I’ll send a messenger to tell you where and when to have it delivered. If you report this to the authorities, you’ll not see her again alive.” The highwayman leaned from the saddle and caught Elizabeth around the waist.

  “No!” She struck at him with her fist, and he twisted her about to sit sideways in front of him. “Put me down.” She kicked and squirmed, but her legs were hopelessly tangled in her cloak and wet skirts.

  “Cease your caterwauling, woman,” Thomas threatened, “before I knock you senseless.”

  Certain that he meant what he said, Elizabeth stopped her struggling and caught hold of the horse’s mane. The captain’s arm tightened around her waist, and he pulled hard on the reins. The animal reared, pawing the air. The highwayman set his spurs into the horse’s sides, and they galloped off down the road with the other bandits close behind them.

  Elizabeth clamped her eyes tightly shut. The last glimpse she’d had of Edward’s face in the lantern light caused her greater fear than the roadway rushing past beneath the horse’s flying hooves.

  Edward looks relieved, she thought. He’s not going to pay the ransom.

  Chapter 21

  Elizabeth was soaked through to the skin by the time the highwaymen reached their destination. When Captain Thomas reined up his horse in the courtyard of a tumbled-down manor house and released his hold on her, she slid to the ground and lay there like a broken doll. The steady rain against her face no longer felt cold; she was too numb to feel anything but terror.

  Betty’s dying face came back to haunt her. Again and again Elizabeth’s mind replayed the awful picture of her little maid lying in her arms with blood seeping over them both. For nearly a year now, Betty had been a constant presence in her life. The girl had driven her to tears with her whining, her irrational fears, and her lack of common sense, but Betty had remained doggedly faithful. Elizabeth had loved her despite all her faults, and now she was dead.

  I should have left her in Jamestown, Elizabeth thought. I saved her from drowning in the shipwreck to cause her violent death here in England.