Lover's Knot

by Louise Clark

  “I am a marked man,” Thomas countered.

  Philip shrugged. “And I am always wary when I smell a trap.”

  Surprisingly, Thomas grinned. “What did I do wrong? Was my penmanship not at all like my sister’s?”

  “I have no idea,” Philip said mildly, “for your sister has never written me a note. Nor has she offered to meet me secretly, in the woods or anywhere else. It was that which made me wonder what was afoot.”

  Thomas nodded. “Good point. I must remember that. Rumor has it that you are courting Alysa and that she is near besotted with you. Cedric Ingram becomes livid if your name is spoken with hers. And since you have won over my father, I half expect to hear that a marriage is being arranged.”

  “With a Roundhead?” Philip jeered.

  “With a Royalist,” Thomas retorted. “My father firmly believes you to be loyal to King Charles.”

  Philip shrugged again. He didn’t know what to say to this young man who had spent the last eight years of his life in exile.

  Thomas was watching him carefully. “Why are you pretending to be what you are not, if indeed you do not intend to betray my family?”

  That was a very good question, one that had been nagging at Philip’s conscience off and on for quite some time. One he had not yet found an answer to. “My brother is dead,” he said finally. “You know that.”

  Thomas nodded.

  Part of Philip wanted to ask about what his brother’s life had been like in exile, but the disciplined part knew that he should not indulge in idle chatter with his enemy. “Though I am legally the heir to Ainslie, this is well-known to be an area loyal to the king. I do not want my life here to be made uncomfortable by old animosities, so I allow people to think that I am my brother.”

  “Such a simple reason,” Thomas murmured. “But the Roundhead brother was fanatically loyal to Oliver Cromwell.”

  “Oliver Cromwell is dead,” Philip said steadily. He watched Thomas through hooded eyes, assessing the man’s reactions. He didn’t think he was convincing him.

  “That is true enough. But Oliver’s son lives and Oliver gave him England to rule, just as if he was of the blood anointed. Your loyalty could easily pass from father to son.”

  “Richard Cromwell is an ineffectual ass,” Philip said with more force than he expected. He’d always known that he disliked Richard Cromwell, but until now, until he denied his loyalty to Richard, he hadn’t realized how much. “I’ve had enough of the man and England would be better off without him.”

  Thomas nodded; then he too shrugged. “So, you’ve abandoned your past and settled on a new future. Why join the Royalist organization? Why not simply remain neutral?”

  Philip allowed himself a small cynical smile. “I am pretending to be a Royalist returned from exile. I could hardly claim that I don’t want to see the Black Boy returned to his throne.” He deliberately used the derisive nickname for King Charles II.

  Thomas raised a brow at that, but didn’t comment. “If you are not the spy in our midst, who is?”

  “That I do not know,” Philip replied honestly. “But I will tell you this, Thomas Leighton. The fire at the smith’s was deliberately set. Find the arsonist and you will find your spy.”

  “How do you know it was deliberate?”

  “I fought in seven major actions and skirmishes too numerous to count. I know gunpowder, how it works, what it smells like when ignited. That fire was set, I promise you.”

  Thomas stared at him consideringly. At last he nodded slowly. “I believe you. However, I can think of no reason why the spy would set a fire and cause the meeting to be aborted. Surely, if he knew where we were to meet, he would have been better served to call in the soldiers again, as he did the night I arrived.”

  “That would seem the sensible path,” Philip agreed. “Perhaps he did, but something went awry.”

  Thomas’s cold, hard eyes bored into Philip. “Perhaps. So, Roundhead, what do we do now?”

  Philip shrugged and smiled. “The options are all yours, Leighton. You either betray me to your father and make me a pariah in my own home, or you keep my secret. Your choice.”

  “And if I say nothing, will you stay away from my sister?”

  “I cannot,” Philip said softly and realized he meant it.

  Thomas stared at him for a minute. “And when my sister discovers your true identity? How will you explain to her that you have lied to her all this time?”

  “I will deal with that when I must.” Philip tightened the reins, signaling his horse that they were about to leave. “Well, Royalist, what do you plan to do with my future?”

  Amusement leapt into Thomas’s eyes. “Nothing at the moment. I shall make my decision before I leave England.”

  Philip jabbed at the reins, an unconscious gesture of annoyance. “Very well,” he said, swinging his horse around. He inclined his head politely. “Until we meet again.”

  “Until then, Roundhead,” Thomas replied. There was an irritating note of laughter in his voice that plagued Philip as he rode away.

  Chapter 10

  The small, derelict inn was located about five miles outside of West Easton. The place was not on a main road, so it had never attracted the custom of wealthy merchants or the aristocracy on their travels. Instead, the clientele consisted of ne’er-do-well vagabonds, horsepads and the odd troop of soldiers. The women who frequented the place, either as serving wenches or worse, were as hard as the men who drank there. No decent woman would be seen on the premises.

  Just after dawn on the morning after he had spoken to Thomas Leighton, Philip came to this inn. His purpose was to talk to Sir Edgar Osborne.

  Officially, he was supposed to leave a message in a special place where both knew to look if Philip required a meeting with the London man. The paper was to be wedged between two rocks in a stone fence that separated Ainslie Manor from the public roadway and there was only a certain time of the day when it would be checked. The secret place was to be used only in emergencies, for there was always the danger that someone would notice that a stranger was oddly interested in the fence.

  Though Philip had agreed to this fragile method of communication, he’d made it his business to discover Osborne’s lair. A good military man learned all he could of the enemy’s position, and more and more now, Philip saw Sir Edgar Osborne as the enemy.

  On this morning he was glad he had gone to the effort of tracking his contact down. He wanted to surprise Osborne, to catch him in a vulnerable moment, in the hope that he would be able to pry at least a small part of the truth from him.

  Roundhead troops were busy grooming and saddling up their horses when Philip arrived. They eyed him critically as he dismounted, noting the plain buff jacket he wore and the moderate width of the well-worn breeches that had no frothy ribbon loops at the hems. In contrast to these sober garments was the length of his hair and the jaunty angle at which he wore his hat, which proclaimed him to be a gentleman of Royalist sympathies. None of the hard-eyed troopers stopped him from striding into the building. However, they watched with the dangerous stillness of predators prepared to strike.

  The inside of the inn was new to Philip, for he had only tracked Osborne as far as the forecourt. As he entered the building, he paused to get his bearings. Just inside the door was a worm-eaten counter on which a slatternly looking woman leaned casually, her chin propped on the heels of her hands, her rather dirty elbows resting on the top of the counter. She watched Philip curiously as he scanned the surroundings. He ignored her.

  From the narrow hallway, stairs led to the upper floors where the bedrooms presumably were located. The hallway continued on to the kitchen and the innkeeper’s quarters, which were located at the rear of the building. A dozen paces from the counter there was the doorway to a long, narrow room from which a low buzz of conversation could be heard. Philip identified this as the taproom, where the public and those guests who could not afford a private parlor would come to eat or while away the d
ay and evening. He thought for a moment of checking the room for Osborne, then dismissed the idea. Despite his vocal complaints about the discomfort of his current situation, Sir Edgar Osborne undoubtedly had the best that this shabby establishment had to offer.

  The slatternly wench behind the counter broke into Philip’s thoughts, as she coyly demanded his pleasure. Philip politely asked where he could find Osborne. Her face twisted with contempt as she snapped out directions. Philip raised a quizzical brow. Evidently Sir Edgar Osborne had not endeared himself to the staff at the inn.

  The second floor was a long corridor with rooms opening off either side. Osborne’s bedchamber and private parlor were halfway down the north side of the building. Philip found the room without difficulty, for as he neared the door he could hear a high-pitched feminine squeal united with the deeper rumble of a man’s laughter. Philip had never heard quite that pitch in Osborne’s voice, but he was certain that the sound belonged to him.

  Surprise was the first and most powerful strategy a soldier learned. Philip used it now to disconcert Osborne and put him at a disadvantage. He opened the door to the parlor without knocking and found Osborne sitting in a loose nightgown, another of the inn’s serving wenches perched on his knee. This girl was clearly enjoying her work. One hand rested on Osborne’s chest as she rubbed the skin suggestively, while her head was buried in his neck. When Philip entered, Osborne stood abruptly and the girl shrieked as she was unceremoniously dumped onto the floor.

  Osborne automatically reached for his sword, but he had left the weapon elsewhere. He swore softly. Philip smiled wryly.

  “Such a touching little scene.”

  “Get out,” Osborne said to the girl. She shot a calculating look at Philip, noted the sword at his side and hastily obeyed. Osborne waited until the door closed behind her, then snarled, “What the devil do you mean by coming here?”

  “I wanted to speak to you,” Philip said, inspecting the room. Like the rest of the inn, it had a dilapidated air. The sparse furnishings included nothing more than a small, round dining table and two wooden chairs, a pair of straight-backed chairs with seats covered in horsehair and a serving table that was little more than a slab of oak set on four legs. A low fire burned lethargically in the hearth, which was heaped with ash, as if it had not been cleaned in days.

  “We have a system arranged for that.” Osborne glowered at him. “Do you realize what you are risking by coming here?”

  “I am perfectly aware of what I am doing,” Philip countered. He stared at Osborne, his expression cold. “I want to know why the smith’s buildings were set afire three nights ago.”

  Osborne sat back down on one of the horsehair chairs, a rather wicked grin on his thin lips. “That was a nice piece of work, wasn’t it?” he said, as Philip cautiously settled onto one of the crude, but sturdy, wooden seats by the table.

  Though the taunt was meant to annoy, Philip kept his expression bland. “Since the blaze almost destroyed a horse I have spent years training in the arts of war, I cannot agree. Moreover, you missed a fine opportunity to lay your hands on Thomas Leighton. He was there that night.”

  Osborne stared at Philip consideringly. “You did not tell me that.”

  “I did not know.” He kept his gaze locked with Osborne’s. “I was invited to a meeting of ardent Royalists. I was not informed of the reason for the gathering. Evidently the fine gentlemen have discovered the benefits of security since Leighton arrived in England.”

  A smug smile quirked Osborne’s lips. “I knew Leighton would be there that night.”

  “Then why did you not take him? I cannot believe that the fire was an accident.”

  “It wasn’t.” Osborne laughed. “It was a very clever stratagem to break up the meeting and force the Royalists to hold another assembly, at a time more convenient to us.”

  “More convenient…. Then you were unable to get your troops to the smith’s in time to apprehend Thomas Leighton?”

  “Unfortunately you are correct.” Osborne’s expression became annoyed. “That idiot, Lieutenant Weston, chose that night to allow himself to be distracted by one of the serving wenches. He consumed too much spirituous liquor and decided to give his men a night of leave. Most of them were too drunk to move before I realized what was going on.”

  “So you had your spy set the fire.”

  Osborne shrugged. “I told him to interrupt the meeting. How he chose to do so was his decision.”

  Philip’s hard gaze bored into Osborne. “You don’t need me,” he said softly.

  Osborne grinned. “Not now, Hampton. Not yet. But you can be sure I will call upon you.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “You have some excellent skills that I may need to make use of. Unfortunately, you are encumbered by a set of moral values that are useless in this business. They have tended to obscure your vision at times. But you do have your uses.”

  Philip stood. “I’m a soldier, Osborne. I have a soldier’s straightforward view of life.”

  “Precisely,” Osborne sneered. “You are a man who can kill on command. I may have need of that.”

  Philip ignored the slur. His brows knit in a frown. “Do you intend to murder Thomas Leighton?”

  Osborne scratched absently, very relaxed. “If I must. I would prefer to capture him and imprison him. He could then be used to keep his father from doing anything foolish.”

  “As a hostage, you mean.”

  “Of course.” Osborne examined his fingernails. “However, capture may not be possible. In that case, I would have to dispose of him.”

  “And you expect me to do the deed.”

  Osborne’s oily smile appeared again. “I congratulate you on your perception, Hampton.” He folded his hands comfortably over his belly, still smiling evilly. “I will have another little duty for you to perform once this group of Royalists is rendered impotent.”

  An instinct for dangerous situations, which had saved him many times, sent a shiver creeping up Philip’s spine. Though he thought he knew what was coming, he merely raised his brows in a question.

  “We will have to dispose of the spy. He has been most helpful, but his loyalties cannot be guaranteed.”

  There was silence as the two men stared at each other. Then Philip said softly, “Poor fool.”

  Osborne laughed, though his expression was cruel. “You’re too soft, Hampton. The man is a traitor to his own kind and a superb liar. He has betrayed his friends without a qualm. Would you have the Lord Protector reward him?”

  “Since you sought his services, yes.”

  “Bah! The man came to us. Announced he had information, if we were willing to pay for it. He is totally without scruple.”

  A muscle in Philip’s jaw jumped. “Then I will defend him no more.” He turned on his heel, planning to leave. Osborne waited until he was at the door before he called Philip’s name.

  Pausing reluctantly, his hand on the knob, Philip glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Be prepared. As soon as Thomas Leighton is taken I will be done here. I will call on your services then.”

  Philip wrenched open the door and strode out. The resounding thump as it slammed behind him did nothing to soothe the dread within him.

  *

  The thunder of galloping hooves drowned out all other sounds in Alysa’s ears, leaving her free to concentrate on her riding and the frustration that had already marred this day.

  She had come out on this fine, sunny morning to visit Thomas. Although his whereabouts were usually kept secret, in order to ensure his safety, last night her father had accidentally let slip that Thomas was staying at the cottage of one of their tenants. During a largely sleepless night, Alysa had debated whether or not she should go to see her brother, for she badly wanted to talk to him. Just after dawn she awoke from a restless doze, her decision made. She would ride out to the cottage and catch him before he flitted off to his next hiding place. There would not be much time for conversation, but enough, she hoped, fo
r her to learn what she needed to know.

  Unfortunately she missed him by no more than ten minutes and his kind hosts had no idea where he had headed. Alysa knew that this secrecy was necessary while Thomas was a fugitive in England, but she couldn’t help feeling annoyed. She wanted to talk about Sir Philip Hampton and Thomas was the only person who would know what Philip’s life had been like in exile.

  At one time the reason for her questions would have been purely practical, because she sought to discover if Philip was truly a Royalist home from exile. Now she simply wanted to learn what details she could of his past, so that she could better understand the man she was falling in love with.

  The field she was crossing was bordered by a thick hedge. Alysa felt her horse gather itself beneath her, then launch into the air as it jumped the obstruction. As it always did when her horse took flight, elation seized her while they soared above the ground. The irritations and frustrations of the morning disappeared in the pleasure of the moment.

  Abruptly, her exhilaration fled as she saw the rider coming down the road that bordered the field. His speed was such that he would be almost directly in her path when her horse returned to the ground. A collision seemed inevitable.

  Horror filled her and she screamed. Frantically she dragged the horse’s head around, forcing it to twist its body and change the direction of its landing. Still, she was afraid that she would land on top of the other rider.

  Luck was with her that fine morning. Her hasty redirection and the quick wits of the other rider were enough to avert disaster. As her horse touched the ground she hauled sharply on the reins, pulling it to a snorting, rearing stop. The other rider did the same.

  “‘Od’s blood!” said Sir Philip Hampton, much discomposed by the near disaster. “Mistress Alysa, are you all right?”

  Alysa nodded shakily. “Yes, I’m fine.” Her eyes began to sparkle as the shock wore off. “I must say, Sir Philip, that was a fine piece of riding! I feared I should land on top of you, even though I was able to turn my horse a trifle.”