Lovely Lying Lips

by Valerie Sherwood

  Judge Jeffreys looked from the golden witness to the golden accused standing in the dock. Cut from the same bolt of cloth, they looked to him. But his gaze now held a glimmer of interest. “How were they taken, then?”

  Pamela leant forward. She had an audacious air this morning and she was every inch the lightskirt’s daughter, smiling into the eyes of this demon judge who was sentencing men and women to death by the cartload! “You will have heard perhaps that the Duke of Monmouth was fired upon from a window of the George on the morning of the battle? Mine was the hand that held the pistol.”

  Jeffreys sat back and stared at her. A novel defense this.

  “But you missed?” he surmised.

  She nodded vigorously. “My heart was in it, but my hand was not so steady as it should have been. And the accused, Tom Thornton, who had followed me there when he learnt my intention, did fling away the gun and carry me through the crowd of men who came storming into the building. And we would have made it safe away save that in the melee he was shot and before I could bring help the battle of Sedgemoor was raging—and poor Tom was dragging himself home when the King’s men seized him.”

  Jeffreys sat drumming his knuckles thoughtfully on the table. Something about the girl’s ridiculous story had the ring of simple truth about it; it could not be overlooked. He who had in his life sentenced so many to death on such flimsy pretexts found himself wanting to know more.

  “Why did you do it?” he shot at her;

  That at least she could answer truthfully. Pamela leant forward and her voice rang out across the hushed courtroom.

  “Because I love the West Country,” she declared passionately. “And this mad young duke was bringing death to all of us! And it came to me that I could put an end to this slaughter that was sure to come if I but put a bullet between his ears!”

  She looked so fierce and lovely standing there in the witness box with her face flushed and her blue eyes snapping that even Jeffreys was convinced. Dour man that he was, he could see the humor of this situation. An indignant daughter of the gentry suddenly firing on a pretender to the throne—he had heard about the bullet that had been fired from the George, and that it had possibly been fired by a woman. He had no doubt that the woman was standing here before him.

  As his gaze passed thoughtfully over the assemblage before him in the courtroom, another face leaped out at him. A face that was etched in his memory with fingers of fire. It was the face of the Squire of Axeleigh and the last time he had seen that face it was contorted as the Squire surged toward him—and then for a long time he had known no more. He had waked to find himself in the process of being buried in the foundation of the Squire’s house—with his attacker gone somewhere and a single candle burning. He would never forget his fright as he had stumbled away in his smallclothes after having tried with trembling fingers to replace the pile of clothing topped by a hat that had been piled across his body—a pitiful effort to avoid pursuit by the vengeful Squire.

  And the Squire was looking at him with equal horror! Good God, the fellow recognized him—after all these years! It had been a nightmarish situation that had haunted his dreams; he had once been afraid that he had babbled about it in delirium and had been delighted when his wife had dismissed his male nurse as incompetent.

  George Jeffreys, who had struck fear into so many, felt himself squirming beneath the Squire’s accusing gaze. He could not know what was going on in the Squire’s mind at that moment, but from his own sense of guilt he could imagine the Squire leaping up and condemning him at the very moment Jeffreys discredited a daughter that—who knew— might be his! He was a baron now! The thought of public humiliation scalded him.

  He began to perspire and the stone in his body that caused him such anguish began to hurt.

  “Are there other witnesses?” he demanded waspishly.

  “Only those who saw us flee,” meditated Pamela. “One of them, of course, was the Duke—and he is dead. I suppose the others are too.”

  Beneath the Squire’s burning gaze, Jeffreys made up his mind quickly. He turned a glowering face to the jury, and as always they quailed before the fury in his eyes. “I hereby instruct the jury to give due consideration to this young woman’s story,” he said. “For I did hear something to the same effect myself, how a woman had fired on the Duke of Monmouth and been spirited away.”

  Triumph flared in Pamela’s eyes. She had no doubt of the outcome now. That jury up there was eager to acquit. They would gladly have acquitted everybody of the charges had they not been so terrified of this implacable judge who seemed bent on offering up all of the West Country to the hangman.

  Tom was the only prisoner to escape Jeffreys’s wrath that day and Pamela the only lady to walk away from that grim mockery of a courtroom with a glow of happiness in her eyes. The Squire, hobbling along beside them as best he could, could have told them a deal about the reason for their good luck, but he chose not to.

  Wistful eyes followed them from the courtroom for Tom was known to have been a rebel as much as the doomed men and women who glumly awaited trial—and that Pamela should have saved him with what they all believed to be such a dazzling lie somehow bucked them up and gave them courage for what was to come.

  “Hurry,” muttered Tom. “For anyone put on the rack, or frenzied with fear at thought of the scaffold, may denounce us—in hopes to save his own skin.”

  The lightskirt’s daughter needed no further urging. She plunged forward through the crowd, eager to put Taunton and its “hanging judge” behind her.

  And for once the Squire, having observed her performance in the courtroom, was glad that she was in some ways like Virginia. It was something she had certainly never inherited from him—the ability to carry off a lie with such aplomb!

  “Stay but one more night,” pleaded the Squire. “For who knows when if ever I will see you all again? And since Tom has deeded me Huntlands to save it from the Crown, and I’ll now have to take care of Huntlands as well as Warwood, ye owe me that!”

  “I’ll only stay if—” began Pamela rebelliously.

  “I know, I know.” Her father held up his hand. “The banns have not been cried. But you can be married on shipboard like Margaret and Tony here—and meantime. I’ll look the other way.”

  With a rapturous smile, Pamela embraced him. “I knew you’d understand,” she said happily.

  The Squire gave her a wry look. He had always understood, that look said. It was just that he had not always approved!

  And so Pamela and Tom spent the night—their second night together—in her big airy bedroom.

  “Just think,” she said, leaning back in his arms as they disported themselves, naked, on top of the dainty embroidered coverlet. “We could have been whiling away the time like this all along—but instead you chose to play the field!”

  Lazily Tom traced the length of her pale torso with his questing fingers. “I was practicing up for you,” he grinned.

  “Nonsense!” She pulled away from him, giggling, for the slightest touch of his fingers sent shock waves rippling through her soft female body. “You loved it and you know it! And now you want me to go away with you! How do I know you won’t play the field again?” she demanded roguishly.

  “Because I’ve found something better.” He pulled her back with strong fingers. “But if you draw back any farther, you’ll fall out of bed, and when the Squire hears a thump like that, he’ll think you booted me out of your bed and he’ll come up to investigate!”

  “I don’t wear my boots to bed,” she pouted, lifting a dainty bare foot to prove it.

  “No—thank God.” Tom’s gaze brightened as he looked along that long shapely expanse of leg, extended for his inspection.

  “I’m going to redecorate Huntlands, you know,” she sighed, easing back against him.

  “You can redecorate all you like—if ever we dare live there.” For they both knew it was but a matter of time before new charges would be filed against him, and Tom dare
d not retrieve Huntlands from the Squire lest he be tried in absentia and Huntlands seized by the Crown.

  “We’ll live there.” Pamela snuggled into a better position beneath him and her voice grew ragged and breathless as he made his first thrust within her. She lay pulsing in his arms, feeling delicious tremors course through her, feeling herself grow lazy, indolent, beneath his velvet touch—and then tense again and excited as she found herself swept fiercely along by his passion until her own tindery self, the very soul of her, careened along the very peaks of wonder. “We’ll live there—” Her voice was muffled, dreamy. “Because I’m lucky, Tom. I have you—at last.”

  His strong arms tightened about her and he buried his face in the rosy scent of her hair.

  He knew who was lucky—the man who held her in his arms!

  And later, hours later, when Constance and Dev had stolen down to the kitchen for a snack—for all this lovemaking had made them both desperately hungry—they lifted their heads and listened, for the sound of a viola trembled down to them. And then Tony Warburton’s attractive baritone voice softly singing “Greensleeves,” that lovely love song a young king had once written to his lady. And after a minute his voice was replaced by another voice, infinitely sweet. It was high and lilting, a wild lovely sound, and the lovers who had just seated themselves in the big dining room to enjoy their Cheddar cheese and brown bread and cider paused to listen.

  So must the mermaids have sounded, singing from the wild rocks, thought Constance suddenly, and remembered the lost wild sound of Margaret’s singing on the moors. Only there was a contentment in that voice now, a deep-felt peace that had not been there before. She met Dev’s green gaze and suddenly her own eyes were wet. From across the handsome table Dev placed his strong hand over hers and gripped it. And his smile cut through the raindrops of her tears.

  Gallant Tony Warburton and his lady were together at last and even the gods must be smiling today.

  It was time to leave now, time for the Squire to embrace his daughter and his sister and his ward and tell them all good-by, time for the new earl and countess, Dev and Constance, to ride for Kent while the rest of them rode hard for Bristol and a ship that would carry them to Amsterdam beyond the reach of a vengeful king.

  But in the green room that had been hers in childhood, Margaret lingered.

  “Will we ever come back, Tony?” she wondered, turning to the tall figure, already dressed, who stood by the window, silhouetted against the summer sunlight.

  “Of course we will,” he said decisively. “But we must hurry now, Meg. The groom has already brought up the horses and the Squire is waving me to come down.”

  “Waving you—!” Margaret felt her knees would melt. Her face turned white. “You can see!” she whispered accusingly and snatched up her mask, held it up before her face with trembling fingers.

  “I got back my sight in the jail,” he told her calmly. “But Tom and I thought it best for me to keep it a secret—to aid in the escape we planned had you not chosen to ‘rescue’ me.”

  “You have seen me without my mask!” The agonized words were torn from her.

  He strode across the room and caught her arm, as in horror she would have whirled away from him. He spun her back to face him. It was a relentless face she saw, a face upon which mixed emotions played. For how could he tell her, how could he make this proud strong woman understand it was the wild heart of her he loved? That he loved the girl with wild hair flying who took the hurdles laughing, the reckless girl with her flair for clothes and her mad flirtatious ways, the dauntless woman who was good company for any road he’d ever care to travel. How could he make her understand that it was her—not just her beauty—that he loved? The words trembled in his heart but he had not the knack of saying them,

  “You’ve tricked me, Tony!” she cried, grief-stricken—and tried to wrench her arm away.

  The Captain’s grip tightened. He was giving her a very steady look. “Meg,” he said slowly. “If you won’t have me, then I’m going to ride back to Taunton and handsomely take the blame for this entire rebellion—I’ll say I put Monmouth up to it!”

  She gave him a startled look. “Don’t joke about such things, Tony,” she said uneasily.

  “I mean it, Meg.” He gripped her arm ungently. “I’d have thrown my life away for less. Oh, Meg, you proud little fool, can’t you see that to me you’re still beautiful, that you will always be beautiful to me? And that I’d love you even if you weren’t?”

  Still beautiful...to him. Margaret’s glorious green eyes misted over.

  “Oh, Tony,” she choked, collapsing against him. “Tony...”

  And the love they had known the night before when passion’s rapture held them in thrall was as nothing to what they felt at that magical moment, looking deep into each other’s eyes....

  Epilogue

  A toast to all rapt young lovers

  'Neath the white sails of honeymoon ships

  Who must hold their love fast, for the lies that have passed

  Their ardent lying lips!

  Another tragic hour had passed for England, but for the lovers, already setting sail across a wine-dark sea, battles were forgotten. The days were clear, the wind was brisk and fair, as if even the elements approved their voyage. And the nights, as clear as the days, were brilliant with stars—a good omen, they felt, for the future.

  As the English coast faded in the distance, they tried to forget those summer days when the Great Cause had seemed—for such a little while—a certainty. They turned their faces resolutely toward the future—a future which seemed destined to be spent in Holland. Pamela and Margaret learned to love the quaint quays and steep-gabled houses of Amsterdam, the cosmopolitan gaiety and the cheerful way the City of Canals embraced traders from across the earth. But it was the glories of the English countryside that ever called to them and every summer they looked with shadowed glances into each other’s eyes and saw mirrored there the silver river that wound through the Valley of the Axe in distant Somerset.

  But behind them—ah, behind them was utter misery. Beaten, disinherited, those who were left behind watched helplessly as The Terror now fell upon France where, as many in the West Country had predicted, King Louis XIV—safe now, he felt, from any retribution now that a fervently Catholic James II sat upon the English throne—revoked in October the Edict of Nantes, which had protected the worship of dissenters. In the awful days that followed, whole provinces of France were almost emptied out as French Protestants, known as Huguenots, fled the country.

  But the West Country rebels had been right about one thing—the temper of the English people. They had but advanced their cause too soon. For the harsh rule of James II was endured but three summers more before the bloodless Glorious Revolution of 1688 cast him out and William of Orange took the throne by invitation. With him came a Bill of Rights, Christian nonconformists were once again permitted to worship freely. Parliament repudiated Jeffreys’s Bloody Assizes (Jeffreys himself tried to escape disguised as a common seaman but was caught at Wapping and died in the Tower). Many confiscated homes and lands were restored, and freer winds blew across England.

  For the battered West Country, which had fought so bravely in a lost Cause, this was good news indeed—although there would ever be a sadness as West Countrymen and women thought of those they had lost to guns and hemp and slavery in the West Indies.

  And in Holland, there was joy indeed. For the “daughters of the Axe” could return at last to Somerset.

  Tom and Pamela (who were wearing wooden Dutch clogs at the time) danced uproariously like happy children when they heard the news. They threw their arms about each other and kicked off their wooden shoes while Pamela gasped with delight, “We can go back, Tom! Back to Axeleigh! You can take your scandalous bride back home!”

  “Back to Huntlands,” he corrected her, laughing. “And” —his merry open face hardened—“you’ll be ‘received’ in every house in the Valley, never doubt it—and any
where else you care to go!”

  At this blunt declaration of his devotion, Pamela’s crystal blue eyes misted over and sparkled with unshed tears of joy and love as she took his face between tender hands and kissed him with all the ardent warmth of her impetuous nature. And then Tom bore her away to bed, there to shed their Dutch clothes and celebrate in their own chosen way, with rapturous touching bodies and wild exuberant lovemaking, the fact that they had won through, that there was this day an extra splendor to add luster to their wondrous love for each other.

  They were going home at last!

  Home they sailed, with Pamela babbling happily about redecorating Huntlands and seeing her father and Angel, her dancing Arabian mare, again. Pamela was born to be a housewife and she transformed carelessly run Huntlands into a home such as Tom had not known since his mother died. She brought with her Tabitha, her bright-eyed maid, who was soon to marry Ralf, the stable master, and raise her own brood. For Ralf had fallen in love with Tabby the moment that, carrying big purring Puss in her arms, she had pushed open the huge stable door and stood silhouetted against the blazing sunlight with her rich auburn hair catching its fire and her russet skirts seeming to blaze at him invitingly. Her greatest triumph came when, in a borrowed coach and finery that would have become a duchess (both supplied by indulgent Pamela), she and Ralf went on their wedding trip to visit her parents, where she loftily described the fine cottage to which Ralf was taking her—and for the first time in her life had her family listen to her in respectful awe.

  And in the big stone stables at Huntlands, Angel bore Satan handsome foals, just as in the great house—now entirely redecorated by Pamela, who still loved to overdress until she was stiff with finery—a whole brood of handsome, golden-haired children played round her knees and romped with Puss’s kittens. Tom, having flung his fling, had settled down admirably—he was even glad that Pamela preferred her stiff high-necked taffetas and brocades, for if she had gone about as Constance had, in clinging silks and velvets, would not all the world have known what a beautiful body lurked inside? And perhaps some other likely lad would have got her away from him! He was glad now that Pamela did not flaunt herself, reserving her improprieties for those long lovely hours when the door to their bedchamber was securely latched and a fire burned warmly on the hearth, and she, in the sheerest of chemises or night rails, flung herself invitingly upon the bed and opened her arms to him.