The Earl's Captive Page 11

  “And once I have given you the deeds, will you let me walk out of this house a free woman? If I am to go to so much trouble for you, I don't want to think that you are likely to change your mind and hand me over to be hanged!”

  This awful thought had only just occurred to her, together with the remembrance of that cold side of Philip's personality which she knew was never far from the surface. Perhaps he was not to be trusted at all. Then she felt a sudden soft touch on her hair. She flinched in shock and he immediately pulled his hand away as if from a scorching candle flame.

  “Forgive me,” he muttered. “Those ringlets of yours are so tempting, especially with the firelight shining on them, turning them into copper flames and that blue becomes you.”

  Furious about her sudden desire to be kissed by him, Lucy dismissed the thought and scowled. He wasn't going to get round her with sweet, poetic words. “And I suppose my body looked tempting to you in the stable this morning!” she snapped.

  She regretted her words immediately when she saw the expression that came over Philip's face; that closed, cold, disdainful look she was getting to know so well.

  He got to his feet. “This is a business transaction, Miss Swift. You fulfill your side of the bargain and I shall fulfill mine. And if you fail …”

  Leaving this unvoiced threat echoing through the lofty hall, he bounded up the staircase, slammed the door and was gone, leaving Lucy sitting there alone in her borrowed finery, wondering what she should do now.

  Her solitude lasted a mere few seconds before Matthew appeared, silently as ever, and began to clear away the dishes. Lucy suddenly remembered the mare she had brought with her that morning and asked Matthew if he knew anything about it.

  “She's been stabled, miss. Saw to it myself. She in foal?”

  His honest brown eyes gazed searchingly at Lucy, making her wonder just how much he knew. Deciding that honesty was the best policy, she shook her head.

  “Didn't think so. Way she bolts her food, she be just filled up with air, like. Had 'un like that myself – oh, near twenty years ago now. Used to bloat out like a nine-month-gone woman. Ye'd fasten the girth, like, then be reet sorry ye did, for half an hour later, ye'd find your saddle slipping round her belly and yourself on the floor!”

  Lucy joined in his chuckles. She had witnessed the mare play precisely that trick on Rory. He had landed with a crash on his backside in a patch of nettles, amidst guffaws from Pat and Smithy.

  She wondered if Philip really was going to try and find them and expose their trickery. Maybe he was riding down to Pendleton at this very moment. Part of her, the bitter, hurt side, wanted to see Rory punished. How did any man deserve to live after what he had done? But not hanging; that was too slow and too cruel.

  Matthew cleared his throat. He had finished tidying the table and was asking Lucy if she wished to be escorted to her room. She accepted gratefully.

  It was only late afternoon, but she felt heavy-headed and sleepy, although neither she nor Philip had drunk their wine. Had he poured it out intending to toast the success of her mission? If so, her hasty words had spoiled the moment. She hoped her flash of temperament had not persuaded him to change his mind. She would sooner act the part of a maid and a thief than lose her life, even if that life hardly seemed worth the living any more.

  * * *

  Lucy awoke to find Martha tending the fire. She had dozed off lying on top of the bed and her beautiful dress was crushed out of shape.

  Martha glanced at it disapprovingly. “If you were planning a rest, miss, you should have told Matthew to ask me for a nightgown,” she said.

  “I'm sorry,” Lucy replied. “I didn't mean to. It's just that … well, I had a rather bad experience earlier today which upset me a lot and I think I must be quite exhausted.”

  Martha shot her a sharp look. “Is that how you came by those bruises?”

  “No. Well, actually, I had two unfortunate experiences this morning …”

  Lucy suddenly wondered what Martha must think of her. She had come into the house a total stranger, ragged as a tinker, bruised like a slut – and, for all Martha knew, that was precisely what she was. Perhaps she should explain.

  “I'm not what you think I am, Martha. I come from a good family,” she began.

  “I never doubted it, Lucy.” Martha spoke kindly. She reached out and patted Lucy's hand. “You're young enough to be my daughter, you know. You don't have to tell me anything, but if you want to, you'll find I have a sympathetic ear.”

  Lucy gestured to her to come and sit beside her on the bed. Martha obeyed and soon Lucy found herself confiding everything about her home life, about how she had come to run away and be captured by the horse traders.

  The only thing she found herself unable to tell Martha about was her moorland marriage to Rory. She felt the older woman would be unable to understand how she had accepted it so willingly, or how attracted she had been to Rory. Better to let her think him a vagabond who had abducted her and then betrayed her with another woman. Let the sacred ritual remain her own secret.

  As she had expected, Martha's eyes flashed with fury when Lucy described how she had seen Rory coming out of the tavern whore's room.

  “Did you go for him? Is that how you came by those marks?” she asked eagerly.

  Lucy shook her head.

  Suddenly, a look of understanding dawned in Martha's eyes. “Master Philip was angry about the mare?”

  Lucy nodded gratefully. So they did know. This would save her a lot of awkward explaining. “It wasn't my idea to sell him that horse. It shouldn't have been my job to deliver it, but there was nobody else.”

  “Yet you knew the horse was not in foal?” Martha's inquiring glance was keen.

  “Yes,” Lucy said gently, “I knew. But there was nothing I could do – and besides, with no home to go back to and Rory gone, I needed the money.” She gave a guilty smile.

  “I see.” For a moment Lucy thought Martha was about to censure her. She was relieved when the housemaid put a hand on her arm and said, “You poor lamb.”

  Something broke inside Lucy then. Maybe it was Martha's gentleness, which reminded her of her own mother, or her warm, sympathetic tone of voice. Whatever it was, she suddenly found herself sobbing uncontrollably and turning blindly to Martha for comfort. The motherly woman wrapped her arms around Lucy and rocked her, while all the grief and shock she had suffered welled up and poured out of her in a series of racking sobs and flooding tears.

  When she could cry no more, Martha offered her a handkerchief and Lucy blew her nose hard and mumbled her thanks.

  “You stay here and rest,” ordered Martha. “I'll fetch you up a nice, refreshing drink from the kitchen.” Lucy smiled weakly at her and slumped back against the pillows. “I'll find you a nightgown, too.”

  “And would it be too much if I asked to borrow that dress again, the one you made?”

  The delight in Martha's face made her request truly worthwhile.

  Martha was gone a long time. When she returned, bearing the clothing she had promised, she informed Lucy that the “young master” had gone out and that she would be dining alone that evening.

  “Couldn't I eat with you and Matthew? I'd like that,” Lucy asked.

  But Martha immediately rejected this idea, telling her that if Philip were to find out, he would be angry. “Walls have ears,” she added darkly and Lucy felt it best not to press the subject, while wondering what she meant.

  So, clad in the warm, homespun dress, she ate a modest repast of chicken, vegetables and fruit in her room, worrying all the while about Philip. She knew she shouldn't care about the fate of her erstwhile companions, but they had been quite kind to her and she wished them no harm, even Rory.

  She asked Martha for something to read to pass the time and Martha confessed that, as she herself couldn't read, she didn't know one book from another.

  “Just fetch me anything,” Lucy informed her and Martha reappeared after a short while
with a leather-bound volume which turned out to be most entertaining as it dealt with local myths and folklore and even had a chapter about witches, which interested Lucy greatly.

  She had no idea how much time had elapsed, but the candles in her room had burned low by the time she heard voices coming from somewhere near her door. She recognized them as Philip's and Matthew's, but, strain her ears as she might, she could not make out what they were saying. Shortly after that, she blew out all but one candle, donned her nightgown and prepared herself for bed.

  No sooner had she snuggled down beneath the warm covers than she was roused by a tapping at her door. She held her breath, frightened to utter a sound and checked the whereabouts of the nearest candlestick in case she needed to beat an intruder about the head.

  The tapping sounded again and then, to her horror, the door slowly began to creak open. Lucy gasped as a faint, spectral glow shone through the increasing gap in the doorway. She thought back to the book she had been reading earlier, about ghosts and corpse candles and was on the point of screaming.

  Then she heard a voice calling in a low tone, “Lucy?” and saw the tall figure of Philip hovering in the doorway, a lantern in his hand. “Are you awake?” he added, in the same undertone.

  “Yes,” said Lucy, louder and more firmly than she had intended, causing Philip to start so that his lantern swung and sent shadows flickering across the ceiling.

  “I just wanted to inform you that a messenger is at this moment on his way to my aunt in London. He should return with the reference within ten days.”

  Why had he disturbed her at night to tell her this? It could have waited until the morning. Lucy felt the flesh on the back of her neck begin to crawl with unease. He must have something else to tell her, something unpleasant. People were only roused from their beds at night for the delivery of bad news.

  Her presentiment proved correct.

  “I also think you should know,” announced Philip formally, “that your old friend Rory McDonnell is dead.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  They were all being so kind to her, Martha, Matthew, even Philip. For three days, Lucy could not get up at all and when she rose on the fourth day, Martha fussed round her, making sure she wrapped up warmly and drank a bowl of nourishing broth.

  Philip had called in to see her several times on that dreadful first day, but she had been so lost in grief that she could not speak to him and, after several vain attempts at cheering her up, he had left, perhaps feeling helpless in the face of a woman's tears.

  It wasn't until the third day that Lucy had felt sufficiently in command of herself to ask him to describe the circumstances of Rory's death. She wondered if Philip himself had killed him as part of his campaign to stamp out crooked dealings, but when Philip unfolded his tale, she felt that she believed him.

  “I was down in Dudcott, doing some business there, when I heard a terrible commotion coming from an inn. All the townsfolk flocked to see what the fuss was, and I went along with them. I could hear a woman screaming, 'Murder, murder!' Then out rushed that giant of yours, blood all down his coat. Three men were hanging onto him, trying to restrain him.

  “I called to a couple of soldiers who were shopping for supplies, to help halt the giant and they put down their kitbags and brought him to a stop, not without having to draw their swords. Once he was secured, I pushed through the crowd and went into the inn.”

  Lucy wasn't sure if she could bear to hear the next part of the story. To think of the man she had once loved so dearly lying dead, even his friends not having been able to protect him!

  “The innkeeper was bending over the figure of a man lying on the floor,” Philip continued. “It was the bearded young man I saw you with that day at Pendleton, without a doubt. Do you really want the details? They're not very pleasant.”

  “I want to hear everything – everything,” pressed Lucy and without thinking, she added, “After all, he was my husband.”

  “Your what?” Philip's eyebrows shot up and she wished she could take her foolish, impulsive confession back. He stared at her and she remained silent, her heart hammering.

  A masked look fell over his face as he continued. “He was sprawled on the floor as I said, and a knife was sticking from his back, an unusual-looking knife with a carved wooden handle.”

  “That's Pat's!” Lucy had seen that knife often during the weeks she had spent with the group. He took it everywhere with him, not just for protection but to use for cutting rope for halters, working stones out of the horses' hooves, even for spearing his food and eating it. But surely Pat wouldn't have … ?

  Philip answered her question for her. “The innkeeper told me there had been a fight between Rory McDonnell and the big man.”

  “Pat,” Lucy interrupted. “He's the one you call the giant. But why were they fighting?”

  “If you'll just let me continue. It seems the disagreement concerned a horse and from what I gather, it was about that old nag you brought me. Pat accused Rory of delivering the mare as arranged and pocketing the money for himself.”

  “But the lad who was looking after the horses knows it was me who took her! Surely he would have told them?”

  Suddenly, a terrible thought occurred to Lucy. Supposing the boy had told Rory? Rory might have felt guilty about his earlier behaviour and lied to Pat that it was he who had taken the horse. Rory might have died trying to protect her. She had as good as killed him with her own two hands!

  She felt the blood drain from her face and the room started to spin around her.

  “Lucy? Lucy, are you all right?” He was peering into her face.

  “Yes, I'm all right,” she replied woodenly. How could this cold, arrogant man understand the way she felt? Rory had been so full of life and laughter – and now he was dead. All because of her.

  “What will happen now?” she whispered through numb lips.

  “Pat will be hanged for murder, I expect. He has been taken off to prison in Manchester already. As for his accomplice, Smithy … Well, he still has the remaining horses, I suppose, and could carry on the business, if it could be called that, on his own, or else he could join forces with some other rogues like himself. Though, from what I've witnessed, he isn't in the best of health.”

  “No,” agreed Lucy, wondering if the frail little man would survive the winter.

  Philip tactfully left her at this point and, once alone, Lucy sank into a dull torpor of misery, her hand clutching the little necklace Rory had given her as if it were a talisman which could erase the past and protect her from the events of the present. If only …

  * * *

  By the fifth day, Lucy felt well enough to accept Philip's invitation to ride round his estate. Martha produced a faded green riding habit, another item from the wardrobe of the late Lady Eleanor, and lent Lucy her own warm cloak and, thus attired, Lucy mounted a chestnut hunter belonging to Philip and they set out to ride the boundary.

  The horse gave Lucy a spirited ride, bucking and skittering in the freezing air, shying every time a bird or rodent rustled in the bushes. Several times Philip complimented her on her riding skill, and the exercise and the chill, windy weather brought a glow to her face which she knew became her. She thoroughly enjoyed the ride. Philip pointed out the local landmarks which could be viewed from the hill and talked about everything he would do with the grounds if he had enough money.

  Finally, they paused by the ornamental lake and Lucy saw that the impression she had had on her first day had been correct; there were statues around the lake, badly in need of cleaning and repairing. She would have loved to tackle the job herself and mentioned this to Philip, who just laughed and said it was a job for a workman who didn't mind getting filthy.

  The next few days were spent in similar fashion, riding, talking and dining together in the evening. Tactfully, Philip didn't mention Rory or the subject of their marriage and gradually, her grief lessened and she found herself enjoying Philip's company now that he had dropped
his guard of icy formality.

  On several occasions she caught herself looking at him admiringly. He was a good-looking man in a clean-cut, very English way which was so unlike Rory's unruly image and ruddy, outdoor complexion. He was an amusing, witty companion and his stories about London society and his cavalry experiences had her convulsed with mirth and almost forgetting both her recent bereavement and Philip's cruel treatment of her on their first meeting.

  It was at night, when she was alone in bed, that sorrow and loneliness would steal over her. She would thresh around in what seemed like acres of empty space, longing for Rory's warm, strong arms to take her and hold her.

  Sometimes she would imagine him lying next to her in the darkness. Her hand would trace his outline, her lips move towards the place where his lips should be and find nothing except unsettling emptiness. Then the tears would come again. She would cry herself to sleep and next morning, Martha would tut at the dampness of the pillow and the blotchiness of Lucy's face, and bring her warm water to which she had added a few drops of essence of rosemary, to soothe and clear Lucy's skin.

  One morning she awoke to find a strange, cold, white light in the room. Pulling back the curtains she found the whole world covered in crisp snow. A blackbird was trilling on the tree outside her window, the only sound in a muffled, dead universe. Then, with a harsh, warning chak-chak, the bird flew off and Lucy heard men's voices downstairs.

  Dressing quickly, in case the disturbance concerned her, she lingered in her room until Martha knocked to bring her some breakfast – new-laid eggs lightly scrambled, fresh-baked bread and a glass of warm milk, which Lucy demolished ravenously. She always seemed to have a greater appetite in winter.

  After finishing her meal, she wandered round the house. All thoughts of running away had left her now, although she could easily have done so. But that would have meant stealing another horse and heading who-knows-where, for Manchester or Liverpool maybe, with no money in her pocket and snow on the ground. Darwell Manor was beginning to feel almost like home and every day, she was relying more and more on Martha's friendship and Philip's company.