The Earl's Captive Page 17

  That man! Whatever problem she had, Philip Darwell always seemed to be at the root of it. How she hated him! How she hated the way her treacherous body responded to him.

  If only he could be stripped of his cruelty, coldness and arrogance and invested with some of Adam's warmth and tenderness, then he might resemble a man who was worthy of her love, a man possessed of a mixture of strength and sensitivity, proud but just.

  But Adam was demanding an answer to his proposal – for that's what it had seemed. She sensed that his remark about looking after her extended far further than just making sure no suspicion fell on her when the theft was discovered.

  Rory had promised to look after her, yet look at how he had let her down! No, this was it now. She was never going to be a man's chattel again. She was no more likely to accept Adam as a husband or lover than she was Philip. Especially Philip!

  “Well? What do you say?”

  “No, Adam. I could never return to that … that prison. I appreciate your offer, Adam Redhead, but I'm not a servant. I was not raised as one and I have no intention of spending the rest of my life as one.”

  A crestfallen look creased Adam's freckled features. Would it be too unkind, she wondered, to say what she had been about to confess – that she was not in love with him and could not envisage herself as his wife?

  A peremptory voice cut in, taking the difficult decision out of her hands.

  “Did I not tell you that Lucy is Martin Swift's daughter?”

  Adam's mouth fell open and a look of respect entered his eyes. Lucy's father was a legend to anyone who worked with horses, as Adam did, and Philip's remark had done more to distance her from Adam than anything she could have said.

  She could tell that now he was putting her on a pedestal, alongside Philip. His innate talent for servitude made her feel irritated with him. How could she ever have entertained the idea that there could have been a romance between her and Adam? She sensed that he was intelligent and resourceful enough to find a way round any kind of awkward or dangerous situation, yet here he was, mutely allowing Philip to take the lead.

  Philip grasped Lucy firmly by the hand and led her back into the farmhouse. Adam marched obediently after them and Lucy was afraid to look round in case she saw any trace of disappointment on his face.

  “No, do not remove your cloak,” ordered Philip, seeing Lucy's hand straying towards the clasp. “We are not lingering here. I have a horse outside and will take you back to Darwell Manor before an outcry is raised and your footsteps are traced to this spot.

  “Adam will return to the Hall now. If he is questioned, he will claim that he was out gathering firewood as the kitchen store was getting low, noticed your footprints, tracked you this far, but found nothing but the hoof prints of a horse and concluded that you had had a rendezvous with a fellow thief who had come to fetch you away. They will not question any further. Adam is a trusted employee and everyone would vouch for his honesty.”

  Adam left then, to tramp the two miles back to the Hall. Philip was already dousing the fire and blowing out the candles. In a few moments' time, they would be heading up the hill in the direction of Darwell Manor.

  As for tomorrow … perhaps she would at last be able to return to Pendleton and her mother's side.

  And her father's wrath.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Down by the Sabden Brook

  He strayed both late and early.

  So strange and wild his look,

  His hair was black and curly …”

  Lucy broke off her song and put down the lute on which she had been accompanying herself. She had found the instrument lying covered in dust and cobwebs in the Manor's long-disused music room and had asked Philip's permission to retune its strings and restore the neglected instrument to playing condition.

  Her mother, who had been a passable musician before her marriage to Martin Swift had drained her of any form of creative pleasure, had schooled Lucy in the lute and harpsichord and had been gratified to see her daughter develop into a performer of some accomplishment.

  Lucy's skills had grown as rusty as the lute strings over the last few months, but although she now had ample time for playing, she found she could not concentrate. Every note she played, every word she sang, sounded shallow, hollow and devoid of emotion. She felt locked up inside her own head, incapable of expressing her feelings, or even of understanding what those feelings were.

  “You can stay here until the weather improves,” Philip had told her.

  Martha had been delighted to have Lucy back and life continued just as it had been before Christmas, on the surface at least. But something had subtly changed. She was not a prisoner any more, being kept at the Manor against her will. Now, she was an invited guest and her host was as gallant and charming as could be. But she knew that once the weather improved, she would be expected to leave.

  Now that he had no further claim over her, Philip treated her courteously, almost as a sister. He played card games with her and they even had music sessions, with him on violin and herself on lute. He laughed, he joked, he seemed a changed man and all because the deeds were back in his hands.

  The trouble was, she liked this new Philip. In fact, it was more than liking. She wished …

  But there was no point in wishing and dreaming. Philip was done with her. She had fulfilled her purpose. Soon, he would meet a well-bred young lady and start courting, and the thought of that made Lucy sob into her pillow at night and force herself to think of Rory.

  Hardcastle had paid him a visit – luckily Philip had spotted his carriage coming up the drive and had had time to warn Lucy to hide in her room – and when he had departed, utterly convinced that Philip was as ignorant as to the whereabouts of the deeds as he was, Philip had knocked on her door and they had both burst out laughing like two successful conspirators.

  The one thing Lucy greatly feared was that Hardcastle would spread her description abroad and she would be in constant danger of being recognized. The simultaneous disappearance of both maid and documents was too much of a coincidence and Hardcastle was convinced that Lucy was the thief.

  Quite apart from that, he grumbled to Philip, Rachel was making his life a misery by moaning constantly that she would never find another maid as good as Lucy.

  It gave Lucy a moment of secret pleasure to think that she could succeed at anything she turned her hand to – with one exception. There was nothing she could do to prolong her stay at Darwell Manor, particularly now that the weather had improved. And that meant saying goodbye to Philip forever.

  The freezing weather lasted until the end of January but, with the first days of February, the ice had melted, the sky had cleared and snowdrops were pushing their belated way through the sodden ground. Any day now, she was going to have to be on her way.

  She didn't want the embarrassment of waiting until Philip told her to leave. It would have to be her own decision and, without money, her only recourse was to return home. Back to her father's violence and drunkenness, back to his unsuitable and unacceptable marriage plans.

  However, she had grown a lot stronger and more resilient since leaving home. Maybe now, she could stand up to her father and defy him not with childish protests, but with reasoned, adult argument. Martin, for all his faults, was not an ogre like George Hardcastle.

  With Rory gone and Philip unreachable, the path home was the only one she could tread. She was reluctant to confess to her parents that she was returning just as she had left, without a crock of gold or a rich husband to show for her five months of absence. Without her maidenhead, too, though she had no intention of owning up to that. She was only thankful that her waist wasn't swelling.

  She would never be able to tell them that, for a short space of time, she had had a husband, a man of whom they would have disapproved. She could never tell them of the circumstances surrounding that strange marriage. They would never understand how she, their daughter, could have loved the wild, wandering man with the s
trange visions and poetic words. That would always have to remain her secret.

  She cried for him less often now and had even, when having cynical thoughts about men in general – her father, Philip, Adam and Hardcastle – numbered Rory among them on account of his infidelity.

  Yet she had as good as killed him. She would never forgive herself for that, nor forget. If only she hadn't gone looking for Rory that morning and found him with that girl. Perhaps, if she had been ignorant of his tryst, they might have sorted out their problem, whatever it was, and might still be living together now, in blissful happiness.

  But life was full of “if onlys.” Now, it was if only I could stay a bit longer at Darwell Manor.

  She strode impatiently to the window and peered out. It was a sparkling day with a clear blue sky and a pale sun as fresh and delicate as a primrose's petals. Lucy's heart should have rejoiced as she gazed out over the rolling parklands, yet the premature beauty of the new year was lost on her. She could see no happiness in her future, nothing to look forward to.

  What delights faced her at home? What joy was there in watching her mother age, her father drinking even harder? She would help her mother about the house; go visiting and entertain in a small, limited way; aid her father in any way he deemed fitting for a daughter.

  Eventually, though she could hardly bear to think about it, they would die and she would be left alone in the house, to grow old herself without even the consolation of a husband and family around her. For she would never marry again, she knew that. All men were flawed: Rory by his womanizing, her father by his drinking, Adam by his servile streak, Philip by his …

  Lucy simply couldn't define her opinion of Philip, even to herself. It would not form into coherent words. He disturbed her, made her uncomfortable, yet he could make her laugh, too, and move her soul with his music and sometimes she had caught him looking at her in a way that reminded her rather too clearly of the time when he almost ravished her in the stable.

  He was unlike anyone she had ever met, at times so aloof and arrogant, yet at others so friendly and open. He had announced his intention of going back to join the cavalry soon and that was yet another reason why she should say her farewells and leave.

  As if summoned by her thoughts of him, Philip suddenly came into view, wandering round the corner of the house in the general direction of the lake. He had a brindled hound called Solomon by his side and, as Lucy watched, he bent and fondled the animal's ears.

  She caught her breath. There was something very intimate about what she was witnessing. Unaware that he was being watched, completely off his guard, Philip was showing a measure of affection towards the animal that she would never have guessed was in his nature.

  He stooped, picked up a twig and hurled it as far as he could. The barking animal hurtled after it, brought it back and laid it at Philip's feet. Then it rolled over onto its back, tongue lolling, letting Philip tickle and caress its soft, pinkish-brown belly.

  She could see his lips moving as he spoke to it and Lucy felt her heart move, too. They made an attractive picture, the tall, slim, striking-looking man with the glossy hair and the playful, adoring dog. Philip's fingers, stroking, rubbing, teasing… Was that how they caressed a woman's flesh, brushing the hair back behind the ears, running down the spine, sweeping over the body with such assurance and expertise?

  Lucy stood mesmerized, delicious tingles rippling through her body. No, no, she chided herself. She couldn't, mustn't, think of Philip that way. What was wrong with her? She brushed her forehead with her hand. It was cool, yet the rest of her body felt suffused with a burning heat.

  What kind of a fever was it that heated the blood without mounting to the brain? There must be something wrong with her. Her body seemed to be refusing to obey her mind's orders. There was a languorous heaviness in her limbs and disturbances in all her intimate parts, the way she used to feel when Rory touched her and she knew that he wanted her.

  But there was nobody with her in her room, caressing her and murmuring promises of love. All she had done was take an accidental look at Philip Darwell fondling a dog. How stupid!

  She left the window and sank onto the bed, trying to think of anything that might calm her and banish the aching, unwanted pangs of longing from her body. She was shocked by her physical arousal. The old worry that had first afflicted her after she'd given herself so readily to Rory, and which had returned when she found herself responding so readily to Adam's kisses, began to plague her anew.

  Women were not meant to enjoy such sensations. Her own mother had told her that, in a rare moment of candour when Lucy had inquired how her sister Helen could bear to allow her husband to share her bed. Now, her mother's words came back to her in full.

  “A woman allows a man to bed her only in order to produce heirs. Once the bedding has been successful, any reasonable man will leave his wife alone and seek that kind of pleasure elsewhere, with that kind of woman.”

  “What kind of woman?” Lucy had wanted to beg. Was she 'that kind of woman'? What was wrong with the human species, if only men were allowed to enjoy the intimate pleasures of marriage? What was wrong with her, in that she enjoyed it?

  Could she be a rare hybrid, a creature with the body of a woman but the thoughts and lusts of a man? And could men see that she was 'that kind of woman'? Was this why she had found herself in so many dangerous situations, starting with the unbidden entry of her brother-in-law into her bedchamber?

  The terrible throbs and yearnings were beginning to abate now. Lucy had herself under control again but was still worried. She found herself praying that these forbidden desires would never afflict her again and as she prayed, she thought of all those holy people, the monks and priests and nuns. Did they ever feel like this? And if they did, what did they do about it?

  Of course, they must use the power of prayer, just as she was doing. If God could keep them from sinful thoughts and longings, surely He could do the same for her? Then she reflected that God probably had much more important things to do, like keeping the sun and moon shining and preventing the seas from engulfing the world, than stopping a woman longing for a man.

  But which man? It wasn't Rory who was featuring in her thoughts now; she could have understood her bodily reactions if she had been reminiscing about his lovemaking.

  Why on earth was she pining for Philip Darwell? The only time he had ever kissed or touched her had been in anger – except for that one half-forgotten occasion when he had reached out and touched her hair as she sat next to him while he traced a map of Rokeby Hall on the table top. She despised her breasts, her loins, her trembling limbs for their unruly, insubordinate behaviour.

  When she and Philip dined that evening, Lucy could hardly bring herself to look at him in case the feelings started again. However, he was in a morose and uncommunicative mood, with a sullen, down-pulled twist to the corners of his mouth which defied all her efforts to make him smile.

  Leaving him to gaze thoughtfully into the logs, she sought the company of Martha, who was teaching her how to spin. Fortified with home-made dandelion wine, Martha began chattering about Adam and about how she wished he could come back and work at Darwell Manor instead of having to work for that perfectly dreadful Hardcastle family.

  All at once, she broke off her flow of conversation, fixed Lucy with a direct and meaningful look and said, “He asked after you, did Adam, last time he was here visitin'.”

  “You mean Adam comes here?” The thought had never crossed Lucy's mind. Of course he must visit them. He was their son after all, and Rokeby Hall was but a few hours' ride there and back.

  “Last Thursday he came. It was his day off. 'How's Miss Lucy?' he asked me. I said as you were farin' well and he says to make sure I give you his … regards.”

  Martha's slight hesitation conveyed to Lucy that perhaps his message had been something more than “regards.” Love? She could never imagine herself marrying Adam, yet those kisses of his … And many were the times that s
he had found herself regarding Martha almost as a mother.

  It was strange how, before being introduced to Adam, she had not known that their surname was Redhead, having known them simply as Martha and Matthew. Did they, perhaps, view her as a possible daughter-in-law? They knew who her father was and the fact that the Swifts owned a pleasant house, a few acres of land and, doubtless, a reasonable amount of money, too.

  Their son would do very well for himself if he married her. Yet Martha knew about what had passed between herself and Rory. No doubt she now thought of Lucy as slightly tainted merchandise, who would find it difficult to make a match among her social equals.

  Though who were the Swifts' social equals? A horse trainer, no matter how expert and successful, was still a horse trainer and, as such, only slightly above the domestic servant class. She recalled her original reluctance to tell Martha the fact that she and Rory had been married and she was now a respectable widow. Well, now she would tell her, for perhaps it would place her in a different light. They would see that she was a girl who knew her own mind and would not hold with other people making plans for her behind her back.

  Martha listened attentively to Lucy's tale, but with a growing look of concern on her wrinkled face. When Lucy had finished her account, rather than looking at her with the respectful expression she had expected, the small, thin woman leant towards Lucy and placed a hand on hers.

  Shaking her head slowly, she said, “I'm sorry, my dear, but you shouldn't have believed him. That was not a lawful marriage.”

  Lucy's head reeled. What twaddle was the woman talking? She turned on her angrily, a protest on the tip of her tongue, but Martha's restraining hand and unwavering, sympathetic gaze reduced her planned attack to a mere, chilly, “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I know this must come as a shock to you, child, but has nobody ever told you that, in order for a marriage to be legal, two witnesses must be present?”