Читать книгу Puritan Bride - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 8

The coach shuddered, jerked, stopped. The moon, bright in a clear, frosty sky, illuminated the coat of arms on the door panel. Three silver falcons, more grey than silver in the refining light, wings spread in flight on a sable field. A device instantly recognisable in the vicinity as that of the Royalist family, the Oxendens. Then the coach lurched forward again at a faster pace than was sensible for the icy conditions, only to be hauled once more to a precarious standstill. The voice of Jenks, the coachman, could be heard bellowing instructions, spewing out curses and oaths as Viscount Marlbrooke leaned from the window. The horses were plunging, snorting, eyes wild, manes tossing, a danger to themselves and anyone who might venture near. Jenks hauled on the reins, uncomfortably aware of their volatile temper.

Foot pads?

Marlbrooke could see no one in the fitful moonlight, but it was always possible. Thieves and robbers, quick to prey on unwary travellers, had spread in the lawless months between the death of the Lord Protector and the return of the King, months when local government had lost its grip in many local areas and it was taking time to rid the countryside of this scourge. But he could see no one in the deep shadows cast by the stand of trees or on the open road before them.

‘What’s amiss, Jenks?’

‘Can’t rightly say, my lord. But something spooked ‘em for sure.’ Jenks was too preoccupied for long explanations. ‘God preserve us! Don’t just sit there, Tom. Get down! But watch that devil at the front. He’s got one of his forelegs over the traces. If you don’t hold him, he’ll have ‘em all down—and then where’ll we all be?’

He pulled hard on the reins, bracing his feet, but the horses continued to sidle and plunge on a knife edge of control.

Viscount Marlbrooke sighed, removed his gloves and shrugged off his heavy cloak and coat in anticipation of some intense physical action. Shirtsleeves would freeze him to the marrow, but they would be far more serviceable than braided velvet. It had been a long day of travel over poor roads and ice-edged ruts, but now he was almost home and he had been anticipating a warm fire and hot food, allowing his thoughts to wander. The moon had enabled him to recognise some of the local landmarks: a small copse, the old oak by the bridge, now missing many of its branches, the Wyvern brook. Soon they would reach the crossroads. If they turned left, Marlbrooke knew that Glasbury Old Hall was within an hour’s journey. But now there was no reason to travel in that direction. Nothing of value or comfort remained there. He had brooded in silence, eyes veiled by heavy lids, wedged into a corner of the coach. If they turned right, as they would, he would be at the Priory within fifteen minutes. Only Winteringham Common to cover with the village in the distance and he would be home. It was still difficult to think of the Priory as home. But he would work on it. The coach had slowed even more as it began its descent of a small hill to the parting of the ways. Marlbrooke had stretched his limbs in impatience to reach the end of the journey. Perhaps his mother would still be awake, certainly if the pain was bad. She would be keen to know of his visit to Downham Hall. To hear of his assessment of his prospective bride. What would he tell her? As little as possible other than that she was young and not totally unwilling. Indeed, there was little more that he could tell her, other than that the lady had dark hair. And a somewhat confrontational manner. And any number of decided opinions, one of them a devastatingly cynical view of the motive behind his offer of marriage! He had smiled a little at the vivid picture that came to mind, sighed and stretched again in growing discomfort.

Then he had been shocked into alert wakefulness.

Now as he watched Tom leap to obey Jenks’s orders, the Viscount jumped from the carriage to help the young groom.

‘What in hell’s name got them in this state?’ he shouted up to Jenks, who still wrestled with the reins. He grabbed hold of the head of one of the lead pair, preventing it from snatching at the bit.

‘Couldn’t make it out, my lord. Somethin’ over there, at the edge of the trees. One minute we was travellin’ sweetly enough—next, two dark shapes bolted across the road under our very noses, and then all ‘ell broke loose as if the devil ‘imself was after us. Begging your pardon, my lord.’

The horses began to quieten, enough for Marlbrooke to give his attention to the young lad—Jed, he thought—sitting next to Jenks on the box. His face was bone white in the moonlight, his eyes glazed, wide with shock, and his mouth dropped open. He was paying no heed to the crisis at hand, but had his gaze fixed on the group of elms next to the signpost. In his rigid fingers he grasped an old pistol, which Jenks had ordered him to take up at the first sign of trouble. His whole body was paralysed with terror.

‘What is it, lad?’ Marlbrooke shouted. ‘What did you see?’

The lad shook his head, witless, unable to speak beyond a croak. When the moon suddenly disappeared behind a rogue cloud, plunging them all into black darkness, it was too much. Jed shrieked and raised the pistol in a wild swing, causing Jenks to haul heavily on the reins, jabbing at the horses’ mouths.

The lead horse began to plunge again, pulling its harness out of Marlbrooke’s grasp. He cursed and momentarily stepped aside out of the range of the flailing hooves, dragged Tom to his feet away from any obvious danger.

‘Put the gun down, lad,’ Marlbrooke ordered, but was given no time to see the result of his command. The horse trembled beneath his calming hands and sidled in a frenzy of panic. The Viscount braced his legs, clenched his hands, now slippery with sweat, on the loose reins and hung on. There was nothing here of the effete courtier who had earned Mistress Harley’s censure at Downham Hall. The muscles in his shoulders and thighs strained as Tom risked life and limb to untangle the traces from beneath the deadly hooves. Sinews corded in his forearms and sweat broke out on his forehead as he fought to prevent them making a dash for freedom. Jenks continued to handle the reins with all the skill born of thirty years’ experience. Then their combined efforts prevailed. The horses steadied. Marlbrooke focused again on the source of Jed’s terror.

‘What did you see?’

‘Take no heed of the boy, m’lord. His granddad’s been telling him the tale of the highwayman, Black Tom, hung in chains at this very crossroads twenty years ago—until his eyes was pecked out by the crows and his flesh rotted on his bones. Jed thinks that he’s still hanging there, creaking and rattling. Or his ghost is lurking in the bushes.’ Jenks clipped Jed on the back of the head with a large hand and ignored the squawk of pained surprise. ‘And his granddad’s a fool for filling his head with such stuff.’

Marlbrooke released the lead horse with a final gentling caress down a sweat-slicked shoulder.

‘Ghosts and skeletons, is it? Now. Hand me down a lantern and let’s see what the problem is.’

‘Take care, m’lord.’

He took the lantern handed down by Jenks, lit it, and went towards the shadowed verge. He would wager he would find no footpads lying in wait. Or decomposing skeletons. And it was as he thought. He returned to the coach, handing back the lantern.

‘Nothing to alarm you, Jed. Just a night kill. A young deer who did not run fast enough. And the shadows you saw under the horses’ feet would be foxes, I expect, as we interrupted their feast. The horses would have smelt the fresh blood and panicked. Far more prosaic than a chained skeleton, I’m afraid. Take us home, Jenks.’

Just as he made to swing up into the coach again his attention was caught by a distant sound, carrying clearly in the frosty air.

‘Horseman approaching fast, my lord,’ Jenks confirmed. ‘From the south.’

‘And travelling too fast for such conditions,’ the Viscount agreed grimly. ‘We had better stay and warn him.’

They waited as the rattle of hooves drew nearer, saw a dark shape emerge from the darker surroundings and Jenks called out, either a greeting or a warning. The rider reacted and began to rein to a halt beside the coach. No one could have foreseen the outcome as the moon emerged once more to bathe the road in its stark and unforgiving light. Disturbed by the commotion, a hunting barn owl lifted from its perch in the elms to glide across the road, large and shadowless, its white shape and soundlessly flapping wings ghostly in the moon’s illumination. In a return of mindless terror, without waiting for any orders, Jed raised and fired the pistol.

Chaos erupted around them once again. The ridden horse shied, reared, plunging as its feet came into contact with an icy patch on the road’s surface. Caught without warning, the rider cried out and was instantly flung to the ground with bone-shattering force. The horse made off, maddened, coat flecked with foam, the moon glinting on the whites of its eyes as it determined on putting distance between itself and the source of its terror, but the rider remained slumped on the floor, a dark shadow, motionless. Jenks once again, with renewed oaths, became engaged in a struggle for control of his restless team as they reacted to the sharp crack of the pistol above their heads, ordering Tom to look lively whilst berating Jed in colourful terms for his gormless stupidity.

This left Marlbrooke, the horses once again manageable, if it was possible to ignore their bloodshot eyes and fiery nostrils, to approach the still figure on the road. He crouched beside it. A young man, perhaps little more than a youth, as far as he could see. It was too dark to assess any real damage, but he ran gentle hands over the prone limbs to determine any obvious injuries. There seemed to be none, although one arm felt to be swelling under his searching fingers. Probably a blow to the head had caused the unconsciousness, he presumed. He pushed aside the rider’s hat and gently turned the pale waxen features to the searching moonlight. His hand came away dark with blood and there were clear signs of bruising on the temple and above the eye. Marlbrooke grimaced. If the wound had been caused by the horse’s hoof, then matters might indeed be serious. But however dangerous or life threatening the injuries, they could do nothing for the rider here.

Tom was hovering at his shoulder and moved to kneel beside the still figure. ‘Mr Jenks says we should get out of ‘ere, my lord, as soon as may be. While the horses are quiet. They’re still spooky.’

‘Very well, Tom. You’ve done well tonight. You’ll have to help me here.’ Marlbrooke rose to his feet and gave the young groom an encouraging grasp of his shoulder. ‘I think he’s sound enough apart from a bang on the head, although his arm might be broken. Help me get him into the coach as gently as we can. I doubt he’ll weigh much. We’ll deal with this at the Priory.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tom stood tall under the praise, swallowing his nerves.

They wrapped the still figure in Marlbrooke’s cloak to cushion the limbs against any further blows. Then between them they manoeuvred him into the coach where they wedged him onto the seat.

‘Right, Jenks.’ The Viscount nodded to his coachman as he pulled on his coat and gloves once more and Tom swung back into his seat on the coach. ‘Let’s get to the Priory before our young man dies on us. It’s been a long day.’ He moved to grasp the open coach door and then turned back. ‘On second thoughts—’ he held out an imperative hand ‘—give me that pistol, Jed. On balance you’re more of a danger than any ghostly highwayman or passing footpad.’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir’ The moonlight failed to hide Jed’s blushes or his sheepish smile as Tom nudged him and Jenks guffawed. The tale would not lose in its retelling in the stables over the coming months.

Marlbrooke dropped the pistol into his pocket with an answering grin. ‘The Priory, then!’

Master Oliver Verzons, steward of Winteringham Priory for as far back as any of the local families could remember, swung open the great oak door at the sound of the approaching coach. He was a stern, austere figure, clad in unrelieved black, his dignity a testimony to his position of trust and responsibility. His white collar and cuffs, seemly and precise with no hint of decoration, were as immaculate as when first donned that morning, despite the late hour.

‘Good evening, my lord. Can I be of any assistance?’ He stood back into the entrance hall as Viscount Marlbrooke carried the inert cloaked form up the shallow flight of steps.

‘Verzons!’ Marlbrooke conserved his breath until he had lowered the young man to the high-backed oak settle beside the door. He flexed the taut muscles in his back and arms with a grimace before turning to his steward, struck anew by the incongruity of the situation. Why Verzons would have been prepared to remain in service at the Priory under Royalist authority was beyond his understanding, unless loyalty to the estate took precedence over loyalty to family. Or perhaps he hoped and prayed that God would deal out justice with a fair hand and one day a Harley would return and oust the hated Oxendens. Meanwhile, he would keep faith and oversee the estate to the best of his ability, which was considerable. Whatever the reason, he had proved to be an excellent steward and Marlbrooke could see no need to trouble himself further over any dubious motives that Verzons might secretly nurture. As ever, he rose to the occasion, no matter how unusual the circumstances.

‘Is the young man badly injured? I can fetch Elspeth from the kitchen if you deem it necessary.’ Verzons bent over the settle with some concern.

‘No. I think not.’ Marlbrooke stripped off his gloves and shrugged out of his coat for the second time that night and handed them to his steward. ‘He fell from his horse at the Common crossroads and hit his head. There is no need, I think, to disturb the rest of the household at this hour. I’ll carry him up to one of the bedrooms if you would send some cloths and warm water, and some wine—for me, if not for him.’

‘Certainly, my lord. And there is food prepared when you are ready.’

Marlbrooke nodded. ‘Is my mother still awaiting me?’

‘No, my lord. Lady Elizabeth retired some little time ago. I believe she has not been well today. Mistress Felicity is, I understand, still in the parlour.’

The Viscount grimaced in recognition of his steward’s bland expression. ‘We will not disturb her!’

‘Certainly not, my lord. It will not be necessary.’ Verzons bowed his understanding and vanished into the shadowy fastness of the house.

Groaning at the strain on his tired muscles, the Viscount bent and lifted the youth, climbed steadily up the main staircase and shouldered his way into the first unoccupied bedroom on the first floor. The lad might not be heavy, but the events of the night were beginning to take their toll. The room was cold and barely furnished, not from neglect rather than simply long unoccupancy, but the bed had fresh linen and newly laundered curtains and a fire had been thoughtfully laid in the hearth. The panelled walls had been recently polished, as had the floor. There was a pleasant pervading scent of beeswax and herbs. As he thankfully deposited his burden on the bed, a servant arrived with candles.

‘Robert!’ Marlbrooke smiled his thanks. ‘Perhaps you would light the fire. Even the mice could die of cold in here.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Robert grinned as he knelt to comply. ‘Master Verzons asked if he should send up food?’

‘No. Not yet. Let’s see how much damage the lad has done to himself.’

He took a candle and placed it by the bed as he freed the youth from his enveloping cloak. He had been correct in his first assessment. He was indeed young with a light frame and slender build. His face was ashen, waxy in texture, which roused Marlbrooke’s immediate fears, but his fingers were able to detect a faint but steady pulse beneath his jawline. The short dark hair was matted with blood from a deep gash to the skull. Marlbrooke investigated with gentle fingers. It had bled copiously, as did all head wounds, but was now beginning to clot. A deep bruise was developing on the forehead and temple where the stony surface of the road had made hard contact and removed a layer of skin in a deep graze. The collar and sleeve of his jacket, as well as the sleeveless jerkin worn over it, were soaked with blood, but hopefully from the head wound only. He appeared to be otherwise unharmed, but the shallow breathing worried Marlbrooke—a blow to the head from a horse’s hoof could be fatal, but there was nothing to be done in the short term but clean the wound and wait for time and nature to take its course.

But who was he? His clothes were of good quality, if plain and serviceable. Most likely from a local gentry family—of Puritan inclination, since there was none of the lace and ribbons adopted by Royalists. The jacket was buttoned to the neck over the now bloodstained linen shirt. His leather boots were worn, but soft and well made. No clues here. The pockets of his coat, quickly searched, yielded nothing to identify the traveller.

With deft movements, as gently as possible, Marlbrooke manoeuvred the boy’s arms out of his coat. No signs of further wounds were apparent apart from an angry swollen wrist that was probably nothing more than a bad sprain. Elspeth could dress it on the morrow. He pulled off and discarded the boots. No sprains or broken bones. He ripped open the ties at the neck of the stained linen shirt, hoping that the blood here was merely from the head wound and nothing more sinister.

And his fingers froze.

Exposed before him in the flickering light from the candle were the unmistakable delicate bones and obvious form of a young girl. He took a deep breath and expelled the air slowly as realisation hit him. Small firm breasts with exquisite pink nipples. Sharp collar bones. Fragile shoulders. A tapering waist, the ribcage visible under the skin. Skin as pale and silken as any that could fill a man’s dreams or fantasies. He drew a fingertip along one delicate collarbone in a whisper-soft caress. She reminded him for all the world of a fledgling tipped from its nest by some malignant force. He sighed, touched by compassion, before drawing together the edges of the shirt with great care and respect for her modesty.

The Viscount lifted the candle to give his attention to her face. With knowledge it was distinctly feminine. It was an arresting face, cast into clear relief by the short revealing hair, which, with hindsight, showed signs of being inexpertly hacked off at back and sides with a less than sharp blade. Long dark lashes, well marked brows, a straight nose. Her face was relaxed, but shadows marked the fragile skin beneath her eyes and the bruising on her temple was outrageous. As he pushed her hair gently back from her temples he noted its tendency to curl round his fingers. Her hands, which he lifted and turned over in his own, were fine boned, long fingered and clearly those of a well-born lady. This was not a girl who had worked for her living on the land or in the kitchen. As he released them he felt a strange tug at his senses. She was beautiful. How could he possibly have thought that she was a boy? He touched her cheek, so pale, so soft, with the back of his hand.

The girl opened her eyes. They were a deep blue, the colour of delphiniums, and now almost indigo with pain and confusion. They were blurred, uncomprehending, as they moved searchingly over her line of vision. Then her gaze stopped and focused on his face. Suddenly they were filled with fear, a nameless terror. Tears gathered and began to trickle down her cheeks into the pillow and her ravaged hair. She said nothing.

He was caught in that blue gaze for the length of a slow heartbeat, trapped in their sapphire depths, unable to do anything but wipe away the spangled drops from her cheeks.

‘Don’t cry,’ he murmured. ‘You are quite safe here. There is no one to hurt you here.’ What terrible circumstance could have driven her to cut her hair and ride the perilous roads at the dead of night dressed as a boy?

The girl gave no recognition that she had heard him. She closed her eyes as if to shut out a world that threatened to engulf her in nameless horrors.

Marlbrooke swallowed and rose to his feet from his seat on the edge of the bed. He turned to the hovering servant, who was as yet unaware of the deception unfolding in the quiet room.

‘Has he come round, my lord? Doesn’t look too good, does he?’

‘No, Robert. He does not. If you would rouse Mistress Neale with my apologies, ask her to come with all speed. It would seem that I need help here.’

The Viscount lifted and spread the embroidered bedcover over the still figure and stood, hands on hips, looking down on her. Then he moved to the chair by the struggling fire to wait. But he could not take his eyes from her.