Читать книгу A Wish For Nicholas - Jackie Manning - Страница 10

County of Surrey, England

One Month Later

A high-pitched squeal pierced the humdrum stillness of the country lane. Sir Nicholas Sinclair shifted in the saddle, gauging the direction of the sound. The stand of sycamores near the bend ahead? Aye, the perfect place for robbers to hide, ready to lift a purse or to steal a horse from an unwary traveler.

Nick’s hand hovered over his pistol holster. He almost hoped a highwayman would charge. Anything to break the tedium of the long ride since leaving London.

A feminine giggle, more distinct this time, alerted him to the dense elderberry bushes growing near the river. Drawing the seaman’s telescope from his pocket, Nick brought it to his eye.

A trail of scattered clothing led from the riverbank to the thicket A man’s patched leather breeches and faded shirt poked through the reeds. The tangle of russet skirts billowed atop a mound of wild daisies, and a black corset lay momentarily forgotten amid tufts of grass.

Nick recognized the russet skirt as similar to the one the tavern wench wore only last night at the Seven Swans. While serving him venison pasty and ale, she’d winked and brushed her mountainous white breasts across his hand. When he refused her offer, she sniffed scornfully. He’d have followed her gladly, but he had no time to linger. The sooner he settled his matter with Thornwood Hall, the sooner he’d be at sea where he belonged.

But if he arrived at the estate dressed as the king’s dandy, the locals might not trust him enough to tell what he heeded to know about the estate. Not one to miss an opportunity, he dismounted and strode toward the garments half-hidden in the weeds. A low passionate moan drifted from the elderberries. Nick chuckled as he saw the moon-shaped elder blossoms shake and the bushes rustle in the familiar age-old rhythm.

Nick snatched the man’s breeches and shirt and assessed the owner’s height and size. Grateful the man was tall, as well as randy, Nick quickly undid the ribbons at his neck and cuffs. Within minutes, he had discarded his ruffled silk shirt, robin’s-egg blue velvet breeches and jacket, and dropped them upon the grass beside the other garments.

Before the lovers’ cries ceased and the thrashing stopped, Nick had changed into the man’s clothing and mounted his horse. He tossed his wide-brimmed hat—the last evidence of the court clothing he’d been given—and watched it sail through the air and land atop the strewn garments. With a sense of freedom, he galloped down the lane toward Thornwood Hall.

Fancy clothes meant nothing to him. He much preferred his naval uniform, but until he was back at the helm of the new ship, he’d settle for comfort. His new ship! Thank God for Finn, who had managed, with the help of the king’s mistress, to obtain a loan for the new ship, using Thornwood Hall as collateral. Now, all Nick needed was a buyer for the estate so he could pay back the loan from the moneylender.

He’d set himself a new course: to find out what ailed the estate, then sell the damn place and repay the moneylender. By then, his ship would be built and he’d return to war, the king none the wiser.

A short while later, Nick found the lane had dwindled to a well-worn sheep run. The overgrown hedges grew so tangled that even the devil would have trouble gaining foot. From what he could see as he peeked through the rare openings, the land lay barren. Spindly corn stalks choked with weeds fought for their place in the sun. In the distance, the crofters’ shacks, like untidy hay bundles, dotted the wildflower meadow.

He stared at the holding in dismay and growing irritation. Obviously Thornwood Hall had fallen into neglect after the general had died, but who could imagine such a pile of beetles and weeds? Apparently the king hadn’t known; otherwise he couldn’t have kept a straight face when he’d awarded this run-down pile of brambles as a reward for Nick’s bravery.

A string of loud curses broke his thoughts. Nick wheeled his horse around. Unable to see anything through the fence of brambles, he dismounted and crept to the hedgerow. He tried poking a hole through the fence, but a stout sweetbriar thorn snagged his arm. With a growl, he jerked free.

“Damn!” he muttered. Remembering his telescope, Nick extended the tube and thrust it through the hedge like a sword.

He gazed through the lens. In the meadow, a tall whip of a man, his shirt stained with splotches of sweat, flailed an enormous black bull with a switch. The man yanked on the rope attached to the ring in the animal’s nose, shrieking oaths that would have raised a blush from the crew of the Hesper. The bull snorted, pawing the ground. Then the man whipped the beast again.

In the distance, a rider sped hell-bent toward man and beast, the horse’s hooves tearing up clumps of sod as she sped across the meadow.

Aye, the rider was female. Nick’s fingers squeezed the spyglass. Ebony ribbons of hair whipped behind her head as she swooped upon her target, like a Harpy in Virgil’s Aeneid. She brought her mount to a stop and slipped from the saddle in one fluid motion.

The girl charged at the bully, her blue skirts billowing behind her. She tore the whip from his fist and cracked the strap across his back.

Damn, if the man struck her back, Nick thought, how would he cut through the damned hedge in time to save the plucky lass? But instead of shielding himself, the bully cowered like a boy.

As though satisfied, the girl threw down the switch, then whirled to face the animal. Nick blinked. For the first time, he noticed the monstrous bull in detail. Long horns poked out from the wide brim of a hat lying atop its head. A Cavalier’s hat, by God! A red-feathered plume curled along the band.

What the hell was she doing? Fascinated, Nick watched as the girl gently stroked the animal’s chin. Then she began to sing. Or was he hearing an angel? High, lilting tones, like harp music, floated on the summer breeze.

The king had said that General Forester was in his eighties when he’d died. Now, his widow ran the manor, with the help of the general’s bastard son. Maybe this lass with the siren’s voice was the old man’s granddaughter.

In less than a wink, the bull moved from standstill to trot. The girl, holding the rope, ran alongside, as if they were one. The man took up beside them. Finally, she relinquished the lead, flinging the rope back at the man. With an arrogant toss of her head, she mounted her horse, then watched at a distance.

The bull kept its pace. The red feather bounced jauntily with each jerk of the animal’s ponderous steps. The man bobbed up and down, his arms and legs windmilling at his sides, laboring to keep up. Nick couldn’t help but laugh.

He moved his telescope back to the amazing girl. Woman, he corrected. Through the scope, Nick watched her pert breasts lift and drop with her laughter. Her lovely face flushed with amusement as she watched the man and beast trot off.

She was not more than twenty and some, he decided. From her plain dress, she was a servant, but her bearing was that of a queen. Only when she turned and rode in the other direction did Nick realize he had been staring at her longer than necessary.

A while later, Nick continued riding, periodically ducking his head under the low-hanging limbs. The path had dwindled to a trail of dense weeds.

Ahead, stood a three-story, Tudor-style stone monster of a house. Knee-high twitchgrass grew to the entrance. Shutters hung askew from most of the windows. Nick shook his head and swore.

Irritation curled along his spine. Damn the king for thinking that Thornwood Manor could be brought around to the profitable estate it had been under Cromwell. A magician couldn’t turn this pile of stones into a gainful venture again.

Nick swore under his breath. There was no excuse for unkempt buildings. Run a tight ship, he always proclaimed. No wonder the estate lost money year after year. The king had best forget any thought of receiving tax monies from this dung heap.

Thornwood Hall. Remembering the ghastly hedgerows, he realized that whoever named it had a rich sense of humor.

“Come, Rex, let’s find a grassy spot by the river, where I’ll hide you until dark.” The horse nickered in answer.

Yawning, Nick remembered that he hadn’t slept last night at the Seven Swans. The drunken singing drifting from the taproom would have wakened the devils in hell. His gaze fixed on a small stone outbuilding attached to the barn. The perfect place to grab a few winks and rest his leg before he began exploring his land.

Nick dismounted, his thoughts going back to the black-haired beauty who had taken the man to task for whipping the beast.

Why hadn’t the king mentioned her? he mused.

Still flushed from her ride in the meadow, Becky paused to glance up from her planting and take in the familiar sight of her favorite flowers. Bees buzzed amid the blue delphiniums in front of the open window of the hay barn. The exposed earth waited for the seeds of verbena, lavender and coltsfoot she had yet to plant.

Why was she wasting her time planting seed? She and her sister and brothers wouldn’t be at Thornwood Hall to see them flower. She brushed back the wrench of anger and loss that sometimes threatened to overtake her. The bees’ buzzing drew her attention as they hugged the blossoms. She had no time to squander on such thoughts. She had work to do, for God answered those who tried solving their own troubles.

“Ah-ah-ah-a choo!”

Startled, Becky jumped. Her basket slipped from her lap, seeds scattering along the ground. Pox and calamity! Who was in the haybarn? She grabbed her husband’s sword, which she always kept close to her side, and got to her feet.

She leaned into the open window and peeked inside. Shielding her eyes, she peered against the darkness. All she could see was her shadow, casting a wide-brimmed silhouette upon the sunlit patch of golden hay strewn about the floorboards. A few feet away stood the bulging hayrick; a man’s leather boot stuck out between the wooden slats.

So that was where the lazy arse had hidden himself, Becky mused, remembering that Molly’s son was to have shown himself this morning for the first honest day’s work since he returned from God knew where.

Becky charged into the barn, her sword drawn. “Get your lazy arse out of that wagon or I’ll run you through!” She thrust the sword’s point an inch above where the dusty leather boot poked through the straw. Bits of golden chaff burst into the air.

“What the…” The man leaped up in the hay wagon, his legs shot under him like a marionette at the Punch and Judy show. “Watch that sword. You’ll do some damage—”

“Aye, I will, an’ that’s a promise, Ben Twaddle. Now, out from that rick and show yourself. On your feet. Let me see what sort of an ill bargain I’ve bought myself this time.”

Instead of obeying, the man stared at her with sharp gray eyes. Sly, cunning eyes. She hesitated a moment as their gazes locked.

In the half-light of the barn, he appeared older than she thought Ben to be. She was barely six years old when the nine-year-old Ben had left home. Aye, left his mother to bring up all the children when his father, the thief, went to jail.

She eyed him cautiously. He looked more like thirty and five than the twenty and seven he would be. She sniffed. Years on the road had aged him, no doubt.

Yet she hadn’t imagined Ben to be so…Becky took in the tousled black hair, strong jaw and high, arrogant cheekbones. The arched black brows gleamed like blackbird’s wings against the sun-burnished face. She stopped and mentally shook herself. Sun-burnished from lying in the weeds with the barmaids from the Seven Swans Tavern, no doubt. Not from scything hay or weeding turnips in honest man’s toil.

Aye, Molly’s troublesome son didn’t have his father’s weak chin, or low forehead. No, this pigeon was most handsome. Cocksure of himself, too, by his outright gawk. No wonder he’d given Molly such fits since he showed up on her doorstep last week.

“Up, up, I say.” Becky whirled the sword in a menacing arc. “I haven’t all day, Ben Twaddle.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Becky stopped dead still. Molly had said her son was shiftless and crafty, a man who’d put more struggle into getting out of a decent day’s work than if he’d settle straight to the task. But Molly never said Ben was stupid.

“Surely you remember the scrawny, pigtailed lass, whose pet pig you stole and sold to market?” She narrowed her eyes. “The years have changed us, Twaddle. Today, I’m mistress of Thornwood Hall, and you’re the same worthless bag of bones that ran off all those years ago with my pig.” Becky blew a black wisp of hair from her face. “Surely your mum told you that I married General Forester, God rest his soul. I’m your new employer,” she answered, wondering which of his artful tricks he would ply her with. She watched as the look of surprise spread across the planes and angles of his face.

Just let him try to play stupid with her. She poked into the hay, about where she imagined his hip to be.

“Ouch, you little…” He glared at her, his left hand rubbing his hip.

She couldn’t hide the smug feeling of satisfaction as she poked him again. “This little nudge will sharpen your wits, Twaddle. Now, do you remember your promise to your mum to work off her rents in exchange for your labor?”

The gray eyes frosted over like icy steel, and for a flash, she thought he might be dangerous.

“You’re a peppery little spit, I’ll give you that, but if you don’t put down that sword, you’ll damn soon regret it.” His square chin hardened into a stubborn wedge as he pulled himself to the cross rails of the wagon and peered down at her.

Becky could only gape at what was none other than blasphemy. In the seven years since her husband had died, she had never been shown disrespect by the servants—who were mostly kin—or the crofters, whom she thought of and treated as her family.

“How dare you speak to me like that!” She glared at this giant, who had probably never broken a sweat in honest toil. Becky felt her temper boil. “It will be my pleasure to break your spirit, you shiftless waste of skin.”

The man climbed down from the wagon and stared at her. She glanced at the familiar shirt with the wooden buttons that she remembered Molly sewing when she had last visited her. The breeches and shirt had belonged to Ben’s father, as well. Ben was taller than his father and much more well-developed. His arms almost bulged the seams.

He limped toward her, favoring his left leg, then stopped a few feet from where she stood.

She studied him, then sniffed. “Playing for sympathy with the game leg trick, aye?” She threw back her shoulders as she decided how best to teach him a lesson. Despite his rumpled shirt and breeches, he loomed with attractive masculinity.

“I’ll teach you to respect your betters, Ben Twaddle,” she said, feeling suddenly unsure of her words.

His black brows knitted into a scowl as he glowered down at her. “What sort of fool are you, woman?”

Fueled by his outrageous lack of respect, Becky tightened her fingers through the sword’s hilt and whirled the blade around his ear with record speed. A black lock of hair sailed to the barn floor. His mouth slacked open with surprise, then he shot her a look of inflamed, disbelieving shock.

“Now, who’s the fool?” She couldn’t help but smile when she saw the open astonishment on his face.

He leaned over her, hands on his hips. “Put the sword down this instant, or I’ll—”

Becky lunged toward him. He sensed her move this time. He shot out of her way with lightning speed, the tip of the blade missing the top of his sleeve by inches.

His hand shot to his shoulder, his face open in amazement.

Becky’s laughter rang out like crystal bells. “What a pity the maids at the Seven Swans can’t see you now, Twaddle.” Her blade whirred in the air as she spoke.

His steely eyes held a warning as they locked with hers.

“Oh, Twaddle,” she cried, “I see your hose needs changing.” The tip of the sword whirled to take aim at the fasteners tied to the sides of his knees. In a wink, he moved, but not soon enough. The fastener below his knee gave way, the hose disappearing into the wide cuffs of his boots, exposing a few inches of hairy leg.

She giggled. “Perhaps now you’ll remember who I am?”

His eyes glittered dangerously like live, burning embers.

“I’m afraid I’ve taken too much off one side of your hair,” she said, unable to keep a straight face. “Let me straighten the other side for you.” Laughter almost doubled her over.

“You’d better think carefully, woman, before you best a defenseless man.” The cold threat in his voice caused her to pause. The man’s arm slid behind him and he withdrew a light saber from the hay wagon. In a motion so quick only the rush of air fluttering the drawstrings at her neckline gave warning, the arc of steel sliced through the blue ribbons of her bodice, releasing her gown as it slid from her shoulders.

His mouth curled in a sardonic smile. It did nothing to relax the steely jaw or the dangerous glint in his eyes.

Becky gaped as the blade sang through the air a second time. With a snap, the glint of steel sliced again, this time, releasing the delicate ribbon tied in a prim bow at the neckline of her chemise. The soft muslin fell from her shoulders and slid down her arms. Her hands flew to her bosom, covering herself with the loosened fabric.

“How dare you!” Only when she heard her sword clang to the floor did she realize she dropped it.

“Not giving up so soon?” He smiled, his saber tip playing about the hem of her skirts. “I’m just beginning to enjoy your little sport.”

“You…you…” Becky steamed as she watched his enjoyment grow with her outrage. “Your mother praises you when she calls you a shiftless…”

“Shiftless waste of skin?” he offered, cocking a brow.

“Exactly.”

“I’m much worse, I’d wager.” Amused interest replaced the anger in his gray eyes. The tip of his sword hovered in the air, waiting. “Give up?”

“Never!” Becky’s fingers tightened the loosely gathered fabric at her breasts while she whirled around and picked up the sword with her right hand, exposing her bare back to him.

“What an interesting birthmark you have, mistress.”

Ignoring his comment, she positioned her sword in her right hand and lunged it at him. But he moved so quickly, she didn’t even see his blade. Only the soft whoosh sound below her right arm drew her attention in time to see her outer skirt fall to the ground.

“How—?” She stared in disbelief.

“Did anyone ever tell you that the birthmark on your back resembles a golden butterfly?” His mouth quirked with arrogance.

“I’ll have you shaved bald for your insolent tongue!” Becky lunged again, but he stepped out of her way, just in time.

“I think I’ll remove the red underskirt first, or perhaps the white…” She gaped in horror to see the point of his sword lifting her skirts as he peeked at the hems of her undergarments. “Or should I just flick all of them off—”

She jumped back out of the reach of his sword. “I’ll see your arrogant hide tied to the fence, and your mother and I will watch as—”

“Mum?” He lifted a questioning brow as he stepped to within a foot of her and appraised her lazily. “What will Mum think when I describe your birthmark on your enticing lower back.” His mouth twisted in a grin. “A golden butterfly, I’ll tell her.”

“If you tell anyone about my birthmark, I’ll say you…you tried to take advantage of—”

“Now, now, now.” A playful twinkle lit his eyes. “I’m sure you know what Mum and the others will think?” He returned his sword to the sheath at his side.

Becky narrowed her eyes and drew the loose fabric closer. “What do you mean?”

His chiseled mouth lifted in smug exaggeration. “If my reputation is so dishonorable, fair lady, are you not afraid that my mum might believe you’d fallen for my charms?”

“That’s absurd! Molly would never believe such a thing.”

“Then how will you explain my knowledge of such a personal matter as your birthmark?” His bold eyes met hers with a warm, intimate look.

She felt a blush creep to the roots of her hair. She stepped back, but the horrible realization hit her that what he said was true. Damn Ben Twaddle’s cunning. He was the sort to scrounge off women, and most women would be all agog over his handsome face.

Even though she was innocent, her reputation would be ruined if a whisper of scandal were to touch the Forester name. Sinclair would never allow her to manage Thornwood Hall for him.

Sir Nicholas Sinclair. No, she’d not think of that creature. One revolting scoundrel was enough to deal with at a time!

Becky drew in a resigned breath. “I gave my promise to Molly that I’d stiffen your spine with honest toil, and I aim to keep that promise, Twaddle. You’ll not be getting out of work this time, regardless of your brazen tricks.” She glowered at him. Despite her words, nothing would pleasure her more than to send this dog packing.

He answered her with an amused smile. “Brazen, dear lady? It’s not brazen for a man to defend himself. After all, you flew at me. An unarmed man. I was only protecting my…virtue.”

“Your virtue?” She laughed. “Twaddle, you don’t give up, do you? Playing daft won’t lose your job. Nothing you do will keep me from breaking my vow to your mother!”

He took a step closer.

She’d wipe that expression from his face before the month was out. She sniffed disdainfully as she picked up her skirt from the hay-strewn floor. She gave it a shake, then glared at him over her shoulder.

“You can start by grabbing that pitchfork and mucking out the stalls in the livery stable. Geer will be in later to see if you’ve finished. Only then will he give you your supper.”

In an attempt at dignity, Becky lifted her chin and strode toward the door without looking at him, but he moved to her side in three long strides and barred the door with his arm. “And what if I don’t want to?”

“What you want has nothing to do with it, Twaddle.” She moved past him but he took her arm.

“Very well, I’ll do your tasks, but we have one thing to settle, first.”

Becky thought to run, but she knew that was what he wanted. He was used to having his way with women. She wouldn’t show that his charged masculinity and dangerous presence affected her. She forced herself to meet his gaze.

Thick black lashes fringed his silver gray eyes. She was reminded of the silver of April rain upon the river as it flowed along the gaming fields. Vibrant, changeable eyes. His black hair fell in loose waves, touching his broad shoulders. She blinked. “What do we have to settle, Twaddle?”

He held her close, and she wondered why she didn’t break away. What was he going to do?

“You said I was bold.” His metallic gaze fell to her lips and her stomach clenched. “This is bold…”

His mouth took hers in such haste she could only gasp. Her body trembled as the kiss deepened. Her fingers squeezed the fabric in front of her, her heart beating double time. His arms tightened around her, and she felt herself swirl helplessly into exciting sensations.

When he pulled his mouth from hers, she blinked back into consciousness. “How dare you—” Becky recovered quickly. She drew back, wanting to slap that grin from his face, but her hands were full of the gathers at her bodice. Repressed anger coursed through her at the pompous audacity of the man and her own blatant reaction to him.

She kicked open the barn door. “Out!” she screamed. “Get off my property and don’t ever let me see you again!”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Very well, little butterfly, I’ll go. But I’ll take the thought of your sweet kiss with me, its memory warming my heart.”

“Out! Out! Out!”

He bowed with a flourish, then walked into the sunlit yard, his rich laughter filling the air.

Becky clutched her dress to her. Pox and calamity! How would she explain to Molly that she had let her son worm himself out of the first honest position that was ever offered to him?

Besides, if Twaddle didn’t work off the money Molly owed, how would the poor woman pay her rents?

She held her fingertips to her lips, the warm feel of his mouth still upon hers, and she felt herself blush.

Ben Twaddle was another scourge on Thornwood Hall, and she’d had more than enough of scoundrels. There was no way she’d hire that blackguard. A man like that was dangerous.

Now, if only to find a way to explain it to Molly.

Nick was still smiling when he brought the pail of water from the river to his horse, staked in the secluded glen nearby. Becky Forester was nothing like the wizened old woman he had imagined. Decidedly beautiful, with those flashing violet eyes and heavy mane of shining ebony hair.

He wondered why she hadn’t married again. Surely the lively widow had given up trying to squeeze a profit from the overgrown, weevil-ridden rubble known as Thornwood Hall. The king had said the estate hadn’t made a profit in years, and the Widow Forester had paid little in taxes for want of a good harvest.

Nick rubbed his scraggly beard. Odd. The hay in the wagon where he had bedded down was rich and fresh. The orchards, away from the path, hung heavy with green fruit. The cows in the back pasture had full udders waiting for the milkmaids. Yet the roadside fields lay untended or bore nothing but stunted crops.

Nick unwrapped the cheese that he had taken from the sack that hung from the saddle. Becky Forester didn’t expect him for another fortnight. Perhaps he should have accepted that job she had offered, or rather ordered him to take. His lips curved in a rakish grin at the memory. It might have provided just the opportunity to find the answers to his questions.

He smiled again, and he was reminded that he had smiled more today than he had in a very long time.