Читать книгу Embrace The Dawn - Jackie Summers - Страница 6

England, September 1651

She felt someone staring at her.

Anne Lowell peeked through the leafy branches of the alders and studied the silent bank of the river. Too silent. The mallards had taken flight and a hush had fallen over the forest. From a nearby stand of oak, her mare whinnied. She drew back, clasping her arms in front of her. Someone was there!

Perhaps her own presence had quieted the woods, Anne reasoned, forcing the jittery feeling away. Aye, it was only her fear of being discovered that plagued her mind with devils.

At that moment, church bells pealed to signal the beginning of noon prayers. Dear God, she had no more time to behave like a poltroon. She must find her mother’s locket—God rest her soul—and sneak back to her chamber before her uncle discovered she had gone.

With trembling hands, she scuffed off her slippers and woolen hose and tossed them aside. Next, she untied the blue ribbon lacings of her bodice. She yanked the loose-fitting day dress over her head, dropping it in a billow of white muslin on top of the slippers and hose. An unexpected breeze whipped the thin remaining undergarments about her young body. She shivered, feeling naked.

The rough grass felt harsh to her tender feet as she stepped to the bank, gathered her shift close to her body and inched her way into the cold river.

The slimy bottom oozed between her toes and she shuddered. By the time she had waded to the spot where Lyle, the scullery boy, had tossed the locket, the water reached above her knees. Damn that pesky little whelp! She’d nail Lyle’s ear to the buttery door when she saw him.

Anne waded deeper into the rushing river. Taking a gulp of air, she dove beneath the river surface, stifling a gasp as the icy water engulfed her.

She forced her eyes open. Frightful images of water monsters bubbled up in her mind like witch’s brew as her hands searched the swaying reeds and fanlike plants that danced along the river bottom. With shaking fingers, she scratched at the loose silt and pebbles, her mind willing the murky demons away.

Despite the illumination of the sun, nothing glittered on the river bottom. When her lungs demanded it, she stood up and inhaled deeply of the crisp September air. Blinking, she shook the streaming rivulets from her face and wiped her long red hair back from her eyes. Her teeth chattered, but she ignored her trembling. As she prepared to dip beneath the water, a branch cracked and a horse’s whinny stopped her.

She whirled in the direction of the noise, her heart thumping wildly. A branch of oak leaves separated. A Roundhead soldier stared down at her from astride the largest stallion she had ever seen. The horse’s white forelegs and blaze on its head flashed against the black sheen of its coat. Her heart doubled its rhythm when the soldier rode out of the shadows and stopped in a patch of sunlight near the shore.

Anne froze for only a moment. She plunged into the river and crouched low, only her head above water.

“What have we here, Shadow?” the soldier asked his horse while dismounting. Sunlight glinted from his round metal helmet and when he lifted his visor, she saw that his eyes were bold and dark. “I think she’s a mermaid, and a pretty one, she is.”

Her uncle’s warning to keep away from the soldiers camped at Wycliffe Manor played back in her mind, although Anne didn’t need to be reminded what black-hearted devils all Roundheads were.

The dark eyes flashed and brazenly assessed her with a gleam of satanic curiosity. “Who are you, mermaid, and what are you doing in the river?” His rich baritone voice with its blatant masculinity frightened her more than his question.

She wanted to run, but what if there were more soldiers with him? Her mare could never outrun his steed. Ignoring the shiver that passed through her, she answered with a defiant lift of her chin, glared back and clamped her mouth shut. She saw his angular jaw tighten in response as he released the stallion’s reins, freeing the horse to drink.

All her instincts warned her that he was dangerous. She stepped back, the water rushing below her ears. “Be off with you.” Her voice trembled as she hunched lower, water lapping at her chin. “You have no right to be here.”

“No right to be here?” His deep voice feigned surprise, but his bold eyes glinted mockingly. “An officer of the Commonwealth not welcome at Wycliffe Manor? That’ll make hearty laughter tonight when I sup with George Lowell and his guests.”

God’s bones! He would be at her uncle’s dinner party! “You can’t!” Anne’s hand shot to her mouth. She saw genuine surprise light his eyes. “I—I mean...of course, you can, but...” She could see him thinking, measuring her. “But you’re not welcome here...with me, that is.”

He gave her a disbelieving glance, then concluded his assessment with a crooked grin. “I mean you no harm, lass. But these woods aren’t safe. You might meet a straggling Royalist, limping home like a whipped dog from last week’s battle.”

Anne sprang to attention. How she wanted to shout back at this black-hearted enemy that she’d welcome the chance to meet one of the king’s soldiers. Praise God, the poor soul might have news of her father. Instead, her mouth formed a tight line in answer; she dared not trust herself to speak out. He met her silence with interest.

“Could it be that the lovely maid hasn’t heard of our victory over Charlie Stuart?”

Haven’t heard, indeed! Her uncle had boasted of nothing else since word came that King Charles had barely escaped from Cromwell’s armies and was fleeing for his life. If only she dared ask him if he had news of her father. Possibly, an officer in Cromwell’s army might know if one of the most wanted Royalists, next to the young king, of course, had been captured.

But she dared not risk any action that might give away her identity. If this officer were to report seeing a red-haired maid in the river, even her uncle’s feeble imagination would tell him she was the only soul who would dare do such a thing.

Silently, the soldier studied her like a fox waiting to spring at the henhouse door. “Tell me who you are, lass.”

The sheep bells tinkled beyond the meadow and, with them, an idea sprang to mind. “I’m a shepherdess at Wycliffe Manor.” Hopefully, the fib might keep her identity safe.

He gave her a skeptical look while he carelessly raked back the lock of hair that fell across his forehead. When he moved, she noticed the gold cords dangling from the wide shoulders of his jacket, signifying an officer’s rank. “The other servants don’t mind tending your sheep while you idle away the day?”

“What the servants do is none of your business, Private,” she added, hoping the snub would wipe away his confidence.

The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Lieutenant,” he corrected, “but why don’t you call me Nat,” he said softly.

The bold familiarity of his intimate suggestion left her a little breathless. “If you must know,” she managed, “a servant threw a trinket of mine in the river. I—I refuse to leave here until I find it.” She hoped he hadn’t heard her teeth chatter.

“Why would he do such a vile thing to a sweet maid as yourself?” His dark eyes seemed to ignite as he gazed at her.

“B-because I wouldn’t k-kiss him, that’s why.” Despite the chilly water, Anne felt her cheeks flame with anger as she recalled what Lyle had done.

His mouth lifted slightly in a crooked smile. “And you didn’t kiss him because your heart belongs to another?”

“Of c-course n-not.” She rubbed her arms to warm herself, the water splashing bubbles to the surface. “I didn’t kiss Lyle because he’s an oaf and I—I hate him.”

His smile broadened and her gaze lingered on his full, chiseled mouth and the white, even teeth that contrasted with his suntanned face. He looked no more than a few years past twenty when he smiled like that.

He strode to the edge of the grassy bank and stopped, booted legs spread apart, large square hands on hips. God’s bones, he was going to wade in after her. Instead, he removed his helmet, revealing a face much younger than most of the officers who visited with her uncle. Younger and surprisingly handsome, for a Roundhead. Dark brown hair brushed his collar, a sharp contrast to the short, bowl-cut style of the officers who supped with her uncle. His straight nose and well-shaped mouth meant he could be gentle, Anne knew. She had overheard Daisy, the kitchen maid, talking about men. His thick dark brows and square chin meant he could be stubborn, if he had a mind. Aye, Daisy and the other maids would be all aflutter when they saw this turkey cock!

He peered out at the river, as though surveying the flow. “There’s a dangerous look to the current,” he said, his face serious. “There’s a mean look about those dark swirls over there.” He pointed toward the middle of the river. “An undertow if I’d have my guess.”

“Nonsense,” Anne tossed back, angry at herself for her girlish reaction to him. “I—I’ve no more time t-to talk to you,” she added. “If I lose the sunlight, I’ll n-never be able to find my trinket. I—I’ve known this r-river all my life and th-there’s no undertow.” She could tell by the way the soldier studied the current that he wouldn’t be leaving soon. “I wish you’d go on about your business, and leave me to mine.” With that, Anne peered down through the water where the sun glinted and flickered.

The officer remained on the bank, arms crossed, watching her. “You’d best come out of there, at once.”

Ignoring him, she took a deep breath and plunged into the water. This time, she moved farther from shore. Trying to judge her bearings, she looked about the murky bottom. She remembered Lyle had been standing on the granite outcrop when he tossed the locket into the river, the same place where the lieutenant now stood. Her fingers carefully threaded through the soft ooze with steady motions. A flash of a shiny object beneath the silt caused Anne’s heart to hammer. It was her locket! It had to be!

She reached out to grab it when a sudden rush of movement nearly toppled her over. A giant swell of bubbles pulled at her. She felt a tight constriction across her chest as if caught up by the relentless arm of a sea monster. The river demons had snatched her, just as her uncle had warned! God’s bones, she was being yanked into the bowels of the river, down, down, down, toward the serpents of Neptune!

No, she wasn’t! She broke the bubbly surface and gasped as she discovered it wasn’t the serpents of Neptune, but the lieutenant. The powerful arms that fixed tightly beneath her armpits held her fast. He leaned low from his saddle and swept her out of the water. She sputtered and coughed as his sturdy hands clamped her sides and dragged her across his lap, then propped her against his chest, facing him.

Anne gulped a deep breath of air and coughed again. “Wh-what are—?” she choked. She struggled against his commanding grip. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Saving your sweet neck, chit.” His arms bulged with muscle as his grip tightened about her. With a jingle of spurs, he urged the stallion toward shore. High bursts of water splashed at their sides, spraying them as they lunged forward.

The horse leapt over the bank, its mane streaming like black silk ribbons in the breeze. Anne fell back against Nat’s hard chest. Her heart skipped madly as she pulled the streaming curtain of hair from her face.

“Y-you’ve n-no right!” She drew a shaky breath. “There was no undertow. If you hadn’t...” Her words trailed off when her gaze met his dazzling brown eyes sheltered beneath thick dark brows. Luxuriant black lashes fringed eyes the color of the dark, secret places of the forest. The wind snatched a lock of unruly chestnut hair, swirling it against his sun-browned forehead. The high cheekbones and strong jaw brought power and authority to his face; the full mouth brought sensuality. His closeness sent an unbidden thrill shooting through her. She felt as skittish as a newborn lamb.

His gaze lowered boldly to her breasts and her cheeks burned with indignation. Her hands flew to her bosom in a desperate attempt to cover herself.

He flashed a rakish grin before reaching behind the saddle and throwing a horse blanket over her. When he shifted, she felt his hard thigh muscles beneath her. Her flush deepened, and she was aware that her face must appear more scarlet than the crimson scarf tied about his waist.

Gratefully Anne covered herself with the scratchy blanket. She tried to speak, but no words came. Shivering, feeling deathly cold, she wanted to jump out of his arms, like a fish, and slide back into the river.

His arms tightened about her. “Stop fighting me, mermaid. I mean no harm, although I can’t speak for all of the soldiers posted here.”

She stole another glance at him, but his visor had slipped down about his face. She stopped struggling. She knew her efforts were futile.

His buff leather coat was unlaced at the throat. He didn’t wear the gorget, or metal armor that officers wore around their neck while on duty. In its place she noticed crisp whorls of dark hair pushed up from his open collar. For an instant, she forgot her own embarrassment and flushed deeper at the strange sensations she felt at his nearness.

When they reached the small clearing on shore, he slid to the ground with her. She saw the mare toss her head, then whinny, as if in a relieved greeting.

“Is that what you went after?” he asked roughly.

“Wh-what?” Her eyes never left his.

“This?” The lieutenant squeezed her hand and she looked down into her own small fist to see her gold locket and chain.

“My locket.” Clutching it to her breasts, Anne gave a little cry. “I did grab it when you came crashing in after me.” She held on to the blanket with one hand while she slipped the locket around her neck and embraced it.

“Now that you’ve got your trinket, you’d best get dressed and return to your flock.” Nat gazed into her wide blue-green eyes. Aye, those eyes, fringed by wet, long, spiky lashes—she looked like a water nymph sprung to life.

He watched as she wrapped the blanket about herself. “Turn around while I get my clothing,” she ordered.

Nat raised an eyebrow. “Your sudden modesty is a bit late, wouldn’t you say, wench?” He saw the blush stain her cheeks—more from anger than shame, he’d wager. Nonetheless, he turned his back as she scrambled toward the outcrop where her crumpled garments lay.

Frowning, Nat crossed to a rock and sat down, ignoring the sloshing at each step he took. His boots were soaked, his wool breeches drenched, and water splotches stained his leather coat.

She marched back toward him, her hastily gathered clothing over her arm. “It’s your own fault you’re wet,” she said, her eyes sparkling with self-satisfaction. “There was no undertow, I tell you.”

“If I hadn’t come along when I did, you’d be food for the minnows, by now.”

“Nonsense!” She strode past him on her way toward a copse of willows away from shore.

He pulled off his left boot and emptied the water from it, stealing a glance at her over his shoulder. She lifted her shoulder in an arrogant gesture despite her shredded dignity, before disappearing behind a small willow to change her clothing.

Nat chuckled and crossed his legs in front of him while he considered the tempting wench who had gotten him wet. Tempting liar was more like it. Damn, but she was as much a shepherd maid as he was a lieutenant in the bloody Roundhead army!

He absently rubbed the dark stubble about his face as he remembered reading Babson’s smuggled report that mentioned George Lowell’s young ward, Anne. But nothing had prepared him for the beguiling vision of the lass in the river. The sight of those soft feminine curves had nearly undone him. And that mouth! How tempting her heart-shaped lips had looked—as sweet as a sun-warmed peach. And those eyes! Their blue-green color captivated him, changeable and turbulent like the first time he had seen the Mediterranean Sea during a tempest.

Nat pulled off his other boot and removed a sock, wringing it as dry as he could. He took a deep breath and frowned. How long had it been since he had been with a woman? If he’d had anything on his mind besides his own secret mission to meet up with the king, those bright eyes and generous mouth might be just too tempting to resist.

But when the dangers of these next few days were over, he’d have plenty of time to slake his desires with one of the lusty tavern wenches at the Pied Bull Inn. Until then, although she was a tempting lass, he’d best keep his mind on business.

Nat’s jaw tightened when he remembered the gold locket. Had that bauble she had risked her pretty neck to find been a gift from Colonel Twining? he wondered. If so, Anne would be expected to wear it this evening, no doubt, when her betrothal to the colonel would be announced. No wonder she had been in such a bother to find it.

Babson. How lucky he was to have a loyal informant in such a crucial position as valet to Colonel Twining. Although Nat would ordinarily relish any information, however trivial, about the powerful Roundhead, the fact that Anne would soon become Twining’s bride caused an unsettling feeling through him. How he’d like to taunt Twining with the fact that he’d held his betrothed’s near-naked body close against him. And a very tempting body it was, too.

His mouth twitched. Too good for the likes of Twining.

Another of the items in Babson’s report came to mind. Anne was the daughter of the Royalist, Jonathan Lowell. No doubt the wench followed her uncle’s politics, Nat decided, since she was about to marry one of Cromwell’s puppet officers. No wonder she had been so fearful of being recognized and the retelling of her actions getting back to her betrothed, Colonel Twining.

The bushes rustled again and Nat turned to see her snatch up the blanket, toss it over her shoulder and storm toward him. Her long red hair was knotted on top of her head. She wore a rumpled muslin gown that was at least two sizes too big, and by the damp marks already appearing across her bodice, it was evident she hadn’t removed her wet undergarments.

She whipped her eyes back to his. “Are you still here?”

Nat shaded his eyes from the sun as he watched her approach him. “I’m waiting to hear you say thank you to me for saving your life, mermaid.” He chuckled as he saw her shoulders stiffen and her hands ball into tiny fists in response.

He stretched his bare feet lazily in front of him and leaned back against the rock. “I’ll see you to your flock, if you wait while I put my boots back on,” he teased, knowing the last thing she wanted was for him to follow her.

When she neared, he saw the thought struggle in her blue-green eyes, just as he hoped. When she came to within a foot of him, she dropped the horse blanket over his head without breaking stride and marched toward the mare cropping grass nearby.

“I don’t need an escort to find my way.”

“You’re not very friendly, considering you owe me your life,” he shouted back, tossing the blanket to the side. “I’ve enough misery without ruining my uniform and boots trying to save the likes of an ungrateful chit.” He tried unsuccessfully not to grin as he wrung out the other sock. “Remember, if you sprint about as a water nymph again, the next man you meet may not be a gentleman.” He saw her cheeks redden and her eyes flash.

“You’re not a gentleman,” she replied. “A gentleman would have left the minute he noticed a maid in the water.” She glared with undercurrents more dangerous than those of the river. Grabbing the reins of her mare, she trudged back toward him.

Nat squinted up at her. “You’re a bale of trouble, wench.”

Anne reached out and grabbed one of the boots he had discarded, then quickly mounted her horse. Narrowing his eyes from the sun, Nat stretched out for it, but a second too late. He heard her smug laugh as he scrambled to his feet and hopped after her, but the sharp stones and rough ground slowed his pace.

Without so much as a look back she goaded the mare into a gallop toward the river.

“Bloody hell!” Nat shouted. “Don’t you dare...!”

She flung his boot into the water with all of her might. With a throaty chuckle, she whipped her horse around and faced him with a triumphant grin. “Watch out for the undertow, Lieutenant!” She wheeled her mare around and gave him a parting salute as she set off at a gallop along the hedgerow in the direction of Wycliffe Manor, her silver laughter ringing out after her.

* * *

Chickens squawked and flew in the air as Anne ran across the fowl yard toward the buttery, her black skirts flying behind her. At the garden post, she paused, her fingers toying nervously with her locket as she peered around the shrubbery before making a beeline for the servants’ stairs at the rear of the kitchen.

It had taken her less than a half hour to sneak along the hedgerow to the milking barn and change into the proper dress which she had previously stashed in the hidden space behind the boards of her mare’s stall.

Before scurrying toward the manor house, Anne stopped and looked back across the rolling autumn fields beyond. Her heart beat a little faster as she thought of the handsome lieutenant.

“Call me Nat,” he had said.

Clutching her locket, she bit her lip. But of course the lieutenant hadn’t followed her. He had believed her story and, by now, would think she had returned to her sheep. A warm blush swept over her as she remembered how his eyes darkened when he stared at her while he held her on his lap.

She had never been so near to a Roundhead, nor had she ever wanted to be. Of course, Uncle George was a Roundhead, but that wasn’t the same. The lieutenant was a...soldier. Soldiers killed other Englishmen in the name of duty—Englishmen like her father, who had a bounty of gold sovereigns on his head.

Her dear father. Had it already been a year since he had risked his life to sneak into Wycliffe Manor late one night to see her? How handsome he had looked, dressed in his royal blue velvet cloak, the cavalier-lace sprinkling like crystals from his throat and wrists. He had risked capture even then, when he crept through the priest’s hole—the hidden passageway—that led from the milk barn to the second-floor landing of the manor. She would never forget the moment when her father had promised to send for her, once Charles Stuart, God keep him, was restored and the despicable Oliver Cromwell driven into the sea.

“How much you resemble your mother,” her father had said. “You have her beauty, Anne, but you must strive for her patience and understanding.”

She had nodded, knowing her father wanted her compliance, but God’s bones, she would never learn how to be patient. Besides, she really never wanted to understand the madness of politics that branded a man like her father a traitor. Still, instead of speaking her mind, she had stoically watched him go.

A cold shudder crept down her spine despite the fact the afternoon was unseasonably warm. What was the matter with her? She had been whisper close to her father’s enemy, yet she had felt something so extraordinary it had taken her breath away.

Outside the buttery door the kitchen maid, Daisy, sat peeling apples and batting her eyelashes at several admiring soldiers. Anne gave a short huff. Apparently Uncle George or anyone of importance must not be around, or those soldiers would never dare loll away in such a manner.

She straightened her prim white collar, brushed the chaff and weed seeds from her skirts and gingerly strolled across the cobbled path toward the darkened buttery. Humming softly, she made her way, as though she hadn’t a care in the world. Without glancing at Daisy, she knew the servant would be much too involved with her own pastimes to pay her any mind.

Anne pushed open the buttery hatch. Smells of fermenting ciders and acrid pickles in brine rushed at her. She ducked around the table filled with covered crocks, cringing as she always did at the huge flies humming at the windows.

In the hall, boot steps clanked along the floorboards. Her pulse quickened as she waited, ear to the door, until the footsteps faded down the hall. Quiet. She drew a deep breath, hiked up her skirts and dashed toward the stairs. Grinning with success, she bolted up the steps, two at a time.

“Mistress Anne?” Uncle George called from the doorway of his study, down the hall. His ruddy face appeared more crimson than usual. Anne’s spirits sank like a rock. She stopped dead still, her eyes wide.

“Mistress Anne. You’re late. Come here this instant!”

Her mouth felt dry as she answered, “Yes, Uncle George.” She patted the damp tendrils of hair that threatened to spill from under her cap, straightened her creased apron and turned to meet her fate.