Читать книгу Blackthorne - Ruth Langan, Ruth Ryan Langan - Страница 12

Chapter Five

Pembroke stood at attention behind Quenton, who sat at the head of the table. Bennett sat at his left side, with Olivia at his right side and Uat beside her. The housekeeper bustled around the table, directing the servants in the proper way to serve the guests.

Wine was poured in three goblets, though only Quenton tasted his. This was followed by a silver tray of biscuits so light they seemed to melt on the tongue. A second servant followed offering a tray of clotted cream and fruit conserves. There was a platter of new potatoes swimming in gravy, and a second platter of vegetables arranged in a clear liquid of broth.

As each course was offered, Olivia would spoon some onto her own plate and help Liat do the same.

When a serving wench approached the head of the table with a large platter, Quenton glanced at the servant, then at the housekeeper.

“What is this, Mistress Thornton?”

“Mutton, m’lord.”

“Did you inform Cook that my brother dislikes mutton? I specifically told you that he prefers beef. Or kidney pie.”

“Aye, m’lord. But Cook says yer grandfather preferred mutton. So much so that he ordered her to prepare it every night of his life.”

“Then tell her to feed it to my grandfather. And tell her also, if she serves mutton again tomorrow, she may well be joining my grandfather in his grave.”

“Aye, m’lord. I’ll tell that churlish, boil-brained harpy myself.” The housekeeper turned the full weight of her anger and embarrassment on the innocent servant. “Take this maggot-pie back to the scullery and feed it to the animals. That’s all it’s good for.”

Shocked, Olivia looked from Lord Quenton to the housekeeper. “You can’t mean that. You wouldn’t feed this to the animals.”

Quenton glowered at her. “And why not?”

“Because the servants are probably making do with little more than bread crusts and gruel.” The words were out of her mouth before she could snatch them back. Too late, she remembered where such a seed had been planted. By the servant Edlyn. “They would probably consider such a meal as this heaven-sent.”

The housekeeper’s jaw dropped. In her entire life, no one had ever dared to speak to the lord in such a manner. She looked toward Lord Quenton, whose dark gaze was fixed on the young nursemaid with such intensity, everyone in the room could feel the heat.

“Are you suggesting that my mutton should be given to the servants?”

“Your mutton, my lord? I thought you said it was Cook’s mutton? Did you not suggest you would have Cook’s head if she should dare to fix it again?”

Bennett, whose plate was heaped with food, and who had yet to taste a bite of it, swiveled his head to stare at his brother. His eyes seemed too big in his pale face.

Behind Lord Quenton, Pembroke stood stiff as a fence post, his face showing no emotion. But he was watching this battle of wills with great interest.

“It may prove to be Cook’s head. Or...someone else’s,” Quenton said pointedly. “But I’ll remind you it is my food, Miss St. John. And I’ll say who will eat it and who will not.” He pounded a fist on the table. “Mistress Thornton.”

The housekeeper cowered as she moved closer, anticipating an explosion.

“Is it true that the servants are eating bread and gruel?”

“N-nay, m’lord. Well...that is, rarely. Only when Cook’s in a snit over something said by one of the servants. But they have meat and soup at least thrice a week. Ofttimes even more than that.”

His lips thinned. “Then they are better fed than if they found employment somewhere else?”

“Oh, aye, my lord. All in the village are eager to serve at Blackthorne. It has been thus since the time of your great-grandfather.”

“Thank you, Mistress Thornton. Take this to the servants’ quarters.” Though he was speaking to the housekeeper, he kept his gaze fixed on the insolent nursemaid. “Tell them I hope they enjoy the mutton.”

For a moment Mistress Thornton was speechless. Then, recovering, she gave the serving wench a shove. “Go on with ye, now. Ye heard Lord Stamford. Tell all those yeasty, clay-brained mammets to be grateful for his lordship’s generosity.”

As the servant stumbled from the room the housekeeper snatched the arm of another servant and pushed her forward. “Perhaps ye and yer brother would like some fowl, m’lord.”

For the space of several more seconds he glowered at Olivia. Then, dragging his gaze away, he helped himself to a joint of fowl and motioned for the wench to serve the others.

Olivia glanced at Bennett, who had not eaten a thing. “Would you like some help, Bennett?”

Quenton spoke through gritted teeth. “Have you no care for his feelings, Miss St. John? I told you my brother cannot speak.”

“So you have said. But there is nothing wrong with his hearing, is there?” She turned toward his brother. “Would you like some help, Bennett?”

The young man glanced up at her, then looked away, before giving a slight nod of his head.

“I’ll fetch Minerva,” the housekeeper muttered nervously. “She’s a young lass from the village. She has a way with ’im.”

A few minutes later she returned, followed by the pretty little redheaded servant who had been at his bedside. She took a seat beside Bennett.

“Lost your appetite again?” the girl whispered.

He nodded.

“Cook probably prepared mutton again. I know how you hate it. Here. I’ll help.” She placed a fork in his hand and pointed it toward the plate. “You must try at least a little taste of everything on your plate.”

With the gentleness of a new mother she coaxed and praised until he had managed to eat almost everything.

“I suggest you do the same, young man,” Olivia said in an aside to Liat.

“Yes, ma’am.” The boy chewed woodenly while he kept his gaze fixed on the table.

All the while, at the head of the table, Lord Stamford ate in stony silence, speaking neither to his brother nor to the infuriating nursemaid and her young charge.

When the meal was done the housekeeper, eager to atone for the mutton, motioned for a young servant to approach the table with a tray of tarts.

“Ye’ve not had dessert, m’lord.”

Quenton waved her away and lifted his goblet, draining it.

When the serving wench approached Bennett, his eyes lit like a child’s.

“Would you like one or two?” Minerva asked. Without waiting, she removed two from the tray and placed them on his plate.

“Young master?” The servant paused beside Liat’s chair and the boy took one tart in each hand.

“It is proper to take only one,” Olivia whispered.

“Bennett took two.”

“Bennett may have taken two, but you may have only one.”

“What if I’m still hungry after I eat it?”

“Then we shall see about a second tart.”

Olivia sipped her tea and watched as the boy returned one of the tarts to the tray before nibbling at his pastry.

“So, boy.” Quenton sat back and waited until a servant had removed his dishes. “What has Miss St. John taught you so far?”

At Quenton’s booming question, the lad hastily chewed and gulped, then set aside the rest of his pastry and stared at the table. “She taught me—” he thought a moment “—not to be afraid of monsters.”

“Monsters?” There was a long moment of silence. “Now there’s a fine lesson.” Quenton’s sarcasm was not lost on Olivia. “What else has she taught you?”

Liat thought long and hard. Then he smiled as he lifted his head and met Quenton’s direct look. “She taught me to take only one tart at a time.”

A hint of amusement flickered in Quenton’s eyes, then just as quickly was extinguished, leaving only his familiar frown. “So much knowledge, Miss St. John.” He gave a mocking bow of his head. “I can hardly wait to see what he will know in a fortnight.”

The harshness stung. But Olivia held her head high and refused to be goaded into another outburst She was still mortified that she had allowed her temper to rule her tongue. Her sweet, docile parents would have understood her need to champion the hungry, but would have been sorely embarrassed at her lack of manners, as was she.

“Is the boy in need of anything, Miss St. John?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him once more of the boy’s name. But she cautioned herself that one scene was more than enough for this, her first dinner in his presence.

“Liat’s clothing seems a bit inadequate for our English weather. Especially if he is to accompany me on walks through the countryside.”

He nodded. “I’ll have Pembroke take you and the lad to the village tomorrow. I’ll trust you to buy him whatever he needs.”

“Thank you.”

Just then Liat slipped from his seat and walked around the table.

Quenton sent him a look of dark disapproval. “You did not ask to be excused, lad.”

“Nay, sir. I am not leaving.”

“Then where do you think you’re going?”

Even Olivia was puzzled by the boy’s action.

He paused beside Bennett. “I...don’t like to talk much either. But if you’d like, I’ll talk for you.”

Bennett looked thunderstruck. The servant, Minerva, clapped a hand to her mouth. And Quenton’s look darkened to fury. “You will take your seat at once, lad. And when we’re finished here your governess and I will have a little...”

Before he could finish, Bennett reached a hand to Liat’s. For a moment he merely stared into the boy’s eyes. Then, with a barely perceptible nod of his head, he smiled.

There were several moments of stunned silence before Quenton pushed away from the table and got to his feet. “Mistress Thornton, have the stable lad return my brother to his room.” He nodded toward Olivia. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some ledgers to see to.”

When he took his leave, Pembroke placed a decanter of whiskey and a box of cigars on a tray and followed. It was common knowledge that the lord worked late into the night on his grandfather’s accounts.

Olivia watched as Bennett was carried up the stairs to his bedroom, followed by Minerva. It saddened her that Lord Quenton had made no attempt to speak to his brother. But, she amended, the loss was his.

Catching the boy’s hand, Olivia trailed behind the others. “I was very proud of you, Liat. That was a very kind thing to do.”

“I just wanted him to know that he isn’t a monster. He’s just a man who can’t talk.”

She had to swallow several times as they climbed the stairs.

“Sometimes I don’t like to talk either. Especially when I’m feeling sad and lonely.”

“I understand. I guess it’s the same with everyone. Well,” she whispered, when they reached their chambers. “tonight wasn’t so bad, was it? Lord Stamford did look at you. He even spoke to you.”

The lad nodded his head. “Aye, miss. But that may be even worse than before.”

“Why?”

“Now I’ll have to worry about answering his questions.”

As Olivia led him to his bed and helped him into his nightclothes, she felt a kinship with this lad. She was beginning to think she would much prefer being ignored by the lord of the manor to being singled out for his wrath.

In the future, she would try to keep her thoughts to herself. With that resolve firmly in mind, she decided to go below stairs for a soothing cup of tea.

The hallway, like all the others at Blackthorne, was dimly lit, with candles guttering in pools of wax. As her footsteps echoed hollowly, Olivia paused. Had she heard someone behind her?

She turned, but could see no one. Feeling slightly foolish, she stiffened her spine and continued on. But the hair at the back of her neck prickled and she knew, without turning again, that there was indeed someone behind her.

Her stomach clenched, and it took all her willpower to keep from running. Still, determined to remain composed, she lifted her skirts and quickened her pace. And knew, with absolute certainty, that the one following her had also picked up speed.

“Pembroke? Mistress Thornton?” The slight quiver in her voice shamed her. But when she stopped and turned, she was certain she saw a shadow dart away.

This was nonsense. She was allowing some childish notion to overrule her common sense. What reason would anyone have for following her? Yet she was convinced that someone was.

The tea was forgotten. Now, all she wanted was to return to her own chambers and close herself inside. Despite her attempt at caution she was running now, darting looks over her shoulder, her breath coming in short gasps. As she rounded a corner she went crashing into solid muscle. Strong arms gripped her. She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t even cry out. All she could do was hold on while her breath tore at her lungs and she found herself looking up into Lord Stamford’s scowling face.

“What’s wrong?” He could feel the fear vibrating through her. Instinctively his arms tightened, and he ran a hand down her back to soothe, to comfort.

“I can’t...” She sucked in a breath and struggled for calm. Her chest heaved from the effort. Her arms circled his waist and held on, grateful for his. quiet strength. “Give me a moment, my lord.”

“Shhh.” Without thinking his voice softened, as did his touch. “Take all the time you need.” The feel of her arms around him caused a jolt that was not at all unpleasant. In fact, he found himself enjoying the feeling far too much. She was so small, so fragile. So very feminine.

“I thought...I heard footsteps behind me.”

“Of course you did.” He breathed in the woman scent of her. Her hair smelled of rainwater and that half-remembered fragrance from his childhood.

The troublesome ledgers were forgotten. As was everything except this woman in his arms. “Probably one of the servants.”

Now that he was holding her, she felt her fears evaporating. How could she have been so foolish? What could she possibly have to fear here at Blackthorne?

But even as her fears subsided, and her breathing returned to normal, she became aware of something else. The hands at her back had not stilled, but were moving along her spine in a most provocative manner. She looked up to see Lord Stamford staring down at her with a strange, intense look that had her heart starting to race again. This time it was a new and different sort of fear that gripped her.

“My lord...”

“You’re fine now, Miss St. John. Nothing’s remiss.” Before the words were even out of his mouth, his lips lowered to hers.

It was a jolt to the system that had him reeling. He wasn’t even sure how this had happened. One moment he’d been holding her, offering her comfort. The next his mouth was fused to hers in a kiss that robbed him of his senses.

She tasted as sweet, as fresh as morning mist. An innocent, untouched by the things of this world. If she knew what he was thinking she would be shocked to the core.

The touch of Lord Stamford’s lips was so very different from the way Olivia had felt when Wyatt had tried to force her. Despite the aura of danger that surrounded this man, there was a feeling of safety here. And pleasure. And simmering passion. As he took the kiss deeper, she sighed and found herself slipping under the spell.

The hands at her shoulders tightened, and she could feel his heartbeat as wild, as erratic as her own. Could it be that he was feeling the same quivering need? As he lingered over her mouth, she lost the ability to think at all.

Quenton knew exactly when she became so caught up in the kiss that her fear faded and the first stirrings of passion flared. She sighed and he found himself thinking about things that had long been forgotten. The thought of taking her, here, now, had him pulling back abruptly.

Something flared in his eyes briefly before he blinked. His tone was rougher than he’d intended. “You’d best go to your room now, Miss St. John.”

“Yes. Of course.” It was an effort to speak. Her throat was dry, the words strained.

As she turned away he laid a hand on her arm. At once they both felt the heat.

“It might be best if you bolt the door.”

She avoided his eyes.

“Just so you’ll rest easier.”

She nodded, then strode quickly away.

He continued to watch until she entered her suite and closed the door. He waited until he heard the bolt.

His hands were trembling, he noted. He clenched them into fists at his sides and strode quickly away. And cursed himself because, if truth be told, it wasn’t some dark shadow that had him ordering her to lock her door. It was the knowledge that he didn’t trust himself around her. Not tonight, with all the memories swirling in his mind.

She was too sweet. Too innocent. She stirred something in him. Something that was better off remaining buried forever.

Quenton stood on the windswept hillside, oblivious to the bite in the air. His feet were planted, steady, wide apart, as they had always been on the deck of his ship. Beside him, the hound’s fur ruffled in the wind.

The sea had been his refuge. At sea he had not been treated with deference because, of his name. He’d had to earn the respect of his men with sword and fist, and at times, with swift justice. But at least he’d been free to curse the storms and rage at the inhumanity he was forced to witness all around him. There, among men hardened by life’s blows, he was just another rough seaman.

For a brief time, while he engaged in battles and found an outlet for all the anger and rage, he’d fooled himself into believing that he had put the past behind him. But upon his return, he’d discovered that he’d merely hidden all the pain and fury. And now the feelings seethed and bubbled just below the surface, threatening to erupt for the slightest reason, catching him by surprise.

His gaze swept the nearby graves. His parents, resting side by side. His young bride, so beautiful, so vital. He knelt beside the freshly dug mound. And now this dear old man, who had taken in his two grandsons after the untimely death of their parents and had raised them with discipline and love.

How had it all gone so wrong?

Perhaps the Stamfords had been born under some sort of curse. Or a dark cloud, which would always blot out the sunshine. It seemed the only explanation.

In Jamaica the paper-skinned, blackbird-eyed old woman had looked into her crystal and had told him to beware.

“There is one who wants what is yours. Not just your fortune,” she had warned, “but everything you hold dear.”

He’d managed a bitter laugh. “That may have been true at one time. Now I value nothing in life, except a ship under my feet and a moonless night in which to ply my trade for His Majesty.” His remark had been tossed carelessly, causing the old woman’s tone to frost over.

“You think to bury your heart so deeply it cannot be broken again. But you are wrong, my young friend. You are fooling only yourself. One day you will step out of the darkness. But only you can find the pathway back to the light.”

“No, old woman. It is you who are wrong. You see, I much prefer the darkness.”

He had tossed her a coin as carelessly as he had tossed his casual remarks. But her words had remained with him. And haunted him still.

He studied the marker over his wife’s grave. With her he had been, in those first heady months, deliriously happy. What made it even more perfect was the fact that his grandfather and his younger brother adored her as much as he. Their family had seemed, in that brief time, to have reached a pinnacle of happiness.

And then it had all come crashing down. At first he’d been unwilling to admit the truth, even to himself. But then, as she had become more distant and more riddled with guilt, there had been no room left for denial. Antonia had been unfaithful. The rumors and whispers of a secret lover were rampant. Even young Bennett was suspect, though Quenton adamantly refused to dignify such a suspicion.

Even now it wasn’t anger or jealousy he felt whenever he looked at Bennett; it was shame. Shame that his brother had been there in his stead. And pity, for what the once young, handsome Bennett had become. A hard, cold knot of pity that ate at Quenton’s soul. The sight of all that suffering and torment was tearing him apart.

Their loving family had been shattered beyond repair by grief and scandal and despair. Despite what the old woman had said, he could see no way back to the light.

He shivered and glanced up. Two figures strolling across a moor caught his eye. Even from this distance he could see the shiny blue-black cap of hair on the boy, and the wind-tossed curls of the nursemaid.

If he were to leave now, he could avoid running into them. That was his first thought. He had steadfastly ignored Olivia St. John since the night he had kissed her. But something made him stay where he was. Perhaps it was curiosity over the wild gesturing of the boy, as he pointed to something in the long grass. Or perhaps it was the way the young woman knelt down and guided the boy’s hand to whatever had taken cover. Quenton remained very still, watching and listening.

Their voices carried on the breeze. The boy’s soft, musical; hers low, cultured, with a gentle laugh that touched a chord deep inside him.

“It is a baby bird. See, his mother hovers nearby, scolding us. She was probably giving him a flying lesson when he fell to the ground.”

“May I keep him?”

“Oh no, Liat. That wouldn’t be right. He needs his mother. She’s the only one who can properly feed him and teach him the things he needs to learn to survive on his own.”

“May I hold him?”

“No, dear. His poor mother is nearly mad with worry. Listen to her heartbreaking cries.”

The boy glanced up at the bird that was circling their heads.

“Let’s leave him now, so his mother can sit beside him and satisfy herself that he’s unharmed. Come. I’ll race you to that rock.” Olivia caught up the hem of her skirt and started running.

Liat followed suit.

Olivia slowed her pace to give her young charge a chance to pass her. He touched a hand to the stone and turned to her in triumph. “I beat you.”