Stepping out into the misty darkness, Christopher moved away from the stable and for a long moment waited in silence. He turned his head from side to side to catch the slightest murmur, then it came, a low, muffled sound in the distance, like a shadowed intruder flitting across the stillness of the night or like slow, plodding hoofbeats, only much softer, as if…
He ran back into the stables and began gathering the clothes from about the fire. “Get dressed. We’ll have to leave. There are riders coming, mayhaps a score or more, and the horses are traveling with muffled hooves.” He tossed her clothes to her. “I doubt they are honest men going about at this hour in that fashion.”
Erienne hastily complied and was tugging at the laces of her stays when he returned and brushed her hands aside. Hurriedly he accomplished the task for her.
“ ’Tis the least I can do, milady,” he whispered close to her ear.
Erienne fumed in ungrateful silence as she yanked on her petticoats and gown. “Are you certain you heard someone coming?”
Christopher threw his redingote about her, giving her no time to fasten the gown, and pulled her toward the horse. “If you doubt me, stay here! You’ll find out soon enough.”
Erienne accepted his answer for the moment and stepped aside as he grabbed the old wooden bucket he had used to water his horse. He ran back to the fire and immediately doused it, then kicked dirt over the hissing, smoking pile of ashes until it was smothered beneath a heavy layer, and darkness once again reigned unchallenged in the dilapidated barn. He took the reins, throwing their cloaks and his vest and frockcoat over the saddle. He led the horse from the stable and into a thicket some distance away from the road. Erienne held onto the tail of the steed as they felt their way through the stygian gloom. They waited in the deepest shadow as the sound of muffled hooves drew nearer. A low voice called out in the night, bringing the band to a halt on the road, and soon a trio of riders pushed through the brush toward the stable.
“I tell ye I smell smoke,” one of the men argued in a hushed voice. “An’ I’ve ridden this road ’nough to know this be the only place it could come from.”
“Yer man’s gone, lad, and ’ere ain’t no need fer ye to be snoopin’ in every nook an’ cranny fer ’im. Ye let ’im slip through yer fingers, ye did.”
The horseman who had ridden to the fore left his mount and entered the stables, stopping just inside the door to look around. Returning to his steed, he swung into the saddle. “If anyone was here, they’ve gone.”
“Ye can rest easy now, Timmy,” one of the mounted men crowed. “ ’Ere ain’t nobody gonna pounce on ye from the dark.”
“Shut yer bloomin’ trap, ye blighter. I’ve lived as long as I ’ave by bein’ careful, I ’ave.”
“Let’s get back to the others,” the first man said. “We’ve a long ride ahead of us.”
When the men returned to the road, Erienne released her breath in a long, slow gasp, until then unaware that she had been holding it. She was supremely thankful that her instincts had prodded her to accompany Christopher rather than remain in the barn. As they waited for the band of riders to move on, the thought crossed her mind that she would have indeed been caught at the mercy of those men had Christopher Seton not come along.
The ride to Mawbry was cloaked in wet, grayish mists that hung close over the moors and rocky slopes. It twined about gnarled, twisted trunks of ancient oaks and blanketed the winding road until it seemed as if they swam amid a sea of thick, wispish vapors set apart from reality.
Uncomfortably aware of the man who rode behind her, Erienne tried to sit stiffly erect, but the journey was long and she was weary. His redingote kept her warm, and despite her resolve to remain aloof, she found herself sagging repeatedly against him. The shock of meeting that wide, hard chest immediately jerked her upright again, and once more she’d try again to bolster her flagging spirit.
“Relax, Erienne,” Christopher admonished at last. “You’ll be rid of me soon enough.”
His words brought back a remembrance of the haunting sense of loss she had experienced when he had walked out of the cottage and also when he had strolled away from the backyard. The memory of his kiss made her plight all the more unbearable. With other men she had known only a shivering revulsion when they tried to steal even the smallest peck. Such had not been the case with Christopher, and she feared that she was destined to remember his ardent embrace for the rest of her life.
Dawn was invading the mists by the time they reached Mawbry. Christopher wound his way around the small hamlet to the mayor’s cottage, leaned down to open the gate at the back of the cottage, and halted the animal near the rear portal. No loud snores emitted from the open window of Farrell’s room, reassuring her that he had not yet come home. Braced by the steady support of Christopher’s arm, she slid to the ground. She doffed the redingote, tossed it back to him, then would have rapidly departed from his presence, but his inquiry halted her.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
Erienne whirled with a flare of rage, and found, as she suspected, the amused and mocking grin challenging her. “Certainly not!”
Christopher sighed in feigned disappointment. “Such is the gratitude of a fickle wench!”
“Fickle!” she gasped. “You call me fickle? Why, you overconceited…buffoon! You…you…”
He kicked his horse into motion and cleared the fence with a graceful arc, his laughter trailing behind him. Erienne stamped her foot and glared after him, mumbling dire threats under her breath. She had never known a man who delighted in riling her as much as he did, and it nettled her sorely to consider his flawless success.
Midafternoon marked the time of Avery’s return, and when she saw him coming down the road with long, outraged strides, Erienne wrung her hands in anxious worry. Farrell had not seen fit to come home from his escapades and thankfully could relate nothing of her return. Still, she had kept a nervous vigil through the day, fearing what her father’s reaction would be. She grimaced when he came storming through the door, slamming it behind him. Seeing her in the parlor doorway, he glowered and yanked off his coat.
“So! Ye’re home, are ye? And me worryin’ all the way that some blackguard might have taken ye to his lair.”
Erienne dared not reveal how closely he came to the truth. Since their parting, Christopher had played too much on her mind, and she would have greatly relished the pleasure of forgetting him.
“ ’Pon me soul, girl. I don’t know what takes yer mind. Ye rant and rave about Smedley Goodfield pawin’ ye when ye know good enough he’d have the right to it if ye married him.”
Her stomach knotted in revulsion. “That’s exactly why I left. I couldn’t bear the thought of it.”
“Aaah!” He looked at her, narrowing his eyes. “Ye got yer druthers, do ye? That blighter Seton was pawin’ ye, and ye never hawked a word. But come along a good man with marriage on his mind, and ye’re suddenly squeamish about where he puts his hands. Seems to me with yer high-flyin’ ideals, ye’d take into account that Mr. Seton ain’t wantin’ ter marry ye.” He chortled as if amused. “Oh, he’d be willing enough to lay his bold self ’pon ye and have his pleasure fine and good. O’ course, if ye should take his seed in ye and nurture it, ye can expect from the likes o’ him to be left with a wee babe in yer belly and nary a husband on yer arm.”
Erienne’s cheeks warmed at the crudity of her father’s words. Not wanting to face his gleeful sneer, she turned aside and spoke in a low voice. “You needn’t worry yourself about Mr. Seton. He’s the last man I’d choose.”
The repetition with which she issued that statement was beginning to ring a note of insincerity in her own mind.
“Hah!” Avery scoffed in disbelief. “First maybe! But not last! I’d wager ol’ Smedley would rank at least a choice or two below yer fancy Mr. Seton.”
Chapter Five
IF there could be such a thing as a gray albino, then surely the next suitor to ply for Erienne’s hand w
as just that. With mouse-gray hair, a grayish hue to his face, watery gray eyes, and a bluish tinge around his lips, Harford Newton could hardly be described as anything else. His pudgy gray hands were sweaty, and he carried a kerchief which he constantly plied to his thick lips or to his ever-drizzling nose. Despite his bulk, he seemed to suffer unduly from the chills of winter, for though the day was mild and not overly crisp, his collar was pulled up snugly about his indistinct neck and a scarf laid about it. His shape and posture were generally reminiscent of an overripe melon which had gone soft, not quite fat but rather loose and flabby. His manner resembled that of a pampered house cat, demanding and arrogant. Yet unlike the cat, his eyes, when they were met by a direct gaze, seemed to retreat into the roundness of his face.
The thought of those hot, moist hands pawing her while he squirmed eagerly beside her in bed brought a sharp sense of panic to Erienne. She recalled a time when as a child she had raced too hard across the moors and suffered a threatening sickness in her stomach, something not too different from what she felt when she looked at Harford Newton. The realization that she could not stand this one whatever the cause congealed on the surface of her mind like ice on a small pond, and in the midst of it all Christopher’s words came back to haunt her. He had been arrogant in his belief that she could abide him better than any of her suitors, and it vexed her to think that he might be perfectly correct in his assumption.
By dint of will Erienne managed to maintain a guise of cool politeness with the man. She turned aside his eager advances, hoping beyond hope that he would soon grasp the meaning of her refusals, for her stomach tightened progressively with each passing moment. His arm brushed her bosom, and his hand eagerly sought her thigh as if he had already founded his claim upon her. She was afraid to test her father’s patience again, and it was nearly in desperation that she excused herself. Flying in hasty retreat to her bedchamber, she refused to heed his threats and return to the parlor until she was assured that Harford Newton was clear of the house and unlikely to come back. When she saw her erstwhile suitor’s carriage move away from the house, she heaved a long sigh of relief. Yet knowledge that she would have to contend with her father’s rage quickly diminished any feelings of contentment. Venturing back to the parlor she found him pouring a hearty libation, and she braced herself as he turned an ominous eye toward her.
“I nearly had ter put a ring in this one’s nose ter get him here, girl, and I swear his eyes lit up when he saw ye. I was sure we had found the one. But ye!” He flung up a hand contemptuously. “Ye and yer high-minded ways! Ye won’t have any o’ ’em!”
Erienne tossed her head with an uneasy laugh. “Well, there is always Mr. Seton’s offer.”
Avery slammed his fist down on the table and glowered at her. “I’d sooner the both of ye burned in hell than see him get his hands on ye!”
Erienne laughed again to hide the hurt in her voice. “Really, Father! Your concern is touching, and your value of me, at least in the Crown’s sterling, is almost surprising.”
He glared at her for a moment, his eyes piercing her through. “An’ what do ye think I’ll do for the preservation o’ yer damned purity, girl? Spend the last o’ me days in debtors’ prison?” He sneered. “Oh, I’ve taken me share o’ coin for a little fun in cards now an’ then, but I’ve spent as much on ye an’ yer brother. I’d not think it unkind if ye paid me back a bit an’ found yerself a man with a bit o’ gold in his purse who could overlook the lack o’ same in yers. ’Tain’t askin’ too much. You’re overage as ’tis. But nay, ye’d see me sent ter Newgate for the sake o’ yer bloody virginity!”
Erienne faced away to hide a quickening tear. “ ’Tis mine to give or mine to hold and dear enough to keep from those you would bring here. But what do you care? You chortle like a lusty hound and leave your own daughter to fight off the beasts.”
“Beasts is it, eh?” He drained the last of his drink with a quick toss of his head and frowned into his glass as if he wished there were more. “ ’Tis a fine fare-thee-well when a man’s only daughter gets so highfalutin she can no longer abide his will.” He caught her arm and jerked her around, demanding her attention. “Do ye think there’s any other way?” His eyes grew wide and harried. He clasped his gnarled fist in front of his gut. “I have a gnawin’ fear down here when I think o’ a cold, wet cell for me final restin’ place. I’m forced upon the rocks, girl, and I have no other way ter turn. I tell ye, I will seek out another an’ another ’til I find one who meets even yer high-flown taste!”
“You know I would not see you put in a cell,” Erienne argued. “But I have a bit of pride, too. When it comes to the truth of the matter, I’d be selling myself to one of those simpering toms for two thousand pounds. Isn’t a wife worth more than that, Father?”
“Two!” Avery threw his head back and guffawed. “Try doublin’ that, girl. Why, ’tis two I owe to that struttin’ cock himself, and as much ter those preyin’ merchants in Wirkinton.”
“Four? Four thousand?” Erienne stared at her father, appalled. “You mean you wagered two thousand pounds against Christopher Seton when you already owed that much?”
Avery would not meet her eyes but examined the back of his short, stumpy fingers. “Well, it seemed a worthy bet. ’Twould have paid me debts had not that scoundrel been so quick with his eye.”
A sudden coldness crept up Erienne’s spine. “You mean…you cheated?”
“ ’Twas too much money ter lose. Do ye ken? I had ter do somethin’!”
She was numb with shock. Christopher Seton was right! Her father had cheated! And Farrell? He had defended their father’s honor when all the time there was none.
Her stomach heaved, and she faced away, unable to look at her parent. He had let Farrell challenge Christopher, when all the while he must have known that one of them could be killed. Of course! He had hoped it would be Christopher Seton. He would have done murder to save himself from the shame he was guilty of. But it was Farrell who had paid the price for his cheating, and now it was her turn to be used, just as he had used her brother and their mother.
Her voice was frayed and cracked as she spoke with undisguised sarcasm. “Why don’t you just put me on the block and have done with it? Sell me into bondage for perhaps ten or so years. Why, I’d only be a little past a score and ten when the debt is paid. As long as your notes are taken care of, what does it matter whether I’m married or just a slave?”
Erienne paused, expecting a hasty denial, then in the ensuing silence she turned slowly to stare in burgeoning horror at her father. He leaned an elbow on the back of a chair and returned her gaze with a half-wild light in his eyes.
“On the block, ye say?” he mused aloud and rubbed his hands together in glee. “On the block? Ye may have hit upon an idea, girl.”
“Father!” The full realization of what she had done hit her. Unconsciously she had repeated Christopher’s sarcasm, and it had come tumbling back on her like an avalanche. She tried to explain. “I spoke in jest, Father. Surely you cannot consider it.”
Avery gave no evidence of having heard her. “That should bring a fair enough flurry of ’em. The highest bidder…for a bright and comely wife.”
“Wife?” Erienne repeated in a pained whisper.
“A wife who can cipher and write might bring a goodly sum, maybe a bit more’n two thousand pounds. And after ’tis done, she can’t say nay to his pawin’.”
Erienne closed her eyes, trying to calm her reeling mind. What had she done?
“O’ course, there’s got ter be a way ter keep that Seton bastard from havin’ her. Hot in his britches for her, he is. I seen the way he eyed her in the coach, as if he’d ’ave taken her then and there. Aye, there’s got ter be a way.”
“Father, I beg you,” Erienne pleaded. “Please don’t do this to me.”
Avery chortled suddenly, giving her no mind. “I’ll post it, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll have Farrell write it out for me. Ter wit!” He held up a finger, n
oting his would-be quotation. “One Christopher Seton will not be permitted to take part in the roup.”
Chuckling like a mischievous imp, Avery sank onto the edge of a chair and, rocking to and fro in glee, slapped a hand down on a knee. His eyes gleamed as he already savored the revenge he would heap on his foe. He hardly noticed when his daughter ran from the room.
By midmorning of the next day the handbills were posted, and they proclaimed that a most unusual happening would occur ten days hence. The maid, Erienne Fleming, would be sold as a bride to the highest bidder. The roup was to be held in front of the inn, or if the weather posed a problem, inside in the common room. The bill beckoned all eligible men to count the number of coins in their purse, for a minimum bid would be set for the likes of such a talented and fair maid. At the bottom of the script, in bolder lettering, a clear note was written to one Christopher Seton, warning that he would not be allowed to take part.
Ben stumbled from the inn when he saw the tall Yankee sitting astride the dark stallion in front of the posting board. With his black-toothed grin, he peered up at Christopher and thumped the parchment. “Hears ye’re banned from the roup, gov’na. The word’s spreadin’ faster’n I can spit ’bout this ’ere sport. Seein’s as how ye said ye weren’t in no marryin’ mood, ol’ Ben’s been wonderin’ what ye be up ter. Maybe the mayor gotta ’nother reason ’sides his boy for holdin’ ye away from his girl.”