With a heavy sigh, he waved a hand in a gesture of impatience. “I can’t seem to make it come out right anymore.”
“You have too much anger in you,” she said softly.
He scoffed. “Are you in addition to your beauty a seer of the ages that you can read me so openly?”
For the first time Erienne felt as if she could understand a small part of him. “No, milord, but I have known grief and anger and hatred, and I have seen them in others around me. Indeed…Stuart”—his name did not come easily in his presence—“I have known precious little else these past couple of years. My mother was the only one to express love to me, and she is many months gone. Though you wear the mask, I can see in you many of those emotions…and they frighten me.”
“They needn’t. I mean no harm to you.”
Her gaze lowered, and she half turned to stare into the darkness. “However scarred your body might be, I realize that your soul suffers far more, and because of this, I pity you.”
He gave a snort of derision. “I urge you to save your pity for a more deserving soul, madam. ’Tis the last thing I want from you.”
“Stuart…”
“And I would urge you, madam, to have a care when addressing me. The use of my given name in public could bring about your widowhood in a most untimely manner.”
“I will be careful, milord.” She moved forward, glancing about the room in curiosity. “Would this be the music room?”
“ ’Twas my father’s study. He doted on his lady’s skill with this.”
“You seem to know the manor well.”
“Why do you say that, my love?”
“I have wandered about this place for several days,” she answered softly, “but I found no harpsichord.”
“I am a normal man in the guise of a beast. While you dream upon your pillows, madam, I am pierced with visions of the one my heart would have, and I roam this house in agony. Whatever distractions I find here, I welcome.”
“I do not begrudge you anything, Stuart,” she said gently.
He rose and with that odd hitching gait, came to stand close before her. “Madam, you would hide in your chambers, trembling with fear, if you knew the full weight of that emotion I now hold in check.”
Slowly he lifted a hand, and Erienne fought the urge to flee as he reached out to cup her breast. Her whole body trembled beneath his touch, and it took all of her resolve to stand quietly while his thumb caressed the soft peak. Then his arm slipped about her slender waist as if to draw her toward him, and she broke, twisting out of his embrace, and was gone, flying in sudden panic through the house, never pausing until she was again in her chamber. Gasping for breath and with weak knees trembling beneath her, she rested her back against that solid-paneled door which, though unbolted, had protected her thus far, and from far below came the hollow echo of rasping, mocking laughter.
Chapter Fourteen
THE night was cold and crystal clear. The stars twinkled with a brilliance of their own. With the crisp air, the light snow cover squeaked beneath the feet, and one had to tread softly to pass through the night unheard.
In a small valley near the top of a swelling moor, a camp had been laid, and it bore a feeling of permanency. Lanterns were lit, and a half-score tents were banked with straw and dead leaves as added protection against the cold. At the far end of the valley a shallow cave was stacked with powder kegs, wooden boxes, and other supplies. Near one side of it, a series of rope stalls held more than a dozen horses. In the center of the camp a pair of heavily garbed men half squatted on logs beside a fire.
“Poor ol’ Timmy,” one sighed. “ ’At night rider took him, he did. Skewered him right through the gizzard, then slit his throat.”
“Aye,” the other agreed, nodding his head before he sucked at a small earthen cup of ale. “ ’At blackhearted whelp o’ the devil’s runnin’ too close for comfort. ’At ol’ widder woman, she says as how she saw the night rider not more’n two or three miles south o’ here.”
“The cap’n better be findin’ us another hideout. In a trade the likes o’ this, Luddie, ’tain’t wise ter keep chambers too long in one spot.”
“Aye, we’ve got enough fer a foin spree. Even figgerin’ what Timmy took ter lay off on his doxie, ’twould fetch us a high time in Carlisle. Remember, Orton, ’at low street tavern? An’ ’at sweet plumpy, red-haired wench what serviced the rooms?”
Orton surveyed the high stone cliffs that surrounded them, then stood up and stamped his numb feet. He jerked his head toward the dark-shadowed opening that marked the entrance to the hidden vale. “ ’Oo’s on lookout?”
Luddie huddled beneath his dark cloak. “John Turner’s out there. He’ll be comin’ in near midnight and wake ol’ Clyde.”
“Then I’ll be turnin’ in,” Orton stated, tossing a large log on the fire. Stomping off, he entered one of the tents and soon doused the light.
Luddie watched for a while, then shivered and went to his own tent. The camp grew quiet. The lamps went out one by one, and soon the only light came from the dimmed lantern hanging from the stable cave and the flickering fire. The multitude of snores grew loud, and no one heard the distant grunt as John Turner was struck from behind. A rope swished in the still night air as it sailed over a stout branch of a tall tree. The limp form was dragged up feet first, and in the gentle breezes he swung like a pendulum with the creaking of the branch to mark the passing of time.
A vague movement came near the entrance, and an indistinct black form materialized from the darkness. The shape paused at the very edge of the firelight where the dancing flames cast a dim glow over the black, shrouded figure and the huge ebony stallion he rode. Like the eerie quiet before a raging storm, the ghost rider waited with deathlike stillness.
His arm came forward, swinging a dark shape on the end of a long rope so that it landed in the fire. There was a crackling and a snapping, and in a moment a dead yew, perhaps the height of a man, was ablaze with white-hot flames. The nighthawk reined the horse around, careless now of sound. He jerked the rope, and the blazing tree soared. With a thunderous bellow, he set spurs to his heavy-muscled steed, swinging him in a wide circle and dragging the tree behind. The thing bounced, twisted, crashed, bounced again, as if it were a wild creature at the end of a tether. Burning brands flew in every direction, and the canvas shelters burst readily into flame. The rider made a wide sweep of the tents, igniting them all.
The camp dissolved into a screaming melee. Men burst from the burning tents and rushed about in mindless confusion, screaming and shouting, slapping at the bits of charred or flaming canvas that clung to them while frantically trying to salvage their hides and hair or whatever unscorched portions remained of them.
The night rider spurred his mount toward the cave and hurled his brand atop the small kegs that were neatly stacked against the back wall. The horses shrieked in panic and broke their ties to race out and plow, jumping and kicking, through the already dazed men of the camp.
Old Clyde was on his way toward the entrance when he came upright in sudden fear. He screamed, and the snow melted about his shuffling feet as he tried to put some direction to them. The black stallion reared before him, its rider garbed in flowing cloak and with a length of pale blue steel in his hand. The apparition laughed, and Clyde would later swear the rider’s eyes flashed fire as he shouted for all who would listen.
“Cutthroats and the likes of ye shall find no haven in these hills! I will search ye out wherever ye go until ye scatter and flee for yer lives!”
Clyde waited, clenching his eyes tightly shut. He was certain that his end would come and was almost as sure that the flashing steel had already sapped his life without his knowledge. After a moment he lowered his arms from off his head and opened his eyes. His raised foot sagged until his toe tentatively touched the ground, and his jaw hung slack, nearly meeting it.
The vision was gone. What remained was only a peal of laughter echoing above the din in the vale.
&
nbsp; Clyde turned and found two others gaping behind him. His hand shook as he gestured over his shoulder. “Did ye see?” His fear-trebled voice broke, and he tried again. “Did ye see him? I fought him off.”
His hand searched wildly for a weapon to support his claim. A broken tent pole seemed to fill it magically, and he brandished it in gleeful relief that he was still alive.
Someone in the camp fired a musket, and the ball ricocheted from a cliff to whine harmlessly off in the night. Then a voice gabbled in growing fear. “The fire! The powder kegs! They’re on fire!”
As if to support the statement, a bright flash filled the stable cave, and a score or so of small flaming casks went bounding through the vale. Horses ran everywhere, and the blazing tents and clothes were pounded into a snowy wet rubble amid the tumbled rocks. Men leapt for shelter or sought with bare hands to scratch shallow trenches in the icy earth where they lay, anything to escape the burning kegs and the flaring gunpowder that with a vengeance sought them out.
A mile or so away a black-clad rider paused in crossing a low bridge to look back at the havoc he had wrought. A rapid series of flashes lit the night sky. Flaming brands etched neat, fiery arcs and fell sputtering through the air while a herd of horses fled at breakneck speed across a distant rise. Even from where he was, he could still hear the bellows of rage and screams of pain.
The night rider chuckled to himself. It was better than five miles to the nearest shelter, and a lightly clad walk on a cold winter’s night should give them all something to think about.
Lord Saxton’s rooms were at the front of the manse, and from the diamond-paned windows one had a clear view of the road that wound its way across the valley toward the tower entry. Erienne had ventured to the chambers with Aggie to judge the need for further furnishings, and for the first time Erienne surveyed the rooms, which were slightly smaller than her own. A small, separate alcove provided privacy for baths and grooming, and as in the larger room, everything was neatly in place. The foot of the heavily draped, canopied bed opened toward the hearth, where a pair of Elizabethan chairs sat at a small table. Nearer the windows and on the adjoining walls, two tall armoires, locked against intrusion, faced each other from opposite sides of the room. A wide desk was placed beneath the windows where it could catch the light, and a thick, leather-bound book lay on its polished planks near an oil lamp.
Aggie gestured to the volume and stated matter-of-factly, “The master keeps a record o’ his tenants here. Ye’ll find an account o’ all the births and deaths o’ those who’ve ever lived here on the Saxton lands. Someday, mum, the births o’ yer wee ones will be noted here in his lordship’s own hand.”
Erienne was not sure if she appreciated the reminder of what her duties entailed, but she could hardly fault the woman for the enthusiasm she displayed when the subject concerned the family’s continuance. She was accepting the fact that Aggie was uncommonly fond of her master, and like a doting mother, seemed blind to his fearsome appearance.
That fact was not true of his wife, however, and even as she stood in his bedchamber, well aware that he had left the manor a full hour before, she could not feel totally at ease. He had startled her so many times by appearing without warning, she could never be sure where he was. She had come to his rooms almost reluctantly, not wanting to intrude, yet knowing she could not continue to avoid them without arousing the servants’ curiosity.
“There’s a coach comin’, mum,” Aggie called from the window.
Erienne joined the housekeeper at the crystal panes. Apprehension settled in as Erienne recognized the conveyance, and she was more than a little curious as to what manner of business Lord Talbot was about today and who he would be wanting to see.
She waited beside the window until the coach halted, not in the mood to humor the man by rushing down to meet him. She remembered his conduct at the assembly far too well to look forward to entertaining him in the absence of Lord Saxton.
“Why, mum”—Aggie leaned forward as a billowing skirt appeared in the door of the coach—“ ’tis Miss Talbot. Goodness, I wonder what brings her here.”
Surprise etched the lovely features of her mistress and was quickly replaced by a look of dismay. Self-consciously Erienne smoothed her gown. Since she had dressed for warmth and work, it was not her best, yet she rejected the idea of changing into one of the fine gowns Lord Saxton had given her, just to impress the woman. Somehow that seemed vain and pretentious.
Erienne cast a last glance about her and determined that a rug in front of the hearth would greatly improve the comfort of the room. As she descended the stairs to meet the woman, it dawned on her that she was just as reluctant to meet Claudia as she was Lord Talbot. Neither was very endearing as a friend.
Claudia had been shown into the great hall and was sitting in Lord Saxton’s chair near the fireplace when Erienne entered. Claudia glanced around as she came across the room, and then Claudia smiled in derisive amusement as her gaze flicked over the plain woolen gown of her hostess.
“How fit you look, Erienne,” she observed. “I’d have thought you’d have aged at least a score since your marriage.”
Feigning her own amusement, Erienne inquired, “Whatever made you think that, Claudia?”
“Why, I’ve heard that Lord Saxton is no less than a beast, that he is simply ghastly to look at.”
Erienne managed a benevolent smile. “Did you come out of curiosity?”
“My dear Erienne, I came to offer my condolences.”
“How kind of you, Claudia,” Erienne responded sweetly. “But you have made a dreadful mistake. My husband is very much alive.”
“Poor Erienne,” Claudia sighed in exaggerated concern. “You try so hard to be brave.” Eagerly she leaned forward in her chair as she asked, “Tell me, does he beat you? Is he mean to you?”
Laughter dispelled the idea. “Oh, Claudia, do I look as if I’ve been beaten?”
“Is he as ugly as the rumors make him out to be?”
“I really cannot answer that,” Erienne replied with a shrug and casually gestured to the table beside her as Aggie brought in tea.
Claudia’s countenance displayed amazement. “My goodness, Erienne, why not?”
“Because I’ve never seen my husband’s face.” The answer came simply. “He wears a mask.”
“Even to bed?”
The teacups clattered on their saucers as Aggie nearly dropped the tray. Regaining her composure, she set the service on the table where her mistress had indicated and asked, “Will that be all, mum?”
Erienne welcomed the distraction, however brief. It gave her a moment to soothe the bristling ire she felt at Claudia’s rude interrogation. “Yes, Aggie. Thank you.”
Only Erienne saw the dubious glance the housekeeper cast toward the guest before Aggie hurriedly took her leave. When Erienne faced Claudia again, her own smile of amusement was genuine.
“I have never seen my husband’s face at any time,” she stated, pouring tea. “He prefers it that way.”
Claudia took the proffered cup and wiggled back in her chair. “It must be dreadfully disturbing not to be able to see what your own husband looks like.” She giggled. “Why, even in broad daylight you’d never be able to recognize him without his mask.”
“On the contrary, I believe I would know my husband anywhere. He walks with a definite limp.”
“Oh, dear, ’tis more horrible than I had imagined. A beast of a man! Does he lap his food, or must you feed him?”
Irate sparks of indignation flared through Erienne, and she struggled mightily to speak in a calm tone. “My husband is a gentleman, Claudia, not a beast.”
The woman laughed scornfully. “A gentleman? My dear Erienne, do you know the meaning of the word?”
“Perhaps more than you, Claudia. I’ve seen the worst of men, and dealing with them has taught me to judge a man by his comportment and not by the shape of his nose. My husband may not have the pampered looks of a milk-fed weasel, but he is, in
truth, far more of a gentleman than most I’ve met.”
“If you’re so proud of him, Erienne, perhaps you would like to show him off at a ball we’re having. No doubt he would feel more at home at a masque, but this will be a much more regal affair. Papa has asked me to extend an invitation to you and your…ah…husband.” Her eyes passed lightly over Erienne. “I hope you can find something appropriate to wear.”
A door closed behind Erienne, and the scrape-clop of Lord Saxton’s footsteps came across the room. Claudia’s eyes widened as her gaze went past her hostess and found the large, dark shape approaching them.
Erienne glanced around as her husband halted beside her chair. “My lord, I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”
“We have a guest,” he stated, his voice strong but rasping as he awaited an introduction.
Erienne quickly obliged as Claudia still stared with sagging jaw, seeming for once to be at a complete loss for words. “We have just been invited to a ball, my lord.”