Kitabı oku: «Embrace The Dawn»
Embrace The Dawn
Jackie Summers
www.millsandboon.co.uk
This book is dedicated to my husband, Tom, who never doubted. I love you, Bear.
My special thanks to a great writer, Linda Warren, for her friendship and unflagging enthusiasm. Thanks to Donna Martin, Trudy Zothner and Kelly McClymer for the compliments when I needed them. And to our daughter, Ellyn, for always being there.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Chapter One
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.
Chapter Two
Fear and apprehension mixed in the pit of Anne’s stomach as she strode toward her uncle, who scowled from the doorway.
Her mind scrambled for an excuse while she prepared herself for the violent tirade she knew was coming. “I’m sorry I’m late, Uncle George,” she said as she came before him.
“I’ll be interested to hear your explanation later, but I’ve something much more pressing to discuss with you.” Although his tone was amiable, the hard lines of disapproval in his face betrayed his intent.
Anne eyed him suspiciously as she swept past. No sooner had she crossed the oak-timbered threshold of the study than she understood why her uncle had put off meting out her punishment. There, in front of the crackling hearth, sat Mrs. Jane Herrick, her uncle’s goddaughter. Of course he’d never discuss his niece’s errant behavior in front of company, she thought wryly.
Her relief for the slight reprieve mingled with curiosity. Usually, when George had important guests, Anne was excused from attending. She knew he believed that her presence would remind her uncle’s friends that his older brother was an enemy of Cromwell’s Commonwealth.
“Mistress Jane, you remember my niece, Anne Lowell?”
Jane dimpled beguilingly, the black silk fan in her hand fluttering in response. “Of course, Master Lowell. How could anyone forget your charming niece?”
Charming? Anne exchanged glances with her uncle. Although his eyes were unreadable, she guessed he thought Mrs. Herrick too refined to regard the gossip that blazed across Parliamentarian hearths about his rebellious niece, abandoned by her father like an unwanted kitten, for him to raise.
Anne bobbed a curtsy and took a seat as far away from her uncle as she could. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched George gaze with adoration as Jane charmed him with small talk that Anne usually found wearisome.
Anne pushed back a defiant red gold curl from under her cap as she studied the young woman. According to George, Jane exemplified everything a young Puritan woman should be. A few years older than herself, Jane had married a physician several months ago. A pristine cap covered Jane’s silvery blond head. Her white skin with a pink rise to her cheeks contrasted becomingly with the Puritan black gown she wore. Her pale gray eyes and narrow chin spoke of an obedient nature, George had remarked more than once. For once, Anne had to agree with him. The woman was as perfect as an April crocus.
She felt like a toad by comparison. Anne nibbled her lip as she considered her attributes. Her mouth was too full to be considered comely, she knew. Her skin might be worthy except for the spill of freckles, Satan’s tiptoes, George had called them, that peppered the curve of her cheeks and upturned nose. Who could blame her uncle for being ashamed of her?
“I was commenting to your uncle,” Jane cooed, “how splendid the autumn foliage appeared this morning when we rode through the woods. The beech woods have turned a bright gold and the oaks—”
George pounded his fist on his knee. “I fail to understand how your husband thought it safe for you to ride without escort,” he blustered, ignoring Jane’s shocked surprise.
“Master Lowell!” Jane sat up with a start and touched her cheek with the tip of her fan. “I was perfectly safe. Besides my husband, our two menservants accompanied me.”
“Humph! You are to be commended for your faith, dear lady, but your husband should have had the good sense to accept my offer of a military escort. The roads are teeming with ruffians, not to mention that... that...highwayman, the Black Fox.”
“The Black Fox!” Anne’s voice held a reverence that caused her uncle to shoot her a quelling glance. She had overheard Daisy, the scullery maid, say the outlaw robbed Roundheads of their gold and gave it to the Royalists for their fight to restore King Charles to the throne.
George snorted. “Enough of your dreamy thoughts, mistress. He’s the highwayman who had the audacity to lighten the purse of Colonel Twining and his valet, Babson, only last week.”
Anne stifled a laugh behind her hand. How she wished she could have seen that. The thought of a common rogue getting the better of that arrogant Twining was exhilarating. She despised the colonel, contrary to most females, if Daisy could be believed. Anne felt her cheeks flame with outrage as she remembered how Twining had leered at her whenever he had thought her uncle wasn’t looking. But what truly irked her was that Uncle George had refused to take her complaints seriously.
Jane smiled reassuringly at Anne. “There’s no need to worry, my dear. You can be sure the Black Fox is far from Wycliffe Manor since Colonel Twining and his soldiers have arrived.”
Anne’s gaze shot to her uncle. “Colonel Twining? You didn’t tell me he’s been invited to dinner.”
A strange look passed between her uncle and Jane Herrick. Finally George cleared his throat while his gaze dropped to his lap. “Mistress Anne, I’ve something to tell you. Mrs. Herrick has kindly answered my request to coach you in the proper deportment for your appearance this evening.”
A flash of foreboding skittered up her spine. “If you’ve paired Colonel Twining as my dinner partner again, then I’d prefer to remain in my chamber and go without food for a week.”
George’s ruddy face darkened. “Don’t tempt me.” He craned his neck and rubbed his finger along the inside band of his shirt, then glanced with pleading at Jane.
Jane dimpled back at him, then turned the dazzling smile on Anne. “Your uncle only wishes that you make your finest impression on his guests this evening. I thought we’d practice some polite phrases you may wish to use during dinner, and perhaps we might subdue your hair—”
“Aye, do something with her hair.” George scowled back at Anne. “God’s teeth! She looks like the devil’s own spawn with that wild mane.” His black brows knotted together. “Look how it threatens to unfurl from her cap like Lucifer’s red banner fluttering on a windy Sabbath morn.”
Jane smiled. “When I’m finished managing your niece, she’ll be the paragon of acceptability. I assure you, sir.”
Anne curled her fingers into the tufted ends of the chair. “Uncle George, I demand to know what’s going on.”
“You’ll demand nothing!” George answered. “You’ll do what Mrs. Herrick says. For once, you’ll behave without embarrassing me when...when I announce your betrothal at dinner.”
Nothing could have prepared Anne for the shock that coursed through her. She shook her head numbly. “Betrothal? To whom?”
“Colonel Twining has offered for your hand,” her uncle continued, “and I’ve accepted for you.”
Anne gasped, unable to get her breath. She could only stare at him while she tried to take in what he was saying. Her uncle continued speaking, but her mind blocked out his words. Betrothal? She was to wed Colonel Twining?
Shock and panic mixed with betrayal. Anne sprang to her feet, her knees shaky. “Uncle George, certainly y-you can’t m-mean to wed me to that...that...”
“It’s well time you’re wed.”
Anne rushed to him and knelt at his knees, her gray skirts billowing out behind her. “Please, don’t do this. I promise I’ll never disobey you again.” She swiped at another rebellious curl. I’ll do anything—”
George stood and jerked her to her feet. “Anne, calm yourself. Your behavior is unseemly.”
Jane leaned forward in the chair, the black fan in her hand flitting like a wounded bird. “There are worse fates than to marry a handsome, wealthy man such as the colonel, my dear.”
Anne jerked free and turned to face her, aware suddenly that not only Mrs. Herrick, but everybody must have known of the betrothal except herself. She felt like a fool, as well.
“Twining is a lecher and I’ll never marry him!”
George glowered down at her. “Oh, yes, you will!” Then he turned and forced a smile at Jane. “Forgive me, my dear, but would you allow us a few minutes alone?”
“Of course, sir.” Her gray eyes slanted toward Anne, her expression sympathetic. Then she folded gracefully into a curtsy before closing the door behind her.
George’s blue eyes snapped with anger. “Your wedding will take place six weeks from tomorrow, and that’s final. Now follow Mrs. Herrick and do everything she says. For once, you’ll behave as your position dictates.”
Anne squeezed her fingers on the edge of the chair. “What would my father say if he knew you’ve betrothed me to a—”
“Hold your tongue!” George’s voice rose as his attempt at constraint dissolved before her. “I hold no loyalty to your father and you’re old enough to have loyalties of your own. You’d best appreciate a man like Colonel Twining, not a dandy like your father, a fop who’s disgraced himself and his family, flying his plumes against the Commonwealth.”
Anne returned her uncle’s fiery gaze with one of her own.
“How can you say that about your own blood?”
“A sorry fact I’d like to forget. He would rather chase romantic rainbows than be a father to you. He never wanted you or your mother. He’s never coming for you, and the sooner you understand that, the better you’ll be.”
“How dare you speak of him so!” Anne squared her shoulders and faced him down. “He’s been fighting side by side with the king at Worcester. For all you know, my father may be dead—”
“I pray to God every day that he is!”
A wash of renewed anger coursed through her. For the first time, she realized how vast was the well of rage and resentment that festered beneath her uncle’s reproach. Her eyes stung with frustrated tears, but she blinked them back. “Nothing I do will make you accept me, because I’m your brother’s daughter. You can dress me as a Puritan, threaten to bend me to your will, but I’ll always be a Royalist’s daughter. Unlike you, I’m proud to know my father is a man who had the courage and vision to stand with King Charles against the tyranny of Parliament.”
Anne picked up her skirts and whirled toward the door to find Colonel Twining, resplendent in a crimson wool uniform, blocking her way. His granite gray eyes bored into her and she knew immediately that he had heard everything.
She felt like a chick with a hawk circling overhead.
Well, so be it! Maybe if he knew of her repulsion for him, he’d break the marriage contract. The idea gave her hope.
Anne pushed past him, but Twining grabbed her arm and half dragged her back into the room.
“My dear, what has upset you?” His stare glittered with feigned expectation.
“You know very well!” Anne’s chin rose defiantly. “I’ll never marry you!” She tried to wrench from his hold, but his grip tightened on her wrist like a vise.
“I wouldn’t be so hasty, if I were you,” he replied silkily.
“Let go of me, you...you...weasel-faced lecher.”
Twining’s thin lips lifted in amusement. “I’ll overlook your passionate expression, my dear, as long as we understand each other.” He pulled her closer, his voice as final as a death knell. “By Christmas, you’ll be my bride.” She grappled against his grip. His mouth twisted in what appeared to be enjoyment. “You may take your leave, my dear, but return to the study within the hour, when I’ll escort you into the great hall for dinner.”
Anne stopped struggling. His hawklike sweep of the nose and the square jaw quivered as if he were in pursuit.
“And if I refuse?” His smoky eyes sparked as though fired by her challenge. She almost thought he hoped she’d defy him.
“You’ll obey,” he said finally. “Because I’m planning a very special wedding present for you, my dear.” His hard gaze raked over her. He was so close she could smell the tobacco and what she thought might be brandy. She was afraid if she didn’t hurry and leave she might be sick.
“I don’t want anything from you,” she managed to reply.
His black eyebrows flicked up. “Very well, if that is your wish.” His gray eyes glittered. “But I’ve already submitted a petition to Lieutenant General Cromwell to pardon your father from the charges brought forth by the Commonwealth.” She heard a stifled gasp from her uncle sitting nearby.
Twining’s face lit with amusement. “That’s right, my dear Anne. When we’re married, your father will receive a full pardon. That is, if you comply with your uncle’s wishes.”
Words failed her as she took in what he had said. The very generosity of his offer demonstrated his power. Would he truly grant his political enemy a pardon? His expression reminded her of a weasel crouched in the bushes waiting for the stray duckling. Certainly her father was too proud to take favors from the enemy—especially if he knew the cost.
His thin smile grew wider as she considered him. “And if I refuse?” she said finally.
The smile faded. “Then I’ll see you immediately shipped off to the Bay Colony where you’ll live with the Reverend and Mrs. Skylar.” He leaned his face to within an inch of hers. “And I promise you,” he whispered, his hot breath brushing her face, “you’ll never see your father again!”
She gasped, fear tightening her words. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears as her mind fought back the one thought she could never bear. For how would she endure if she were to lose the hope of seeing her father?
Anne caught the look of satisfaction on Twining’s face and realized he knew he had won. He released his grip.
She squared her shoulders before she glared back defiantly, then clutched her skirts and ran from the room.
George came beside Colonel Twining, who stared after Anne. “I’ll send for Mrs. Herrick. She’ll know what to say to her—”
“It won’t be necessary, old man.” Twining faced him, his thin brows arched with triumph. “You see, Mistress Anne is like a beautiful, high-spirited filly. Reckless, perhaps, but she has a fine head on her shoulders.” Twining flicked at an invisible fleck on his crimson sleeve.
Even the small gesture, George noted, the colonel did with a self-styled assurance. The coarse black hair styled in the bowl cut of the Roundheads gave him a striking demeanor, and did nothing to dispel the man’s aristocratic bearing. Maybe it was that haughtiness some women found attractive. For a man of forty-five, his virility was well-known. Rumor had it several married women had risked their reputations with him, and it was fact that the colonel kept several mistresses in London.
“Your niece realizes what’s at stake,” Twining said with conviction. “That proud filly will come back of her own volition.” He crooked an eyebrow. “Care to wager, old man?”
The thought of the dire consequences of denying this man anything brought a well of dyspepsia to George’s throat. “I’m not a betting man, Colonel,” he managed, his damp fingers pressing against his white collar. “But I’m certain my niece will do exactly as you foresee.”
Twining responded with a smug lift of his shoulder, then turned and strode out the door.
After he had gone, George sank back in his chair and let the relief flow through him. God’s teeth, Twining still wanted to marry his niece and he was pardoning Jonathan to boot!
For as long as he could remember, his older brother had been a bane upon his life. In one fracas after another, Jonathan’s reputation would have been ruined if their father’s influence hadn’t squelched the gossip. There had been some gossip involving Twining, now that George thought about it, but he never knew the details. God’s teeth, but what did it matter now?
And another question struck him, just as it had when the colonel first offered for Anne. Why would such a powerful man as Twining desire a hellion for a wife?
* * *
Nat crept around the corner of the manor house and paused in the shadows of the dense ivy that clung to the outer stone wall of the buttery. The last of the afternoon sun slanted across the diamond-shaped panes along the gabled front, mirroring the courtyard in its golden likeness. He glanced at his reflection in the windows, then he pulled the helmet down across his forehead, straightened the crimson sash across his chest. Finally satisfied, he stepped out upon the worn path toward the kitchen.
Ahead, the sound of spurs jingling alerted him to the two Roundhead privates before they approached from around the corner. Nat returned their hasty salutes as he marched past them.
The tantalizing aroma from a dozen meat pies cooling on the open windowsill filled the air. Nat’s mouth watered, but he brushed aside the thought that he hadn’t eaten since daybreak.
Parting the thick vines, he peeked inside the window. At least ten servants bustled about the vast room. A side of mutton sizzled noisily as it turned on the jack above the fire. Several black iron cauldrons bubbled softly.
Nat crept to the next window. In the small storage room, he saw Twining’s valet, Babson, hunched over a table, unpacking candles. Nat tapped on the leaded glass.
Babson’s snowy head shot up and his eyes widened with recognition. “Quickly,” he whispered, waving him inside. “Soldiers everywhere.”
“Don’t worry.” Nat gave the old man a crooked smile while he climbed through the window. “In this lieutenant’s uniform, I’ll fit right in.”
Babson’s worried frown melted into a wry grin, as though appreciative of Nat’s boldness.
“Do you have the maps?” Nat grabbed a shiny red apple from a wooden crate beside the table and crunched a bite.
“Aye,” Babson whispered, “an’ news, too.” He glanced over his shoulder before continuing. “The maps an’ notes are ‘ere.” He pulled the folded parchments from his green tunic.
Nat took them and rolled the papers inside his jacket.
Babson lowered his voice. “Last night, while I served brandy to Twining an’ ‘is aides, I ‘eard ‘im say that Cromwell believed the king would probably be ‘eadin’ back to France through Scotland.” Babson’s face beamed with satisfaction.
“Good they think it.” Nat took another bite out of the juicy fruit. “Anything else?”
“Aye. Twining said Cromwell ‘ad agreed to the requisition for extra troops. ‘E plans to stretch a trap to catch the Black Fox.” Babson’s eyes twinkled. “Later, I snuck back an’ copied the marked locations of the roadblocks from ‘is charts.” A smile crossed his thin lips. “‘E thinks I can’t read or write.”
“Good work, my friend.” Nat patted him on the shoulder. “It would seem the colonel hasn’t forgotten the night I lightened his purse in the name of Charlie Stuart,” he added.
Babson chuckled. “That pompous ass speaks o’ nothin’ else.”
“The added note I found in your purse, Babson, was well received. The list of the locations of their ammunition depots were clearly marked.” Nat’s expression became serious. “It’s a brave thing you’re doing, as well as a dangerous one.”
Babson beamed with pride. “I’m honored to serve our king any way I can, Nat.”
Nat nodded, feeling the familiar tug of kinship for the people who risked their lives for their king. “It’s almost time for me to leave. If you need to get in touch with me, you know how.”
“Aye, Nat, an’ God be with you.”
* * *
Nat had no sooner crept around the rear of the manor on his way to the stables than he heard footsteps pounding along the path. He darted back into the shadows and flattened himself against the shrubbery. The footsteps grew louder. Suddenly a young woman hurried past toward the rose bower nearby.
Anne Lowell! Nat frowned as he watched her dash across the leaf-strewn lawn, her gray skirts billowing behind her like a bell. Reason told him to ignore her. He had a job to do, and he didn’t believe in allowing personal feelings to get in the way of duty. Yet something he couldn’t quite explain drove him, instead, to want to follow her. It was more than the liking for clouds of coppery hair and blue-green eyes. She had gotten the best of him, and he couldn’t help admiring her for that. He glanced across the courtyard at the stables nearby. Aye, he had a few minutes before it was time to leave. Enough time, surely, to satisfy his longing to see her for one last time.
A sweet fragrance drifted from the last of the summer roses and invaded Nat’s senses as he approached the heavily entwined bower. The sound of muffled sobs came from the hidden bench; his heart went out to her, but he fought back the unreasonable response. She hadn’t heard him approach, and for a brief moment, he watched her weeping, before he spoke.
“Rather far from your flock, aren’t you, lass? Your sheep must be scattered all over the hillocks by now.”
Anne lifted her white-capped head. “You?” she gasped, straightening. Her cheeks pinked at the realization he knew by her proper dress she was obviously not a shepherd maid.
Her eyes darkened and he noticed how the dappled foliage heightened the emerald shards of light in her eyes.
Nat reached for her hand. “The lady weeps as though her heart were broken.” He brought her dainty fingers to his lips. “Agh!” He made a face. “How I hate the salty taste of tears.”
Anne jerked her hand back. “What an ungentlemanly thing to say,” she snapped, obviously forgetting her discomfiture. But when she saw his grin, she knew that he had made the joke only to take her mind off her troubles, and she rewarded him with her lovely smile.
“I’m glad that you’ve retrieved your...boot,” she said finally, the memory lightening her eyes.
“Are you?” He felt pleased to see a spark of her former spirit.
“Aye,” she answered, her fingers dabbing at her eyes. “And I’d be grateful if you said nothing to anyone of what happened this afternoon.”
He leaned over her. “Would anyone perhaps be your uncle? Your uncle,” he repeated with mock exaggeration, “Master George Lowell?”
He watched her pink blush deepen as she realized he’d known her identity all along. “Rest assured, Mistress Anne, you have my promise not to reveal our...adventure. However, to seal our bargain, little mermaid, there’s a price.”
She squinted her eyes knowingly. “You’re a gull if you think I’d allow you to take any liberties with me. I’ve heard the kitchen maids whisper of what you soldiers do to a maid who forgets to keep up her guard.”
Nat reached out and caught her by the waist with his left hand while he cupped her chin with the other. “I’m not some randy soldier...” His dark brown eyes flashed. “I’ve never had to beg a lady’s favor, and I’m not about to begin with you.”
Ignoring his boast, she jerked her chin free, then her gaze dropped to his hand at her waist. “Perhaps, but please let me go, should you decide to change your technique.”
He chuckled as he released his hand and watched her spread out her skirt becomingly on the garden bench. “You’re a tempting morsel, little mermaid,” he drawled. Brushing aside her skirts, he sat down beside her. “All I had in mind was to ask you what happened to make you cry.”
Anne gazed up at him with those incredible eyes. For a disorienting moment, he felt bewitched by their promise—huge liquid jewels fringed by dark sooty lashes. It must be the heavy scent of the roses that was weaving a spell over him, he decided.
Her delicate brows furrowed, her lips pursed as he watched her. She looked so vulnerable that, for a brief instance, a surge of wanting to protect her shot through him.
“It’s a private matter,” she said. Then, as though reconsidering, she added, “It’s... that sometimes...I—I miss my father.”
Nat remembered that Anne’s betrothal would be announced later tonight. No doubt she was torn by her desire to marry Twining and being disloyal to her father. He felt a flash of regret at her judgment, but he cast it aside. It was no business of his, he reminded himself. “Your father is Jonathan Lowell?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
He caught the flicker of wary surprise on her lovely face. “Every Roundhead knows of the fearless Colonel Jonathan Lowell,” he said in truth. “His name strikes fear into his enemies’ bones whenever the king’s men yell his name like a battle cry. With a price on his head, your father must be far away from England.” No need to worry her if she was unaware of the many Royalists who had fallen by their swords at last week’s battle at Worcester.
She shook her head. “Nay, he’ll never stop fighting until Charles Stuart returns to the throne.” Fresh tears glistened in her eyes.
“I see,” Nat said gently. “It’s natural for you to miss him.” A pang of regret washed over him again as he thought of all the separation and suffering of innocent lives since the civil war. Yet he couldn’t help thinking that if Lowell had died at Worcester, it might have been more merciful than to discover his daughter was betrothed to as cruel an enemy as Twining.
She brushed an errant copper tendril from her cheek. “When I was little, my father would listen to my childish troubles and offer his wise advice,” she said wistfully.
He remained silent, watching her. After a while, he took her small hand in his large callused palm. “Now, you’re a young woman. If your father were here, I’m certain he’d encourage you to make your own decisions.”
Anne met his eyes. Her lovely face appeared so profound it nearly took his breath away. “Aye, I think he would,” she said finally.
He considered encouraging her to go on, in fact, he would have enjoyed listening to her dulcet voice all evening, but it was time for him to leave. He knew he should offer her a simple solution: Forget her father and remember the solid future with one of the most powerful men in the Commonwealth. Besides, it would prove dangerous, if not impossible for Twining’s wife to hold overt loyalty to the king.
“When I have a weighty matter to decide and I’m not certain what to do, I find that if I...” He watched her expectation grow, and for some strange reason, he couldn’t encourage her to forget her father. Instead, he offered her what was in his own soul. “I find that if I listen to my heart the answer will always be there for me.”
“But what does that mean?”
“It means the answer is within you, along with the courage to carry it through.”
“But how?”
“You’ll know.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. Her hand felt warm and soft in his and she made no move to release it. “It’s time I must leave.”
“You’ve given me much to think about,” she whispered. “Much to think about.”
Nat smiled. “I’d escort you back to the manor, but my orders are to...to stay with my troops. They’re expecting me.”
“Of course.” Anne stood for a moment, her heart fluttering beneath her breast like a captured bird. What a strange man! This handsome lieutenant was her enemy, her father’s enemy, yet he had spoken of her father with respect, without judgment. She might never see this lieutenant again, but she’d always be grateful to him for that.
Impulsively she stood on tiptoe, only thinking to brush her lips to his. But the moment their lips touched, a jolt slammed through her and his mouth seized hers with an urgency that caused her heart to thunder. She went still with shock as a strange sensation poured through her.
His mouth felt firm and warm. Her heartbeat quickened when his lips moved over hers, deepening their kiss.
She drank in the smell of him. It reminded her of a cedar forest filled with sunshine. Her arms rose timidly around his neck, her fingers lacing the dark hair at his nape.
She felt her cap loosen and her hair cascade down her back. His hands roved up and down her spine, his fingers tightening the rebellious curls. She felt her breasts yield against his hard chest and her body trembled with delightful sensations she had never experienced before. She should beg him to let her go, but she didn’t want to move. She wanted to remain like this, forever.
Her hands timidly explored his face. She heard him moan softly when her fingers lingered on the scar along his cheek. His breath shuddered as he lifted his mouth to kiss a line across her cheek, down toward her neck.
“I’ve wanted to taste those lips ever since I saw you at the river, little mermaid.”
Her head buzzed with a light-headed feeling. Then suddenly, he released her. “And now, I’ll always know your taste of honey, warmed with sunshine.” His dark eyes glinted with something she didn’t understand. “But if I don’t leave immediately...”
Anne’s swirling senses returned and she felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She lowered her lashes at his warm stare. Her fingers shook as she brushed her collar, straightened her skirts and snatched her cap from the bench.
A song thrush flew to an overhead vine. The throaty warble was answered by its mate nearby.
Nat reached up and plucked a rose from the bower and placed it in her cupped palm. “Farewell, little mermaid.”
She clutched the rose and, with bittersweet longing, watched him disappear into the shadows and out of her life.
She sat back on the bench, not trusting her shaky legs to support her if she were to stand. Besides, for a few more minutes, she needed to gather her wits.
Never had she imagined a kiss could be so thrilling. She smiled, drinking in the fragrance of the roses as she trailed the blossom along the path of his kisses, across her cheek, down to the soft hollow of her throat, and her heart skipped a beat.
But never had she been so bewildered by her conflicting emotions. He was a soldier of Cromwell’s New Model army. What would her father say if he knew? God’s bones, it would kill him, as readily as if she fired the shot herself.
But she must be honest with herself. She had wanted to touch his sun-bronzed face, feel the shine of his tousled hair, the sinewy, corded muscles of his arms. She had wanted the enemy officer to kiss her.
Even though he was the enemy, Nat had helped her work through a difficult decision, without even knowing it. Without his gentle coaxing, she might have made a fatal mistake.
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