Destitute On His Doorstep (4 page)

From where she stood, Jane's attention was entirely focused on him. The stranger's imposing presence seemed highly inappropriate in her late father's home. Tall and well built and perhaps thirty years old, he was wearing severe black, but he had loosened his plain white stock and removed a leather glove from his left hand. The sun slanting through one of the high windows shone on his curly dark brown hair springing thickly, vibrantly, from his head and curling about his neck. His face was not handsome but strong, striking, disciplined and exceptionally attractive, the expression cool. He was also one of Cromwell's Roundheads, a man who was familiar to her, a man she had once risked her life for.

The tender feelings that had governed her actions all those years ago had vanished when Cromwell's Roundheads had killed her father. And now, finding
one of them at Bilborough Hall, his very presence defiling the beloved walls, made her shake with anger. Damn them all, she thought. They had descended like a plague of locusts on every Royalist house in England, stealing whatever they could get their hands on, and in most cases abusing the inhabitants and leaving them to starve.

 

She continued on down the stairs, finding it difficult to conceal the sense of outrage that possessed her on finding this Cromwellian in her home, treating Bilborough Hall as if he owned it. Sensing her presence, he spun round, all taut muscle, lean power and pulsing strength. His gaze was fixed on her as she crossed towards him. A well-defined eyebrow jutted upwards in what could only have been astonishment, and then his eyes narrowed, half-shaded by his lids as he coolly stared at her. There was a barrier of aloofness about him, an hauteur, which was intimidating. He had the healthy glow of one who liked to be in the open, and the air of someone who was not happy to be confined indoors all the time.

In that moment Jane noticed the startling, intense blue of his eyes, and again she thought how extraordinarily attractive he was. His face was hard, but around his eyes there was the tracery of lines from his ready smile. Her heart seemed suddenly to leap into her throat in a ridiculous, choking way and she chided herself for being so foolish. Their paths might have crossed many years ago, but he was, after all, still a stranger to her, and a Roundhead at that. The hounds had got to their feet and taken up what had every appearance of a protective stance on either side of him. No reasonable explanation
could be found for their acceptance of this stranger, at least none of which Jane was aware.

‘You are a stranger here, sir,' she said calmly, having no intention of reminding him that they had already met for at that time, despite having helped him, they had still been enemies and she wondered how he would react to her if she did.

He bowed and answered in a deep, rich voice, ‘Colonel Francis Russell at your service.' He straightened to his full height and studied her closely, because, apart from recognising her as the young woman he had seen riding her horse earlier, there was also something vaguely familiar about her and he couldn't think what. He was moderately sure they had never met before, and yet… No, surely he would not forget a face as lovely as this. Her beauty fed his gaze and created in his being a sweet, hungering ache that could neither be easily put aside nor sated with anything less than what he desired. It was the natural desire a man felt for a woman, a desire Francis had not felt in a long time.

Jane knew instinctively that he was just as aware of her as she was of him, and she bent her head so that he should not see her confusion or the anger in her eyes.

‘Kindly explain why it is that you should be holding a pistol in such a way as it could do much harm,' he said.

She lifted her eyes, not realising until now that she was still holding the weapon. He was studying her closely and she was aware of the tension in herself. ‘I am Jane Lucas, daughter of the late Sir John Lucas.'

‘And the pistol?' He indicated the gun in her hand.

The amazing eyes were still focused on her as he
waited for an answer. She drew a breath. ‘I picked it up when I was upstairs.'

‘And were you going to use it on me?'

She lifted her chin as her eyes caught him running a surreptitious eye over her appearance, the expression on his face condemning as it settled on the naked flesh at her throat. ‘No, I was not, Colonel Russell. I was merely going to place it out of harm's way.'

‘Harm being?'

‘How would I know that, since I have only just now returned home?'

‘Home?'

‘Bilborough Hall, of course.'

Francis gave her a long, slow look, a twist of humour around his beautifully moulded lips. He had been aware of who she was from the moment he had set eyes on her. He recognised her from some of the Lucas family paintings he had seen on his arrival at Bilborough Hall, painted when she had been a girl. Her dark beauty had startled him. There had been a plumpness to her features, and in her eyes the artist had captured an over-boisterous girl. With the passing of the years she was much changed. At thirty years of age, he had known many beautiful women, selecting those of fire and passion, and yet he'd had no desire to form a long-standing relationship with any one of them. He had not expected to find the girl in the painting to have blossomed into such an exotic creature.

No man could remain unmoved by this young woman's beauty. With hair as black as ebony and as sleek as silk, high cheek bones and slanting eyes as dark as two shining blackberries, a figure to rival Venus and
full, ripe lips that betrayed her sensuality, she was all temptation—a bewitching, exotic creature. Her neck was long and there was a certain grace in her movements that reminded him of a swan. He was conscious of the musical resonance of her voice when she spoke, and when he lowered his eyes he saw tiny beads of perspiration in the V of her dress, open at the throat, and the thrust of her high, firm breasts straining against the fabric.

The smile building about his mouth creased the clear hardness of his jaw and to Jane, it made him appear in that moment the most handsome man in the world. The flame in his gaze kindled brighter, burning her with its intensity. Then, suddenly, his direct, masculine assurance disconcerted her. She was vividly conscious of how close he was to her. She felt an unfamiliar heat flushing her cheeks that she had never experienced before.

Instantly she felt resentful towards him, threatened in some way. The glow in her face now faded. He had made too much of an impact on her, this Roundhead, and she was afraid that if he looked at her much longer he would read what was in her mind with those, clever, brilliant blue eyes of his. She straightened her back, raising her chin in an effort to break the spell he wove about her with his eyes.

Hearing his companions' horses clattering out of the courtyard, she said, ‘If I have offended you in any way by greeting you with a pistol in my hand, it was not intentional. I ask your pardon. I should hate you to leave Bilborough Hall thinking I am lacking in manners.'

A well-defined eyebrow jutted sharply upwards. ‘Leave? Why should you think I am leaving? I am not going anywhere.'

‘But—your friends. I think they are leaving.'

‘So they are. Without me.'

‘But—forgive me if I appear somewhat foolish, but if they are leaving, why are you not going with them? Excuse me for being blunt, Colonel, but I find the mere thought of entertaining the enemy in this house offensive.'

‘Enemy?' A soft, amused chuckle issued forth from Francis. ‘I am not your enemy, Mistress Lucas. Far from it. War seems to get the best of everybody, but the war is over and the country is trying to pull itself together.'

‘Not while that odious man Oliver Cromwell is in charge. I must ask you to be plain, sir, and explain to me why I should find a Roundhead in my home treating it as if it were his own. Or do you prefer prevarication to plain speaking?'

‘No,' Francis said slowly. ‘I always make a point of speaking plainly.'

‘Then why have you not left with your friends? Where will you stay?'

‘Right here. In this house.'

‘Oh, no, I think not,' Jane said, a boulder settling where her heart had been, disquiet dwelling where just a short while before there had been happiness and joy.

‘No?'

‘No.'

‘Why should I go anywhere when this is my home? The house and estate belong to me now. I purchased it fair and square.'

Jane stared at him in instinctive fear. ‘But—how can it? You lie.'

‘I do not.'

For a long moment she did not move. She was shocked, and as she sank on to the edge of the settle, clutching its arm, an onlooker might have supposed she had died. Surely it could not be true. She had heard of such happenings, of course, of properties belonging to Royalists being sequestered, but for it to happen to her—to have Bilborough taken from her! She was too shocked to weep and this man's careless indifference to her plight brought her to her feet, and the ill-judged words sprang to her tongue almost without conscious thought.

‘How dare you! How dare you be so callous, so thoughtless at what your purchase of Bilborough would do to me, the owner of this house.'

‘Not any longer,' he replied bluntly. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Lucas, but I did not know you—not that it would have made any difference.'

To Jane his reply was insultingly flippant and she felt the bite of his mockery. She had been so oppressed living in Jacob Atkins's house these past four years that her temper had been subdued. But now, for the time being, those fears began to fade, for she had greater problems at hand. Tired of being at the mercy of Jacob Atkins for so long, she had not escaped his tyranny to find herself at the mercy of another, and she would do whatever it took to claim back what was rightfully hers. As she rose and confronted the Roundhead once more, she felt a deep and abiding anger.

Francis saw the young woman's face turn white and the slender fingers clench on the riding whip they held, and knew a fraction of a second before she raised her hand what she would do and raised his own to avoid the
blow, trapping hers easily and twisting it up behind her back, knocking the whip from her grasp and sending it clattering to the floor. His arms were a cage holding her against him.

Jane could feel the heat of him, the hard-muscled strength of him as his eyes looked mercilessly down into hers. Almost immediately his hands released her arm and closed over her shoulders, thrusting her away. Suddenly and unexpectedly he laughed.

‘You appear to be remarkably quick with your hands, Mistress Lucas. I can see I must not underestimate you. You might well have been a match for my fellow soldiers. So much for the popular conception of gently bred young ladies being raised like tender plants given to swooning and the vapours.'

The bright colour flamed in Jane's cheeks once more and she bent and retrieved her whip, trying to ignore the pain in her wrist. ‘If I am angry, sir, it is because I suddenly find my home, which has belonged to the Lucas family for generations, has been stolen.' She was also feeling increasingly unwell. Her headache was definitely getting worse and she was so hot and thirsty.

He laughed again in the face of her anger. ‘Of course, I should be delighted to have you remain as my guest—until
you
have found somewhere else to go. Do you have relatives hereabouts?'

Jane was dumbstruck. And so it was that she looked at the Roundhead Colonel with new eyes. And because it happened so unexpectedly, leaving no time to prepare herself, she experienced a sudden, terrible sense of loss and loneliness so that, for a moment, she found she could not speak. As she went on looking at him in
disbelief, almost unseeing, she felt her heart gradually begin to pound, and all the tensions she had been trying so hard to control building up inside her until they came together in a tight knot at the base of her throat. She'd had moments of dejection before, but they had never been so serious. This was a bitter blow.

I
t took Jane a moment to find her voice and say, ‘No, I do not. I do not understand you. You talk in riddles.'

Despite her haughty stance, Francis saw that her dark eyes, which moments before had been hurling scornful daggers at him, were now glittering with unshed tears. Somehow he found himself unable to move. She looked so unutterably
sad
—was that the word?—as though she had a troubled mind and he knew that his dogs sensed it by the way they looked at her with soulful eyes.

‘No, Mistress Lucas,' he said on a gentler note. ‘It is you who is lacking in understanding.'

‘I don't think so,' she answered, feeling a sudden urge to hurt him as much as she was hurting. ‘Who are you, Colonel Russell? Please explain to me how this house can be yours? Where do you come from?'

‘From Cambridge.'

‘Really. I know Cambridge. Your name is familiar. As I recall there was a family by that name. They were farriers, I believe.'

His expression tightened. ‘You have a good memory, Mistress Lucas. You are right. My family dealt in horses.'

‘So, you took advantage of the upheaval of the war to take for yourself the house of a Royalist gentleman. You are nothing but an upstart, the son of a farrier, a man of exceedingly humble birth,' she uttered scornfully. ‘You may be deserving with your newly acquired status, Colonel, but you are undeserving of such a prize as this. People of such low quality are unfit to inhabit such a house as Bilborough.'

Anger flared in his eyes at the intended insult. Ordinarily Francis had little difficulty in sustaining the air of cold detachment that was at once his most valuable defence in his dealings with his fellow men. He had had enough practice, but he had learned very soon that the cruel, avaricious world of war equated civility with weakness. And now the regenerated son of a horse breeder was looking forwards to teaching the arrogant and headstrong daughter of a Royalist nobleman a lesson or two.

‘I have every right. The Bilborough estate and rents were confiscated,' he stated, his tone carrying more hidden steel than a rapier.

‘I had no knowledge of that,' Jane replied, thinking that Gwen must have known and kept it from her.

‘That was not my concern at the time. But did it not occur to you that any estate known to support the King would be at risk? You left the house unattended.'

‘I did not—or perhaps I should say my stepmother did no such thing. When my father was killed she closed the house—indeed, there were those in Avery, those
who supported Parliament who far outnumbered the Royalists, who were glad to see the back of us.'

‘There was also trouble of a different kind, was there not? Before you left your stepmother was accused of being a witch.' His tone was light, but he watched her closely. ‘Personally I don't believe there are such things as witches, that it's all superstitious nonsense.'

‘I'm glad you think so. We did leave for that reason. It was a terrible time for us both, a time of great fear. Dreadful threats were issued against my stepmother—against both of us. At that time all around us women suspected of witchcraft were being brutally tortured and hanged. They used such threatening methods against us that in the end we were left with little choice but to go. We left the estate in the hands of a loyal steward.'

‘He was removed from his post when I bought Bilborough. I had no use for him.'

Jane stared at him in disbelief. ‘You dismissed Silas? But—you had no right.'

‘I had every right. He was your steward, not mine. I did right to dismiss him,' he said, as calmly as though he was discussing the weather. ‘He had got above himself.'

‘You did not dismiss the housekeeper,' she pointed out as part of her argument.

‘Mrs Preston is less quarrelsome than your steward.'

Jane wondered at Silas's fate. She must find out what had happened to him. She had a duty to do that. Ordinary people found that their lot was often worsened with the change of ownership in land consequent upon the confiscations, because the new owners were noticeably
less humane than the established proprietors to whom the local inhabitants were familiar.

‘By leaving Bilborough you left your home wide open. Wars are not all won on the battlefield, Mistress Lucas. With the men away fighting whatever cause they support, who do you think should protect the property? It's the women who keep the enemy from the door, or stop their home being put to the torch.'

‘Or in this particular case to stop black-hearted, conniving scoundrels stealing property and moving in.'

Francis's face had set itself fast into the implacable mould that would have been instantly recognised by the men under his command. It was the face that had won him many a battle for it showed not a flicker of emotion, nor an inkling of his thoughts. It was cool, self-controlled and as smooth and empty as that of a newly born child.

He moved closer and spoke very quietly, but his eyes glittered with curiosity as he said, ‘Are you insulting me or Parliament, Mistress Lucas?'

‘Oh, much more than that,' she shot back. ‘I'm criticising every one of those in Parliament who thinks that by imposing order on the human spirit, no matter how absurd and cruel the order, it has achieved something. I am criticising Oliver Cromwell and his censorship. I despise everything he does. So, yes, by all means I am insulting you since not only have you stolen my home, you are a part of all that is in charge of the rottenness which executed King Charles I.'

‘I would advise you to have a care what you say. For your own sake you must learn to guard your tongue more stringently. People have been executed for less.
Your words are treasonable and therefore dangerous—for you. The war is over. You must learn to live with its consequences.'

‘I shall, just like everyone else, but I believe Cromwell is now presented with a civilian battlefield with as many doubts and perplexities as those of the war.'

‘I couldn't agree more, but they will be dealt with. Your reference to the dead King Charles implies the existence of a Charles II.'

Curling her lip with disdain, Jane dared to present a statement not altogether respectful. ‘I cannot and will not accept a Protectorate should Oliver Cromwell become Lord Protector. Charles II will take the throne one day. You will see.'

Unable to ignore what had every element of being a disparaging challenge, Francis made a point of elevating his brow to a sceptical level. ‘Like it or not, Mistress Lucas, you will have to live under the Commonwealth. And I did not steal your home. It belonged to Parliament. I had the support of local officials and others of purported authority. You are not alone in having property confiscated. Other examples occurred all over England.'

‘I am not a delinquent, Colonel,' Jane replied coldly. ‘I am aware of that. I also know that when the Puritan Roundhead regime introduced sequestration against the royalists, involving the removal of their estates and rents from their possession, in most cases they were subsequently able to regain them in return for a fine calculated as a proportion of the value of the estate.'

‘That is true.'

‘Good. I'm glad we agree on something. I shall go
to the correct committee and demand that the estate be returned to my possession.'

A flash of annoyance darkened his eyes. ‘Demand? Really, Mistress Lucas, to use such language in front of the Committee for Compounding in London would mean certain failure. To
apply
would be a more appropriate term. Do you not agree?'

Jane's cheeks flamed at his attempt to give her a lesson in etiquette. ‘Whatever it takes to retrieve Bilborough I shall do. So I advise you not to get too comfortable.'

‘You are desperate and desperation should never be underestimated. I am sure you are an exceptional woman in persuading others to do your bidding—but you have no idea what you will be up against.'

‘I'm no weakling who gives in at the first obstacle. Women are more resourceful than men give us credit.'

‘I know many who are on both sides, but such fire and vehemence—you are a veritable tigress, Mistress Lucas.'

‘And you are insufferably rude, Colonel Russell.'

‘But always honest.'

Jane stepped back, her eyes flashing with the force of her anger and the heat that was beginning to consume her body. ‘Do not mock me, sir. I am serious. I shall not give up on this.'

‘Do as you must, but you will be wasting your time.' He encountered her hostile gaze and smiled.

It was a disconcertingly pleasant smile, and the fact that even through a haze of anger and acute physical misery and social embarrassment she could recognise it as such increased Jane's hostility. ‘We shall see. I
shall do whatever it takes to have you removed from this house.'

‘And fail. Two categories are exempted from applying—those who were the King's top men, and those who are both Catholics and Royalists. Your father belonged to the latter.'

‘He was not a Catholic.'

‘No, but he was a staunch Royalist. Therefore his estate was confiscated and sold—to me.'

‘Aye, with money plundered from the Royalists, I don't doubt.'

His eyes glittered like ice. ‘I am no thief, Mistress Lucas. I have got where I am by my ability to succeed. Right now you are distraught and angry—and rightly so, since I can imagine how you must feel on knowing the place you have called home is no longer that, so I shall ignore what you have said. But know this. The money with which I purchased this house was earned in honest occupation, so please don't accuse me of being a thief again.'

Jane stared at him, white and rigid. Something warned her that she dared much with her open disdain. She thought here was a man who revealed nothing of his thoughts and passions, and he ruled himself like steel. Lowering her gaze, she nodded. ‘Of course.'

‘Just one more thing, Mistress Lucas. You say you will travel to London to face the Committee for Compounding.'

‘What of it?'

‘Will you have the money with which to pay the fine? Bilborough is a sizeable estate. Should the Com
mittee consider your application, the sum will be considerable.'

Jane stared at him. So confident had she been that she would be able to simply walk into Bilborough and carry on as though nothing had happened, she had given no thought to any of this.

‘No,' he said, taking her silence as assent. ‘I thought not.' He cocked an eye at her, the light from the leaping flames in the hearth setting strange shadows dancing around them. The lights flickered over his thick hair, outlining his face. He looked down at her. She had allowed her guard to slip a notch, showing her distress. She looked so young, innocent and vulnerable and her pride was hurting, and for some unknown reason he felt a fierce, uncontrollable urge to protect her. A gentle smile touched his lips.

‘So, Mistress Lucas, it would seem you are homeless.'

She bowed her head. Though her face did not flinch, Jane could feel her anger mingled with her distress simmering inside her, but knowing he was observing her and feeling the indignity of her position, impelled her to raise her head bravely. ‘It would appear so,' she replied tightly.

‘You have travelled from Northampton, I believe.' She nodded. ‘Alone?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then you are more reckless than I thought. Can you not return to Northampton?'

‘No—I cannot do that,' she replied haltingly, lowering her eyes to hide the painful memories his question evoked. ‘It—it is out of the question.'

He stared at her for a moment, seeing her anxiety, but he did not comment on it. Biting back an admiring smile, he watched her struggle to maintain a cold façade in the face of his silent scrutiny, and he marvelled that she could convey so many things without moving or speaking. She was outrageously daring and untempered by wisdom or hampered by caution, and he wondered why she had left Northampton. Was it merely because she had wanted to come home, or something more sinister than that? Had she been driven out by desperation?

Curious as to the cause of it, he turned his head away lest he be seen with the expression on his face of the deep, welling, growing emotion she aroused in him. Deep, yes, ever since she had hurtled so precipitously into his life just moments before.

‘And you have no family you can go to?'

‘No. I have no family.' Beginning to realize the true gravity of her situation, an awful lump of desolation swelled in Jane's throat as she folded her hands in her lap and tried to think what to do next.

As if he read her thoughts and not unacquainted with hardship—he had not forgotten the pain of it—he said, ‘I am not as heartless or as unfeeling as I might sound. At least let me offer you accommodation. My invitation that you remain as my guest still stands,' he offered, hoping she would, astonishing himself.

‘I must reject your invitation. I will not inhabit the same house as a Roundhead,' she replied.

Francis was relieved that her reply sounded more of a statement than a heated exchange of anger. ‘No, I though not. So—where are you planning to go?'

‘That is no concern of yours.'

‘Humour me,' he said drily. ‘You have to go somewhere.' When she didn't reply and continued to look down at her hands, trying to hold on to his patience, in exasperation he said, ‘Mistress Lucas, are you always this disagreeable and stubborn?'

She glanced up at him. ‘My father always told me that I have a unique talent for it.'

Glancing down at her, Francis thought he glimpsed a shadow of a smile curving her soft mouth as she lowered her head once more. ‘I'm beginning to realise that. Might I make a suggestion?'

‘Please do.'

‘Your steward's house is empty. You could stay there for the time being…' A smile touched his lips. ‘Rent-free, naturally.'

‘That won't be necessary. I may not have the money to pay the fine on Bilborough, but I am not destitute. I can pay my way.'