A Rose in Winter (12 page)

The other travelers were openly delighted with Christopher's company, for he talked and laughed with them freely. He related stories and experiences gleaned from his many voyages and showed animal-white teeth against the warm bronze of his skin as he recounted more humorous tales. He had the portly man holding his sides with mirth, but Avery's rage grew with each passing mile.

Forced to observe, Erienne reluctantly admitted, but only to herself, that the Yankee had the charm, wit, and manners to handle himself well in any company. His manners were those of one born to wealth and position. Indeed, he acted the part of gentleman so well he could have authored the rule book. Yet Erienne sensed he could be equally at home with a crew of bawdy, fun-loving tars. He appeared to enjoy every facet of life.

Beneath the shadow of long lashes, Erienne's eyes passed carefully over the man. His broad shoulders filled a finely tailored coat of dark blue, and the breeches, of a light taupe hue that matched the vest, were close-fitting to display a superb length of firmly muscled limbs. It was obvious at a mere glance that he was boldly a man, even with all his clothes on. Much to her aggravation, Erienne realized he would be the standard by which she measured every suitor who vied for her hand.

The ride progressed southward, and Erienne could feel herself relaxing, almost enjoying the easy ways and casual banter of Mr. Seton. What she had feared would be a tense, stilted journey was becoming a pleasant outing, and she even experienced a mild disappointment when they reached their destination.

A small sign, identifying the inn as the Lion's Paw, swung on its hinges above the doorway, squeaking and flapping like a distraught bird in the stiff breezes. Avery kept his daughter to her place while Christopher and the other passengers alighted, then after hastily climbing down, he beckoned impatiently to her.

"Don't dally, girl," he snapped. Yanking his tricorn down against the wind, he cast a wary eye about to find Christopher untethering his stallion from the back of the coach. Remembering the incident in the inn at Mawbry, he lowered his voice a cautious degree to continue. "Mr. Goodfield's carriage is here awaitin' us, but I'll be havin' ter find rooms 'ere at the inn 'fore we leave. So hurry with ye."

Erienne's lack of enthusiasm greatly annoyed him, and as soon as her feet touched ground, he caught her arm in a fierce, painful grip and hustled her off to a waiting landau. He ignored her pleas to be allowed time to freshen herself, fearful of what that Yankee rascal might do if they delayed. Perhaps Avery had cause to worry. Christopher observed the happenings closely as he idly gathered the reins over the stallion's neck. He particularly noted the girl's reluctance to be prodded aboard the conveyance.

The coachman stepped to the boot and hauled back the canvas cover that protected the baggage. With a gesture and a question Christopher directed the man's attention to the landau.

"Why, 'at rig belongs to Mr. Goodfield. Oldest an' richest merchant 'round these parts," the coachman replied. "Ye follow this 'ere road a bit, then turn north at the crossroads. Ye can't miss the place. Biggest 'ouse ye ever seen."

Christopher flipped a coin into the driver's hand to display his gratitude, bidding the man to take a draught of ale on him. Chortling, the coachman thanked him profusely and hurried off toward the inn.

Erienne hesitated on the carriage step and looked back, finding the grayish-green eyes fastened on her. Christopher gave her a slow grin and cordially tipped his hat. Avery followed his daughter's gaze and glared when he found the object of her attention. Gripping her arm, he pushed her in, then hurried back to the coach to claim their baggage.

"Keep yer eyes to yerself," he warned Christopher direly. "I have me friends here, and a word from me, and they'll see ye done in good. Ye won't be any use to any woman when they finishes wit' ye."

The younger man returned a tolerant smile to the threat. "You don't learn very quickly, do you, Mayor? First you sent your son, and now you think to frighten me with your friends? Perhaps you've forgotten that I have a ship in port with a crew who've honed their teeth fighting pirates and privateers. Would you care to meet them again?"

"Leave me girl alone!" Avery spat the words out through his teeth.

"Why?" Christopher chuckled derisively. "So you can marry her off for a purse? I've got a purse. How much will you take for her?"

"I've told ye!" Avery thundered. "She ain't for ye, no matter how weighty yer purse!"

"Then you'd best pay up your debt, Mayor, because I won't be satisfied until it is done." Christopher swung into the saddle and with a nudge of his heel set his mount into an easy canter, leaving the mayor glaring after him.

An overwhelming feeling of depression came over Erienne at her first glimpse of Smedley Goodfield. He was old and wrinkled, with much the size and looks of a wizened elf. His hunched back and distorted shoulders were painful reminders of the taunt she had hurled at Christopher. Whatever she had said then, she was positive now that Smedley Goodfield would be her
very
last choice as a husband.

Shortly after their arrival, her father was bluntly invited to look over the gardens without being given much choice in the matter. She, on the other hand, was beckoned to sit on the settee beside Smedley. Erienne declined, taking a bench before the hearth, but she soon found this was only an invitation for the merchant to join her. From the first moment he sat beside her, she had to fight to keep his hands from invading the privacy of her clothes. In his fumbling eagerness he ripped her bodice, and considering her modest collar, his actions had no pretense of the accidental. With an outraged gasp Erienne threw off his bony hands and came to her feet, clutching the torn bodice together and snatching up her cloak.

"I am leaving, Mr. Goodfield!" She strained not to shout. "Good day to you!"

Her father was pacing nervously about the entry hall when she stormed out, and a brief argument ensued when he tried to urge her back to the drawing room.

"I'll have none of yer damned impertinence!
I'll
decide when we'll be leaving!" he snarled as he jabbed his thumb against his chest. "An' it won't be 'til we've settled on this matter o' marriage."

Erienne's face was a stiff mask as she fought the anger that churned within her. Slowly but emphatically she answered her parent. "The matter is already settled!" She took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm the raging tides that swept through her being. "The only way you can keep me here is to bind me hand and foot, then you'd best find a way to silence me, for I'll scream enough insults at that filthy old man that he'll throw us both out. I have had enough of that lecher's pawing hands." She threw open her cloak and displayed her torn gown. "See what he's done! My best gown, and he's ruined it."

"He'll buy ye ten more!" Avery cried in desperation. He couldn't allow her to go, not with his freedom at stake. What did a torn gown matter when the man wanted to marry her? The little twit was just being difficult. "If ye leave this house, I warn ye 'twill be by foot. Mr. Goodfield was kind enough to see us here in his carriage, and we've no other way to return."

Erienne held her chin high as she stalked toward the door. "Perhaps you are not yet ready to leave, Father, but I am."

"Where are ye going?" Avery demanded.

"As I said," she flung over her shoulder, "I'm leaving!"

Avery was in a quandary. He hadn't thought she would go off without him, not in a strange place. The suspicion grew in his mind that she was only testing him and really had no intention of leaving on her own. He gave a derisive snort. He would show her that he was a man of his word. "Ye'll see yerself back to the inn without me, girl. I'll be stayin' with Mr. Goodfield..."

The door slammed in his face, leaving him sputtering in astonishment. He started to charge after her, intending to drag her back, but Smedley's cane thumped imperiously in the drawing room, demanding attention. Worriedly Avery hurried toward the sound as he sought to find some excuse that would explain his daughter's actions and soothe the merchant's outraged vanity. Never had Avery's thoughts churned so frantically in so short a time.

Erienne stalked down the path that led away from the merchant's mansion. Her mind was in a turmoil, and her whole body was rigid with the anger she felt. It was enough that she was forced to bear the attentions of a seemingly endless procession of overly eligible men from every corner of England. It was enough that the only qualifications her father recognized in the suitors was the size of their purses and their readiness to defray his debts. It was enough that her own father had to use her as a tool to placate the creditors who had become anxious about their money. But now! Being commanded to please a doddering ancient lest he become offended... It was just too much!

Her skin crawled as she remembered the pawing hands of the many eager candidates, and their oh-so-endless ploys: the accidental brush of her bosom, the stealthy caress of her thigh beneath a table, the bold press of heated loins against her derriere, and the simpering leers that knowingly answered her questioning glares of anger.

Halting, she stood with clenched fists and grinding teeth. She knew all too well what the evening would bring if she returned to the Lion's Paw. Her father would come mewling in with Smedley Goodfield at his side, and he would press her to reach some compatible arrangement with the merchant. Of course, Smedley would sit fidgeting at her side, seizing every opportunity to lean against her, to caress her hip, or to bend close with his crooked, gap-toothed grin and whisper some lewd or vulgar comment or story in her ear, then cackle in glee when she reacted in horror, or if she didn't, to take her calmness as encouragement for more.

A spasm of pure disgust wrenched through her and caught her stomach into a tight knot. She was aware that her father feared debtors' prison, and it was the last place she wanted him to go. But she also had come to the realization that she could not bear to debase herself in the manner he proposed.

Erienne's panic was born small but rapidly grew as she thought of the aged merchant waiting at the inn with his nervous, ingratiating smile. She saw again the narrow face, the red-rimmed eyes that moved quickly like a rat's, the bone-thin, clawlike hand that had ripped her gown in his fevered haste ...

A stone obelisk carved with an arrow pointing north to Mawbry caught her eye, and an idea began to flit through her mind. Wirkinton and the Lion's Paw lay to the south only a few miles away. The path to Mawbry presented a longer walk, a journey that would take the rest of the day and some of the night to complete. The wind was brisk and the air was growing increasingly chilly, but she wore her warmest cloak, and there was naught at the inn that she needed. Indeed, anything there would only be a burden, and if she returned, she'd only be tender bait for the likes of Smedley Goodfield.

Erienne made her decision, and her desire to reach Mawbry before midnight gave impetus to her haste. Her slippers were ill suited to the pebble-strewn lane, and she had to stop often to remove the invading stones. Still, an hour on the road saw her fairly well along, and she felt no regret at having avoided another meeting with Smedley. It was only when clouds began to darken and churn close overhead that the first twinge of doubt pricked her. An occasional droplet of rain struck her face, and with the pressure of the ever-building wind, her cloak wrapped about her legs and seemed determined to impede her progress.

Stubbornly Erienne labored up another hill but paused at its brow when she saw a pair of roads joining together and each stretching out endlessly before her, one trailing off in one direction, the other lane winding off in another. Nothing was familiar, and the worry that she might take the wrong road greatly undermined her confidence. The lowering clouds were becoming a tumbling, indistinct mass, snuffing out the sunlight and lending no hint of the direction she should take.

The wind whipped the hilltop with an ever-deepening chill that made her shiver, but its icy breath gave her a small measure of assurance that it came from the north. Clenching her gloveless fingers against its frosty nip, she set her jaw in grim determination and struck out again on what she dearly hoped was a northerly trek.

"Marriage!" she scoffed beneath her breath. She was beginning to detest the word.

She bent to pick another pebble from her shoe, but when she glanced casually over her shoulder, she stopped and slowly began to straighten. Paused on the hill behind her, silhouetted like some evil wizard against the black, turbulent vapors that seethed behind him, a man sat astride a dark horse. The wind whipped his cloak out wide about him, lending wings to his form, and staring at him, Erienne knew a sudden, bone-chilling fear. She had heard innumerable tales of murder and ravishment done along the roads and byways of North England, of highwaymen stripping their victims of valuables, virtue, or life, and she was sure this man posed a threat to her.

She began to back away, and the rider urged his steed forward. Fighting the bit, the animal pranced sideways for a moment, giving her a good view of the pair. Erienne caught her breath, and her trepidations rapidly vanished as she recognized that magnificent, glistening stallion and the man sitting astride him.

Christopher Seton! The very name scalded her being with hot indignation. She felt an urge to scream in utter rage. Of all the people who could have come over that hill, why did it have to be him?

Her attempt to scramble from the road made him kick his horse. The stallion was long-legged and quickly closed the distance between them, flinging up clods of dirt as he followed her into the soft, rock-strewn turf beside the road. Grinding her teeth in frustration, Erienne dodged the pursuit, lifting her skirts well above her knees as she darted in the opposite direction. Christopher was not to be outdone, for he flung himself from the stallion, and in two long strides was upon her, swooping her up in his arms.