A Rose in Winter (17 page)

Haggard sidled close to Timmy and made another plea for attention, tugging at the man's sleeve as he glanced nervously about.

"Back off!" Sears commanded, roughly shrugging the man away. "Ye see how he simpers in his ale, men? He's afraid ter come out with what he thinks o' Mawbry men."

"If you really want to know what I think, Mr. Sears," Christopher replied gently but loud enough to be heard clearly over the angry grumbles of Sears' cronies, "I am of the opinion that
you
are a fool. The mayor can hardly accept your niggardly hundred quid when he owes me better than twenty times that amount. I further doubt the girl would favor you. I've heard"—a grin spread across his face—"the only way she takes pork is well salted."

"Pork?" Timmy puzzled a moment before the meaning dawned.
"Pig!
Ye heard him, lads!" he bellowed. "He called me a pig!" He took a step forward, motioning for his men to follow. "Let's see the ruddy beggar giggle his way out o' this one! Let's get him, lads."

After a brief surge forward, his companions halted and peered warily at the meaty fists that clasped their shoulders. Their gazes raised to the leering grins that seemed to form an endless wall behind them, and they quickly gave up the idea of joining Timmy.

Worriedly Haggard grasped the red-haired man's arm, attempting to turn him around, and finally managed to get his eye. "Th... they ... they're...!!" Haggard failed to form the words as he repeatedly jabbed a finger toward the men. Timmy conceded to look and his jaw slowly descended as he stared at the twenty-odd men who stood in several silent ranks behind his men. Haggard jerked his thumb over his own shoulder at Christopher and choked, "His men!"

The man in the long blue coat pressed to the fore. "Any difficulty, Mr. Seton?"

"No, Captain Daniels," Christopher replied. "No difficulty. At least, nothing that I can't handle."

Handle!
The word stuck in Timmy's craw. As if he were some animal to be handled! He faced his foe again.

Christopher smiled lazily. "A simple apology will do, Mr. Sears."

"Apology!"

The smile did not waver. "I really have no penchant to abuse a drunkard."

"Speak English, man!" Timmy shook his head. "I don't care how many penchan's ye ain't got."

Christopher sipped again and set his mug aside. "You did understand 'drunkard,' though."

Timmy gave a long, careful look over his shoulder. " 'Tis just ye and me then, Mr. Seton?"

"Just you and me, Mr. Sears." Christopher answered with a brief nod and doffed his coat.

Sears spit into his hands, and rubbed them together. A gleam came into his eye, and he gloated as he considered the slimmer man before him. He lowered his head and, with a roar of pure glee, charged.

Timmy crossed the room before he realized his arms were still empty. He caught himself against the wall and spun about to see where the Yankee devil had gone to. The man was standing to one side halfway back, his smile still neatly in place. Snorting, Timmy plowed his way toward his target again. Christopher stepped aside again, but this time slammed a fist into the thick belly, driving the wind from the man. As Sears came about to grapple, a solid right cross spun him about in the other direction.

Sears careened into the wall again and this time was a trifle slower to turn. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he waited until the multiple visions dwindled to the singular and he could focus properly on his adversary. Sears spread his arms and with a bellow of rage lurched across the room, then deftly sailed on past his opponent as a booted foot was applied to his rear, giving him impetus.

When the red haze cleared away, Timmy found he had engulfed only a pair of tables and three or four chairs. It was hard to tell from all the pieces. As he clawed his way free of the splintered furnishings, he cast about for the devil Seton, finding him but a few paces away, as yet untouched. Sears came to his feet and launched himself in silence this time. Christopher stood his ground, burying a fist into Timmy's stomach and straightening him with another to his jaw, then with quick thrusts repeating the blows. The red head bobbed with each strike, but Timmy stayed close, reaching out to encircle the other with his massive arms. Those meaty members had cracked the ribs of many an opponent, and the bloodshot eyes shone with the expected victory as he sought to close and lock the vise.

With the heel of his hand Christopher forced the broad chin up and back. Timmy was surprised to find himself being slowly turned. He was forced back until his heels touched the bar and he felt the edge of the plank press into the small of his back. Just when he thought his spine would snap, Christopher released his hold. The Yankee stepped back, catching his hands in Timmy's collar, and hauled the man around, sweeping him wide, then letting go. Timmy spun across the room, then sprawled, rolling and banging his head and shins until he came to rest against the hearth. Gasping for breath, he was slow to pick himself up. When he did, he stared at Christopher and then slowly sank into a chair that stood behind him. That damned Seton had a way of taking the fun out of brawling, and Timmy had lost his appetite for mayhem.

The barkeep had spread Timmy's purse open on the bar, and at each splintering crash had lifted an appropriate coin. He grinned at Timmy as he dropped a handful in his strongbox.

"Take some out o' his, too!" the red-haired man barked, glowering and jerking a thumb at Christopher.

The barkeep shrugged and countered, "He ain't smashed nothin', not even his bloomin' mug."

Timmy lurched across the room and snatched up the slim remainder of his purse. He tucked it away as Christopher placed his cup intact upon the plank. The Yankee picked up his frock coat and turned to his captain as he donned it.

"Care for a stroll, John?" he asked. "I feel a need to cool off some."

The captain smiled and puffed his pipe alight, and the two left the tavern. Haggard lent an arm to Timmy and sought to smooth his ruffled feathers.

"Don't give him no mind, mate. Why, ye were so fast he hardly laid a hand on ye."

Her father's words burned in Erienne's memory with the bitter gall of betrayal. The fact that he could have been so crass as to take her flippant suggestion seriously flawed his character in her mind. Her thoughts traced slowly over the events that had led up to her present predicament, seeking to find that exact moment when all had gone astray. Yesterday she would have been ready to blame Christopher Seton for their troubles, but what she had heard from her father's own lips changed much of that. She was seeing her parent's true character much more clearly now, and it shamed her to the core.

Born in the back of her mind, where it persisted like a stubborn seed caught between one's teeth, was the thought that the cottage where they lived had ceased to be her home. It was a realization of which she was becoming increasingly aware. Yet there was no place else to go. She had no kin that she knew of, no other haven to seek out. If she left, her fortune would be what she would make herself.

Erienne's dilemma seethed, and its solution hid itself in the chaotic frenzy of her thoughts. She was like a raft set adrift in a turbulent sea—having no security where she was, but finding no escape from it either.

When darkness descended, she withdrew to her bedchamber. Beyond the protection of the cottage's walls, the wind howled, and the low clouds made the night sky a dense black ether that devoured any struggling light. She laid a large block of peat on the fire and sank in a chair before the hearth, draping her hands listlessly over the wooden arms. Smoke welled up around the dried turf, and then slowly the tongues of flickering fire began to lick upward to consume the block. While the twisting, dancing flames held her eye, her mind roamed far afield.

There was, of course, Christopher's proposal. Erienne leaned back against the wooden frame of the chair and imagined herself on his arm, dressed in a rich gown, with twinkling jewels twined about her throat. He could show her the sights of the world and, when they were alone, the secrets of love. Her mind and heart could become hopelessly entangled with fulfilling his every desire until...

Her mind formed a vision of herself standing with a swollen belly before her stalwart lover. His arm was raised in a silent command for her to depart, and there was a frown of displeasure on his face.

Erienne angrily shook her head to thrust the image from her mind. What Christopher Seton proposed was quite out of the question. If she gave herself to him, there would always be the gnawing fear that she'd be just another one of his light-of-loves, cherished today but forgotten tomorrow.

The house grew still as her father and brother retired for the night. Farrell had seemed somewhat abashed by his part in the preparations for the roup. As his father had bade, he had penned the wording and delivered the parchments to the posting boards, but then he had grown glum and distant with the passing of hours. He had been abnormally polite to' her, even remaining sober, yet Erienne held no hope that he would help her, for that would mean going against their father, and he had always held the elder in the highest esteem.

The fire flamed high, then died back. The peat glowed and snapped as if with a stoic purpose to consume itself. Erienne stared into its softly burning light until the clock chimed twice. She glanced around her in surprise and rubbed her suddenly chilled hands together. The room was icy cold, and on the small stand beside the bed the flaming wick of a candle sputtered feebly in a puddle of melted wax. She flinched as her feet struck the cold floor, and she eagerly sought out the cozy warmth beneath the heavy quilts of her bed. As she huddled under them, a firm conviction settled down within her thoughts. On the morrow she would fly. Somewhere, someone would have need of her neat, well-formed penmanship or her quick, easy way with numbers, and they might be moved to pay her a stipend for the proper application of both or either. Perhaps a widowed duchess or a countess in London would have need of a companion. With such a hope burning in her, Erienne relaxed and freed her mind so it could at last seek out that sweet, numb bliss of Morpheus.

Sleet plagued the morning sky, coming down in a fine mist, and quickly formed a thin, crusty layer of ice over the roads. Avery paused in the Boar's Inn, where he ordered a draught of bitters. " 'Tis medicinal in nature," he was wont to excuse if anyone raised a brow and questioned. After massaging his dewlaps and loudly clearing his throat, he would further explain, "Clears the soots and tars from me pipes, it does. Aye, and I needs it for the ripeness of me age."

On this frosty morn, Jamie slid a scupper of bitters to him

with a comment. "Thought ye might not be comin' out on a day like this, Mayor."

"Argh, on a day like this more'n any other." Avery's voice was hoarse and gravelly after the brief walk in the chill weather. He rubbed his belly as if to soothe a pain and pushed the scupper back. "Put a finger o' solid brandy in it, Jamie. A man needs a bit o' fire in his innards to bring him alive on a chill morn'n'."

When the innkeeper complied, Avery seized the fortified bitters and took a liberal draught. "Aaarrgh," he bellowed, lowering the cup. He hammered his breastbone with a closed fist. "Brings a man to life. Aye! That it does. Quickens the mind." He leaned an elbow on the wooden planks and took on the manner of a man expounding a deep, hidden truth. "And ye know, Jamie, 'tis a grave need for a man in me delicate position ter keep his mind as quick as it can be. 'Tis a rare night we can feel safe in our beds, what wit' bein' at the whims and schemes o' them Scots who come down wit' their clans and do war agin' us. We need our wits about us, Jamie. That we do."

The innkeeper interjected with an appropriate nod and busied himself scrubbing pewter mugs. The subject was clearly a favored one in Avery's heart, and he rambled on, content with the other's feigned interest. Avery did not realize that at the moment the revolt was much closer to home.

Erienne's plan did not extend beyond the immediate moment of escape. It was enough that she had decided in what direction to go. London was not unfamiliar to her, and it was a likely place to start her search for employment.

She dressed herself warmly for the trip that would take her from her home. Farrell's snores continued to fill the silence even as she crept downstairs to the back door. The satchel she carried held the sum total of her possessions. It was not much, but it would have to do.

Settling her hood over her head as protection against the frigid weather, she lifted her skirts and ran quickly across the yard to the lean-to where the gelding was kept. Since Farrell no longer tended the animal and she had taken over the stable duties to see it properly cared for, she would lay claim to it now. She was determined to see herself better prepared than when she had set out on foot from Wirkinton.

The sidesaddle was hers, given to her by her mother, but hardly rich enough to be worth selling, which no doubt was the reason it was still in her possession. Her father would have confiscated it long ago had he thought there would have been some gain in doing so.

The horse was tall, and even with the aid of a step, she had to jump, half dragging herself across the sidesaddle. Stabbing blindly with her foot until she found the stirrup, she twisted about clumsily to arrange herself and her skirts, all the while keeping a tight rein on the prancing steed.

"Walk softly if you care for my hide, Socrates," she admonished, rubbing his neck. "I have a need for stealth this morning, and I do not wish to rouse the town."