A Rose in Winter (32 page)

A peal of terrifying laughter rang out behind him, and he redoubled his pounding progress. He did not halt as he plunged deep in the protection of the thicket, hardly aware of the thorns that shredded his nightshirt and hide.

Later he swore that he had heard the beat of ghostly hooves close behind him, and his wife smiled and noddingly commented that he had run so fast it took him until nearly four in the morning to reach the cottage again. His friends at the Boar's Inn who knew of Timmy's bent toward brawling buried their laughter in mugs before agreeing in strained, stentorian tones that his bravery had been stouthearted in the face of the winged creature.

The days of Lord Saxton's absence numbered four, and though she had kept busy with her duties as mistress of the manor, Erienne grew restive within the stone walls. She remembered her husband's statement that if she desired an outing, she was free to ride the mare from the stables. Taking him at his word, she garbed herself in riding habit and went down to present her plea to Keats.

Since her arrival at Saxton Hall, she had not ventured to the stables, though the idea of escape had nibbled at her thoughts and she had wondered how far she would get taking one of her husband's horses. The overriding fear that he would come after her and she would then have to deal with his wrath put quick death to such meanderings of the mind. The only place where she could even hope to find safety was with Christopher Seton, but her pride would never yield that victory to him. If he had truly cared about her as he had claimed, he could have at least presented some form of protest about the roup. Instead, he had readily accepted payment for the debts and voiced no objection to her being bought by another man. When last she saw him, he had seemed most content with his freedom, and if she ran to him now, ready to give all he demanded of her, then surely she would only be feeding his arrogance. She had no doubt that an affair with him would be wildly exciting, but one day she would have to face the fact that he was just using her for a time. When another woman came along whom he liked better, it would be the end. It was better that she saved herself such grief before falling hopelessly in love with him.

When she entered the stables, Erienne saw a youth about her size and near an age of ten and five cleaning a far stall. He straightened as the door squeaked behind her, then his eyes widened as he caught sight of her. He came at a run to meet her, and snatching off his hat, halted before her. He bobbed his head forward several times in what might have been a hesitant bow, and the grin that split his face made her smile.

"Are you Keats?" she inquired.

"Aye, mum," he replied eagerly and gave another jerky bow.

"I don't think we've met. I'm..."

"Oh, I know who you are, mum. I've seen ye comin' and goin', and ... beggin' yer pardon, mum... I'd have ter be blind not ter notice a mistress as comely as yerself."

Erienne laughed. "Why, thank you, Keats."

His face took on a deeper hue of red, and slightly befuddled by his boldness, he gestured toward a dark mare with white stockings that stood in a nearby stall. "The master said ye might be comin' ter fetch Morgana. Would ye be wantin' me ter saddle her for ye, mum?"

"I would like that immensely."

If it were possible, the grin widened, and he slapped his hat against his flanks as he spun joyfully about. He led the mare from her stall and held her for Erienne's inspection. The animal seemed of a calm, friendly spirit as she nuzzled the lad's arm, yet she was of a class that would have made Socrates shrivel in dismayed embarrassment. She was nearly black and silky smooth with a long-flowing mane and tail.

Erienne scratched the dark neck. "She's beautiful."

"Aye, that she is, mum, and she's yers. The master said so."

Erienne was overwhelmed. She had never owned a horse before and certainly had never considered that she would possess an animal of Morgana's beauty. The gift pleased her and made her even more aware of her husband's generosity. Though she had not yielded as she had promised, the presents still continued to flow. Whatever the depths of his scars, he seemed to be several steps above Smedley Good-field and the host of other suitors who would have stopped the gifts at the first hint of her rejection.

"Would ye be wantin' me ter go with ye, mum?" Keats asked when the mare stood ready.

"No, that won't be necessary. I shan't be gone long, and I plan to stay in sight of the manor."

Keats locked his hands together to accept the slender booted foot and was amazed at the agility his mistress displayed as she was boosted into the saddle. Indeed, she was like a feather briefly touching his hands. As she rode away, he stood at the door of the stables and stared after her until he felt assured that she could handle the mount, then he turned back to his labors, whistling an airy tune. He had already come to the conclusion that the master was as gifted at choosing a wife as he was at selecting horses. They certainly were a right fine lot to look at, every last one of them.

Erienne avoided the black rubble of the east wing as she passed the manor, for it reminded her of her husband's stark mask and her own inability to conform to a wifely state. The air was cold against her face as she raced over the moors, yet she found it exhilarating, and she inhaled its freshness. The mare was swift and agile, quick to respond to her hand. Erienne felt in unison with it, and the tension that had chained her the past two weeks began to slip away.

Nearly an hour later she was in a valley to the east of the manor, in an opening that was banked by a wooded area on three sides. She had slowed the horse's gait to a walk when the distant sound of baying hounds caught her attention. Her heart doubled its beat as the memory of snarling jowls and sharp fangs flashed through her mind. A sudden foreboding descended upon her, and though she could see the manor on the hill behind her, it was too far away to lend any comforting thoughts of protection.

She had to fight an overriding panic as she turned the mare about and retraced her path across the valley. Her fears were diminishing as she neared the wooded copse. In another few moments she would be safe at the manor, and she began to relax, unaware of the eyes that watched her from the woods.

Timmy Sears chortled to himself and rubbed his bruised arm. Vengeance on this so-called Lord Saxton would taste sweet as he took his pleasure on the girl. Seeing as how the Yankee had wanted her too, the revenge would be twofold.

He kicked his horse, sending it thrashing from the trees and onto the lane in front of Erienne, startling a cry from her. The mare danced away at this unexpected confrontation, and she had to fight to keep her control over the animal. Timmy's broad hand reached out for the reins, but Erienne was incensed at his boldness and brought the quirt slashing down across his wrist.

"Get away from me, you lout!" She swung the mare around until the reins were well out of Timmy's reach, then glared at him over the steed's neck. "Poachers and their mongrels are not welcome on these lands. Get off!"

Timmy sucked his lacerated hand as his eyes bore into her. "For a wench 'oo was sold on the block, ye've gotten high-minded since ye married his lordship."

"Whatever my circumstances have been, Timothy Sears," she retorted, "it has always been well above your kind. 'Tis your wont to trod ruthlessly over people, and you have trespassed on my husband's lands far too often."

" 'Twill be more'n his lands I'll be havin' me fun on this time, yer ladyship."

Tiny shards of fear pricked Erienne's spine while a coldness congealed in the pit of her stomach. She had heard enough tales about Timmy Sears to know that he could be a dangerous, unruly scamp. Driven by self-preservation, she spun the mare around. Timmy was prepared for her attempt. He kicked his mount forward and was beside her before she could flee. He seized the bridle, preventing her escape, but the quirt was still in Erienne's hand, and she used it with vicious intent, bringing it down across his arm and slashing his face.

Howling a curse, Timmy swung his arm back in violent reaction, landing a blow across her shoulders. The breath was nearly driven from Erienne, but she fought to stay in the saddle as the mare danced away. Timmy reached out to grab her, tearing her sleeve at the shoulder as he tried to pull her from the saddle. Erienne struck out with the whip again, now more enraged than she was afraid. She was determined not to be bested by this boorish fellow. The quirt caught his cheek, and as she drew her arm back, she brought the whip down hard on the mare's flanks, making her rear. Timmy was nearly torn from his saddle before the bridle was jerked from his hand. As his grip loosened, Erienne drove her heel into her mount's side, sending her into a full-out run.

"Ye bitch!" he roared, charging after her. "I'll see 'at ye pay!"

Suddenly a shot rang out, filling the air with a deafening crack. Startled, Erienne leaned low in the saddle, thinking that Timmy was firing at her. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw another horse and rider racing from the woods into the clearing, and she recognized Bundy. He was loading his musket as he came.

"Come on, ye bastard!" he shouted. "Come on, and let me fill yer hide with shot!"

Timmy Sears saw the man jerk the ramrod from the barrel and knew the weapon was almost ready to be fired again: He did not pause. Turning tail, he leaned low over the saddle and whipped his horse's flanks with his hat in a frenzied effort to escape the shot that he knew would be forthcoming. Another loud crack pierced the air, and Timmy was relieved a second later when he heard the echoing boom. He cackled in glee as a loud curse was bellowed after him, but knowing that the man would be quickly reloading, he did not waste a moment throwing back a jeer. There'd be another time when he could spend his lust upon the wench, and he vowed he would make her pay dearly.

Erienne reined her mount about to observe Timmy Sears' flight. The last she saw of him was his coattails flying out behind him as he passed over the top of a hill. She sagged in relief, taking air into her lungs in small gasps.

Bundy halted his horse beside hers and urgently questioned, "Are ye all right, mum? Did he harm ye?"

She had begun to shake in nervous reaction and could only nod.

"He's an evil man, that Timmy Sears," he stated, then glared off toward the hill over which the red-haired man had disappeared. Bundy let out his breath in a disappointed sigh. "His lordship wouldna missed."

Erienne was unable to form a question with her trembling lips.

" 'Tis a good thing the master and me came back when we did, mum."

"Lord Saxton is back?" she finally managed.

"Aye, and when he found ye gone, he sent me lookin' fer ye. He won't like it when I tell him what happened. He won't like it at all."

Chapter Eleven

THE high, bright moon cast a silver halo around the ebony clouds and sent a fleeting, whimsical, ever-changing array of shadow and light across the hills. A seaborne breeze wafted over the land, rustling treetops and swooping with an airy rush over the moors. A few meager cottages huddled here and yonder, fading to blots of darkness as lamps were snuffed and shutters were barred for the night. There was a sleepy stillness beneath the sighing wind, a quiet assurance that all was well. None heard the thundering hooves of the fierce black stallion or saw the ominously cloaked and hooded rider who guided the steed on its breakneck race. The animal sped along, matching the wind over the narrow road that trailed through the valley. His hooves flashed like quicksilver in a brief spot of light, and his coat glistened as the muscles beneath it rolled and heaved. Flared nostrils and blazing eyes gave him the look of some dragon beast closing in for the kill, and the silent figure on his back added to the illusion that this foray was a hunt to the death. The flying cloak gave wings to the image, yet bound to the earth they were, and ever onward did they ride, never slacking the pace, never slowing for the sake of man or beast.

Some distance away, the oversized mistress of a small cottage stumbled from her sagging bed, unable to sleep beside her loudly snoring husband. She tossed a few clumps of dried peat onto the fire and stood back to watch the progress of the flames. Disturbed by the anxiety that filled her, she shivered and glanced about. There was a coldness within her stout belly, a churning of apprehension that something dreadful was about to befall them. She crossed the dirt floor, her slippers flapping loosely at her heels, and poured herself a draught of strong ale, then returned to the hearth to settle her bulk beside a rough-hewn table, laying a flabby arm upon the planks as she sipped the brew and stared into the golden flames.

Half the contents remained in the mug when she canted her head to listen, confused by the low, distant rumble. Was it thunder she heard? Or just the wind?

She lifted the mug to drink again but paused, this time to concentrate intently on the sound. It was growing louder and more consistent... and regular ... like the drum of a horse's hooves.

The tankard was slammed down, and as fast as her generous frame could move, she ran to the window to throw open the shutters. A small, trembling cry came from her throat as she saw the black apparition skimming along the shadows of the trees. The cloak flapped out behind him, and horse and rider appeared to swoop down upon the cottage. Her mind was frozen with fear, and she gaped in slack-jawed awe as the horse was reined to an abrupt halt before their door. The black reared in a terrible display of temper, pawing the air with flashing hooves as he shattered the stillness of the night with an angry whinny.