Helen Dickson (4 page)

After politely taking his leave, he went out, striding along the corridor to the stairs. On hearing the soft patter of running feet and the soft swish of skirts he turned, pausing when he saw Miss Monkton hurrying towards him.

‘T
here is something you wish to ask about the journey?’ Charles asked.

‘No, not that. It is about Colonel Winston. Why do you dislike him so much?’

Charles’s face hardened and the perfectly amicable expression in his eyes disappeared. ‘My dislike is neither here nor there. I am not concerned about Colonel Winston. Can you not at least show some gratitude towards the people who are trying to help you?’

Maria raised her head. ‘Yes, of course I am grateful, and it was ill mannered of me not to show it. I apologise, but please do not abuse Colonel Winston to me.’

‘I will not abuse him to you and nor will I offend your ears with matters that are beyond your comprehension, but I strongly urge you not to marry him.’

Maria’s eyes were suddenly bright with anger. ‘
You
say this to me.
You,
a perfect stranger.’ She saw the sudden anger flare in his eyes. Her chin lifted haughtily and she favoured him with a glance of biting contempt.
‘My father was a good judge of character and thought well of him. He would never have agreed to the betrothal if he was not of good character.’

‘And you, Miss Monkton? How well do you know your betrothed?’

‘I have got to know him through his letters.’

‘That is hardly the same.’

‘It is good enough for me.’

Charles sighed, turning away. ‘Who can claim to know what moves a woman’s heart? At all events,’ he went on in a harder voice, looking back at her, ‘your betrothed is not a fit person to wed a decently bred girl, but it is none of my business, of course. I have said my piece. I can do no more just now.’

He saw the lovely face turn white with anger, and he knew a fraction of a second before she raised her hand what she intended. His own hand shot up and he caught her wrist before she could deal the blow to his cheek. She gasped at the quickness of his reaction and to her fury he unexpectedly laughed.

‘I see I have misjudged you. Perhaps you will be a good match for Colonel Winston after all.’ Releasing her wrist, he turned on his heel and proceeded to walk away.

Maria watched him go, the bright colour flaming up in her cheeks. ‘One more thing, sir,’ she said to his retreating back. ‘I heard what you said to my aunt about me cherishing a romantic and childish attachment for Colonel Winston. How dare you presume to know that?’

Charles’s jaw tightened, his humour of a moment before gone. So this girl thought she could impose on him with her queenly airs. Furious with himself, more than with her, he took refuge in anger. ‘So much the
worse for you,’ he said grimly. ‘I will not mention it again. I will escort you to England and Colonel Winston, but I will not go so far as to wish you joy in your union.’

Coldly furious, Charles had no intention of exerting himself further in this matter just now. Having seen much service with the army in India and returning to England on the death of his father, when a prominent member of the Whig opposition found him about to travel to France on his mother’s bequest to see how her relatives fared during these troubled times, he had asked him to secretly collect and report information on the events in Paris. Happy to oblige an old friend, Charles had agreed.

With this and other things on his mind, he’d had little time to think about the problem of Colonel Winston’s bride. Having fulfilled his commitments, travelling miles out of his way to Alsace to collect Miss Monkton, he had done what he thought was right by informing her guardian of certain aspects of Colonel Winston’s character. As far as he was concerned he had discharged this office and his conscience was clear. But he was encouraged, for, despite her youth, Miss Monkton clearly possessed both character and courage, and was quite capable of breaking off the engagement at the last minute if necessary.

Maria arrived at the inn at first light. She rode her favourite horse, her intention being to leave it at the inn where a groom would collect it later. She was dismounting when she caught sight of the dark forbidding figure striding towards her with the silent sureness of a wolf. This morning he seemed even taller, lean and superbly
fit. In fact, if it were not for the arrogant authority stamped in his firm jawline and the cynicism in his cold eyes, Maria would have thought him breathtakingly handsome.

Looking her up at down and satisfied that she would not attract any untoward attention in her plain black woollen dress, which she had obtained from her maid with another carefully packed with other items necessary for such a long journey in her valise, he said brusquely, ‘Come. It is time.’

Their departure occasioned no remark. Once in the inn yard, they were caught up in a fierce gust of wind that blew rain into their faces. Maria breathed in deeply with a sudden exhilaration. The wind smacked of freedom, of England and home, and suddenly she discovered a new meaning to her flight.

Her initial thought when Charles Osbourne had told her of his plans had been undoubtedly to go home, but now as she felt the wind on her face it came to her suddenly that there was a fierce joy in severing all ties with Chateau Feroc and France. Impulsively she threw back her head and laughed, as if she were offering herself up to be carried away by it.

Her effervescent laughter caused Charles to look at her in fascination and curiosity. ‘I imagined you would be apprehensive about the journey. It will be a hard flight.’

‘I don’t care,’ she said, still laughing. ‘I love the wind. And besides, I am happy. I am going home, which is what I have dreamed about for so long.’

The rigid lines of Charles’s face relaxed. ‘I know. Come—wife.’

His eyes twinkled somewhat wickedly in the grey morning light. Maria looked at him sharply. ‘Only for
the duration of the journey to Calais,’ she quipped, quick to resent his easy dismissal of her grudge against him. And yet despite her attempt to remain cool and detached, her heart beat out an uncontrollable rhythm of excitement.

‘I hope you don’t harbour an aversion to being alone with me for such a lengthy period,’ he said, taking her hand to assist her into the coach.

‘Why should I?’ Maria enquired quizzically, pausing with her foot on the step to look at him. ‘Unless, of course, you are a rogue at heart.’

‘I may well be,’ Charles acknowledged, lifting to his lips the slender fingers of his assumed wife, letting his warm, moist mouth linger on her knuckles in a slow, sensual caress.

Maria became aware of a strange quivering in the pit of her body and realised her breath was being snatched inwards when his lips came into contact with her skin. Sliding her hand from his, she lifted her skirts to step aboard and immediately felt her companion’s hand beneath her elbow aiding her ascent. She settled herself on the seat while striving to control her composure.

His eyes danced teasingly up into hers, his lips curved into a smile. ‘You could be in danger. You are by far the most enticing female I have seen in a long time.’

As Maria listened to the warm and mellow tone of his voice, and her gaze lit upon that handsomely chiselled visage, her eyes were drawn into the snare, and for a moment she found herself susceptible to the appeal of that wondrous smile. She glanced at him reflectively, wondering if she should read anything into his statement, and raised her brows meaningfully.

‘Perhaps I should warn you that if warranted, I am not above defending myself.’

Charles had the feeling that what she said was true—and her intended slap the day before proved that. He laughed to ease her fears, while his glowing eyes delved into hers. ‘I am sure you could do so admirably, so be confident of my good intentions. I shall take care to treat you as I would a wife—with the utmost respect.’

Maria cast an apprehensive eye toward him as he climbed in, but much to her relief, he settled across from her. As he caught her gaze, he grinned.

‘I fear the nearness of you would completely destroy my good intentions. It is safer if I sit here.’

Maria relaxed back in the seat. She could only hope that his restraint would continue and her resistance would not be tested.

The carriage was discreet, with no outward signs of wealth beyond a pair of post horses. The driver, Pierre Lamont, who knew them by their assumed names and had been paid an enormous amount of money to drive them to Calais, clicked his tongue as the whip curved gracefully through the air and the conveyance lurched into motion. When they had passed from the cobbled inn yard, the long journey back to Gravely had begun.

Maria had left Chateau Feroc without regret. However, despite the cold reserve with which her aunt and Constance had always treated her, she did feel a slight pang of remorse. Even at the last minute her aunt had refused to give way to sentiment and embrace her, but Maria was surprised to see how much distress Constance displayed.

Constance did embrace her, her eyes in her white face
wide and full of tears. Maria felt her tremble as she clung to her. It was only then that she realised how afraid her cousin was of remaining at the chateau and that she secretly wished she was leaving for England with Maria.

In that one brief moment Maria saw Constance not as the self-obsessed cousin, whose sole interest lay in her pretty face and her ability to attract the sons of the nobility as well-to-do as themselves, but as a young girl frightened for her life. Maria had held her, surprised to feel her own throat constrict with pain and tears brimming in her eyes.

‘I wish I was going with you,’ Constance had whispered earnestly, ‘but Mama won’t hear of it.’

‘Then defy your mother, Constance.’

‘I cannot. I could not go unless she came too.’

‘I wish you were coming with me,’ Maria had replied with heartfelt understanding. ‘If you can persuade her and you manage to get out of France, you must come to me at Gravely. Do you promise?’

With tears running down her cheeks, Constance had clung fiercely to Maria for a moment longer, and then, tearing herself free, she fled into the house.

Maria had turned away, too afraid to think of her cousin’s fate.

As the driver urged the horses into a faster pace, Maria braced herself against the sway of the carriage. Glancing across at her companion, she was suddenly reminded that she was going to be completely alone with a man for the first time in her life, a man who was as handsome of face as he was of physique—and with a boldness that gave her a sense of unease.

She knew nothing about him, and what, she asked herself, was he doing in France at this present time? She could not exactly understand what she was doing with him and why this stranger should have interested himself in her affairs to the extent of coming halfway across France to find her. Had he some ulterior motive? He might even be a spy—British or French, she had no way of knowing, since she knew nothing about spying.

During the journey perhaps she could turn the conversation to draw him out, to get him to talk about himself. In some strange way he both attracted and intrigued her. She looked into his light blue eyes and the expression there made her heart trip and beat a little faster. His long compassionate mouth curled in a slight smile.

‘We have a long way to go,’ he said, when they were settled, ‘so don’t make this harder on yourself than it need be. You’re stuck with me for a few days so you may as well accept it. Shall we declare a truce for the duration of the journey?’

‘Yes, I think we must,’ she concurred.

‘We shall also forgo formality and use our given names. It is for the best, you understand.’

‘Of course,’ she replied, removing her bonnet and dropping it on the seat beside her.

‘I’m sorry the Countess and her daughter would not come with us.’

Maria felt a small tremor of misgiving. ‘You fear the chateau will be attacked?’

He nodded gravely. ‘It is only a matter of time. Your aunt is a stubborn woman.’

‘Yes, yes, she is. I sincerely hope they come to no
harm.’ Maria stared out of the window at the passing scenery. It was all familiar, but soon they would pass into fresh territory that was alien to her. In the grey light it looked dismal. ‘I hate France,’ she said in a small voice, her expression subdued.

‘I sense you were not happy at Chateau Feroc?’

‘I do not mean to sound ungrateful or uncharitable but, indeed, I could not wait to leave. It is a cold, joyless place with no laughter.’

‘And you like to laugh, do you?’

‘Yes, although I have been at the chateau so long I fear I might have forgotten how to.’ Inexplicably the laughter rekindled in her eyes and she laughed again, just for the sheer joy of laughing, and when she looked into her companion’s eyes, she experienced a sudden relief of tension.

Charles smiled a little crookedly, thinking her courageous and fresh and very lovely. Despite her youth and inexperience she was no vapourish miss who would swoon at the first hurdle. ‘You should laugh more often,’ he murmured softly. ‘It suits you.’

She sighed. ‘There is nothing to feel happy about in France just now. What will happen, do you think? You have been to Paris?’ He nodded. ‘Was it very bad?’

‘I saw much blood shed by the mob. I have had to ask myself, where has the dignity, the self-control, the resolution gone in the France of today? But the people have their grievances—it would seem with some justification. The rise in prices and rents, as well as the taxes they have to pay, are increasingly burdensome. It is only right and natural that they want change.