Marriage Under Siege (15 page)

And the threat of violence,
of outright war, of death, was now imminent. And a charge of treason! She
pressed her hands against her damp cheeks in horror.

Where are you, Francis? Come home. So much responsibility—I cannot
shoulder this on my own. Come home to me.

She sniffed, wiped away her
tears, feeling a little foolish. There was no real sense of his presence here
in the room yet she experienced a degree of comfort. Of course he would be home
soon. She smoothed the bedcover where she had been sitting, straightened the
bed hangings and walked to the window to look out. The same view as her own.
When would she see him riding down the road towards her? And would he want to
hold her in his arms again, to kiss her? To take her to his bed? She hoped—and feared.

You are a foolish woman,
Honoria Brampton, she chided herself. Valiant and honourable indeed! Go and
talk to Mistress Brierly about the packet from Mistress James, as she
instructed. It is still unopened. It will give you something to think about.

She stepped back from the
window embrasure. And halted, her attention caught by the soft shine of gold
on the window seat between the cushions. An object mislaid and forgotten, an
object of value. She lifted it and turned it over. It fit beautifully in the palm
of her hand, its rim delicately carved and chased. And her heart sank.

It was a miniature. Honoria
knew immediately the subject. The clear, youthful features, the green eyes,
shadowed with dark lashes, which laughed up at her in innocent pleasure. Red-gold
curls glowed, owing nothing to artifice. And such an engaging smile with the
hint of a dimple in one cheek. It was painted by the hand of a master to catch
all the joy and beauty of the sitter. She was so vital and beautiful.

Honoria relaxed her fingers
where they had tightened around the frame. Well, of course Francis would have
looked at the fair portrait— before his marriage to
her.
He had loved Katherine. And lost her. And what sort of unflattering comparison
had he made between this lovely young girl and the widow who had been forced on
him through his sense of duty?

In a purely feminine
gesture, of which she was unaware, she raised her hand to her own straight
brown hair, severely confined in deference to practicalities. And visualised
her own brown eyes and pale features—and fought against the wave of self-pity
that washed over her as she studied the detailed portrait before her.

Poor Francis. What an
unfortunate bargain he had made to secure the whole Brampton inheritance. With
a little laugh, which might have been a sob, she pushed aside the self-delusion
that he might find her even passably attractive. Whereas she... How could any
woman fail to respond to the sheer masculinity of his tall figure? The
splendour of his hair, dark and silken, the arrogant turn of his head, the
curve of his lips which led enchantment to his stern features. And the gleam of
those magnificent eyes. She shook her head as her heart sank under a weight of
hopelessness. Walking to the bed, to leave the pretty picture on the nightstand
where Francis would find it on his return, she then escaped back to her own
bedchamber. She would not shed tears again over this, she told herself firmly.
She was a fool if she expected anything other than kindness and respect. That
would have to be enough. Of course it was enough! And that is what he would
want from her in return. Kindness and respect. She would take care that it
should be so. Take care never to show him what was truly in her heart.

The day slipped to its
close. Francis again failed to return. Why could he not even send a letter? Or
a message with one of the servants from Leintwardine? Honoria gritted her teeth
and ordered herself not to worry.

But she did—and took to bed
with her that night a loaded pistol and Morrighan.

Chapter Six

It was late and Honoria was
sleeping badly, so many anxieties running through her brain, like rats in a
treadmill, as soon as she lay down. So many fears of possible treachery from
within or imminent attack from without. And, not the least, fears for Francis's
safety. What could be holding him at Leintwardine for so long? During the day
she could keep the fear at bay, distract her mind, immerse herself in defensive
preparations with Foxton, discussions of stores and preserving methods with
Mistress Brierly—or simply in gossip with Mary. But the nights brought their
own terrors with dark claws to scratch and tear.

If he was injured—
or dead
—she would have been informed by now. Surely she
would
know.
Or that is what she told
herself when the waiting grew too much to bear.

Eventually she fell into a
troubled sleep, tossing restlessly as Morrighan twitched and snuffled from her
position at the side of the bed. Only to wake, tense, with eyes wide, senses
straining in the silence. Something had woken her, she was certain, although
she could hear nothing. It was late, but the remains of the fire still glowed
on the hearth. She turned her head carefully on the pillow to pick up the glint
of
Morrighan's
eyes. So she too was awake and
listening, ears pricked, alert gaze fixed on some invisible source of danger in
the darkness.

There it was again.

A scrape. A shuffle. Was
that a whisper? On the main staircase, she thought. Honoria fought clear of the
bedcovers and sat up.

Then there were footsteps.
Soft steps. Leather boots. Someone trying not to make too much noise.
Morrighan now rose to her feet, a growl low in her throat, lips lifting from
her teeth. Her eyes were locked on the door from the corridor into Honoria's
bedchamber.

Honoria's anxiety bloomed
into fully fledged panic.
Stay calm,
she told herself.
It may be nothing to fear.
It is too soon for an attack
by the Royalists. And surely not in the dead of night. But her breathing was
shallow, her hands clammy with cold sweat whilst her heart beat thunderously in
her ears. Not an invading force. Not enough noise, not enough footsteps, for
that. And she had got rid of the troublesome Ned Parrish, who would be well on
his way to London by now. But was he the only one in the household of Brampton
Percy whose loyalty to her was in doubt? Was she to be murdered in her bed by
someone guided by his duty to the King, someone who was even now stealthily
making his way along the corridor to her room? She stretched out a unsteady
hand to pick up the pistol from the nightstand. If her fears were correct, she
would have no compunction in using it. She grasped it in both hands and tried
to breathe deeply to steady her grip. No sense in losing her control so that
she missed the target.

The footsteps stopped
outside her door. Morrighan reacted instantly, taking a step forward, hackles
rising, her growls intensifying in volume and ferocity. The latch on the door
lifted. The door opened a little, noiselessly, on well-greased hinges.

Honoria clenched her teeth
to suppress a cry of intense fear so that it became a whimper in her throat.
There was, she noted, no light from outside. Whoever was there was working in
the dark, so not one of the servants on legitimate business. Besides, none of
them would enter her room without permission. She swallowed against the lump of
terror wedged below her heart.

Morrighan suddenly barked,
one fierce bark, startling her. The door continued to open.

'Who is it?' Her demand was
hardly more than a whisper and her voice shook—she was ashamed that it did—and
what a foolish question to ask! At the same time the wolfhound began to bark
loudly, refusing to be silenced even when Honoria grasped and tugged at the
rough pelt around its neck.

There was no apparent reply
from the unlit corridor. Now she saw a figure standing in the opening, stepping
into the room. It was a dark figure, apparently shrouded in a cloak, thrown
into relief by the faint light from the fire. Morrighan continued to
growl
and snarl and began to advance, slow foot by slow foot.

'Who are you? What do you
want?' Her words were drowned out by the loud barking challenge of the
wolfhound. And so was any reply, if one were indeed made.

Honoria panicked for real.
'I have a pistol. Stop there or I fire!' The dog continued to bark without
ceasing. The figure advanced.

In fear of her life,
Honoria hesitated no longer. All sense and reason fled, leaving her with one
clear course of action. She levelled the pistol with both hands, cocked it and
pulled the trigger.

A flash of light. The acrid
smell of gunpowder. Honoria flinched back against the pillows at the loud
explosion in the small room, which startled Morrighan into a further volley of
barking and a stream of vicious curses from the figure that fell back against
the door, clutching its shoulder.

'Don't move or I will fire
again. I have another pistol.' Her voice held steady and she prayed the bluff
would work. This time she did not have long to wait for a response.

'Hell and the Devil, lady!
What have you done?'

'What?' Her voice rose in a
squeak. 'Francis?'

'Who else would it be? Of
course it is me, in my own home, or so I thought. Who the Devil did you expect?
You have shot me.' His voice was incredulous, his expression impossible to
decipher in the darkness, but easy to guess at.

Honoria scrambled from the
bed, dignity abandoned, pulse racing with a mixture of relief and terror, to
light a candle with trembling fingers. To see Lord Francis leaning back against
the door, booted and cloaked, liberally smeared with mud. He was also clutching
his left shoulder, where bright blood seeped through his fingers to drip to the
floor. Before him stood Morrighan, feet splayed, still barking furiously at
the Lord of Brampton Percy.

'Call off the damn dog,
Honoria. At this rate we will raise the whole household.' Indeed, as he spoke
there came the sound of running footsteps from more than one direction.

'My lord? What is it? Are
we attacked?' Foxton's voice, abrupt and anxious, came from outside the door.

'Francis? Was that a pistol
shot? Are you hurt?' Sir Joshua joined him.

Francis pulled himself
upright, opened the door at his back and stepped out into the corridor,
carefully arranging his cloak over the bloodstain, which was still spreading
from his shoulder.

'Nothing untoward has
occurred, Josh. Forgive the disturbance, Master Foxton—something we hoped to
prevent, I know.' Honoria heard the edge in his voice, but there was no
indication to his concerned audience that he spoke other than the truth. 'It
was an accident. My lady wife thought she was under attack—an attack of nerves
only. She decided to practise shooting at shadows.'

She heard the murmur of an
answering comment and a laugh from Sir Joshua and then whispered goodnights

Francis closed the door and
simply stood for a moment, leaning against it, head bent and breathing deeply.
Meanwhile Honoria buried her fingers in
Morrighan's
neck fur so that she quietened, merely a low growl quivering through her frame
as her eyes remained fixed on Francis.

'My lord...'

Francis pushed himself
upright, stripped off his hat and gloves and let them fall to the floor. Then
he lowered himself carefully into a chair. It spurred Honoria into action. She
lit more candles to give her light and came to him to remove his rain and
blood-sodden cloak.

'My lord. Have I hurt you?'
Another ridiculous question. Her wits must certainly have deserted her. She
buried her teeth into her bottom lip as she surveyed the damage.

'Yes. You have shot me.'

'Why did you not answer
when I asked who was there? What on earth were you doing sneaking around in the
dark, without even a candle?' Her relief that her lord was not lying dead at
her feet found expression in supreme exasperation that he had brought it on
himself.

'I was trying not to
disturb the whole household at this Godforsaken hour! Or awaken you, if you
were asleep as I would have expected! Quite successfully, I believed! And I
thought I should relieve your mind that I had returned unharmed—if you should
have been predisposed to worry at all about my absence!' Her exasperation was
nothing compared with his. Sensing that tonight his self control had its
limits, she wisely made no further comment as she unfastened buttons and laces
and eased his ruined coat from his shoulder. 'Of course, you wouldn't hear
anything with that hound baying fit to summon the dead at the final trump. I
should have known. I expect it is all my fault! Next time I will hire the
King's Herald to announce my arrival with a trumpet blast and then we can all
be easy.' He stopped on a sharp intake of breathe, looking down at his bloodied
arm. 'Can you stop me bleeding?'

His waistcoat followed his
coat. Then he helped her to unbuckle his sword belt, handing the sword to
Honoria, before leaning back with a deep line etched between his brows. Without
further comment she turned her attention to his wound. His linen shirt, both
front and sleeve, was now red with blood. Using a knife to cut the cloth she
gently tore at it until it came away to show the ugly wound high up in his
shoulder. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard. She had no experience of
blood or wounds. The worst she had ever experienced was the cut and grazed
knees of a child. She had no idea whether she would be squeamish, and collapse
in a faint at his feet. Please God not! She had done enough damage for one
night. Tearing away the rest of the shirt, she made a wad of the material,
pressed it to the wound and calmly instructed Francis to keep up the pressure
with his own hand.

She busied herself with
routine tasks. Poured water from her ewer and carried the bowl to the table.
Then she stripped one of the sheets from her bed and tore it into pieces and
strips. She shrugged at the wanton destruction. The bed linen was in an
irreparable condition anyway.

She soaked a pad of cloth
in the water—and, as she raised her eyes to his face, was immediately aware of
her lord's pallor and tight-lipped mouth. Of course. What had she expected? He
must be in considerable pain, although he had made nothing of it. And he was
still losing blood. It ran down his chest to soak into his waistband and still
dripped from his fingers to form a puddle beside his chair. She did not even
know—an appalling thought—if the bullet was still lodged in the wound.

She put down the cloth and
turned instead to the court cupboard to collect the flask of wine stored there
and pewter goblets. And poured.

'Drink this.'

He did not argue but took a
mouthful. And then another before placing the goblet on the table. Perhaps
there was a return of some colour to his lean cheeks, but his eyes, when he
unveiled them to watch her, were dark with pain.

Honoria began to cleanse
the wound, casting quick glances at him to note how he was reacting to the
pressure. He continued to rest his head back against the chair, complexion
grey, eyes closed again and the thin line still apparent between his brows, but
he said nothing. Until the thoroughness of her ministrations caused him to
flinch and hiss through his teeth.

Honoria paused,
bloodstained cloth hovering.

'Don't stop now! Get it
done!' It was a snarl of pain.

'Then don't fidget!' Her
voice was stark in command. Anything to hide the trembling of her knees, the
near-paralysing fear that rose to block her throat. He must not know. She
washed away the blood, carefully, thoroughly, relieved that her hands were
steady, her reactions obedient to her demands. By the time she had finished,
the bleeding had nearly stopped, now merely seeping sluggishly.

'Well?' He opened his eyes
and squinted down at the wound as she finally dropped the cloth back into the
bowl and proceeded to tear more strips of linen. 'Have you given me a death
blow?'

'Fortunately, no.' Her
voice was calm, cool even. She marvelled at the extent of her self-control.
Better to hide the fear, fear that froze her blood to ice in her veins, even if
he thought her callous and unfeeling. 'The bullet has gone straight through the
shoulder—I expect it is buried in the panelling by the door. The wound is torn
and ugly, but quite clean.'

'So I should have something
to be thankful for.'

'Yes. Indeed you should!
You frightened me out of my wits. You deserved that I should shoot you!'

'Perhaps I should beg
forgiveness, lady.' His tone was dry and very tired. 'But, for your part, you
could explain why should you find a need to sleep with the wolfhound in your
room and a loaded pistol under your pillow? Are there insufficient servants in
this place to protect you in my absence?'

Honoria sighed. In all
fairness she had to accept the justification of his irritation. Even if she
would much rather continue to heap all the blame on his arrogant head! 'It is a
long story. Perhaps tomorrow would be a better time to tell it.'