Paxton Pride (73 page)

Marie spun, tried to flee. Edmond lunged, caught a piece of her gown. The bodice tore and Marie slammed into a piece of statuary, sent it crashing to the floor. Edmond whooped and grabbed again as man and girl toppled to the parqueted wood. Pieces of sharp marble gouged Marie's shoulders.

Edmond's fingers dug into her naked breast. Marie's scream of pain and terror was cut off with a drunken kiss. She twisted aside, managed to scream again. Half-insane under the influence of wine and lust, Edmond lost all restraint. An open-handed blow snapped the girl's head sideways. Cruelly sharp knees dug into her arms, pinioning them to the floor. Somewhere a door slammed open. Marie and her attacker were both unaware of the flood of light falling across their struggling forms. Edmond tore the cap from her head, lowered his face. Marie spat in his eyes and he screamed in rage, “Filthy whore!” Again his hand arced through the dust-laden air.

Suddenly Edmond was lifted bodily into the air and, with a startled squawk of terror, hurled to the opposite end of the room, crashing head over heels into a grinning, aroused satyr of stone. Marie was dimly aware of being scooped into the air by powerful arms, felt the heat of a man's muscled chest. Still terrified, she pressed against the golden pelt of curls, seeking safety. “Aye, lass. There's naught that will hurt ye now,” a soothing voice said. Musky man-scent and the strong deep texture of a gentle voice allayed her fear. As she lost consciousness, Marie had the distinct sensation she was spiraling upward through darkness to strength.

She awoke some hours later, aware only of aching muscles and strange surroundings. The sordid encounter with Edmond Penscott was a fading nightmare held at bay by the memory of Jason Brand's embrace. She sat up, suddenly shocked into action. Behan's room! The door opened and the old buccaneer entered. A look of grave concern was writ across his face. “At last our girl rises. Good morning.”

Marie jerked the blanket over her breasts. “Oh, Behan, my lovely gown is ruined. They'll all be laughing at me, and Lord Penscott must be furious. I'm scared, Uncle.”

Behan smiled, patted her shoulder. “Don't be. The duke knows it wasn't your fault.”

“But why'd he send me here?”

“You don't remember?”

“No. Only that—”

“You asked to come, and I said I'd watch you until morning. Pfagh! Edmond Penscott's not a quarter the man his father is. The insufferable whelp! Brand will take his measure, I wager.” He moved to the fireplace, pulled out a pitcher from a warming shelf and poured a cup. “Here. Drink some chocolate. I've been sent word from Thrush you're excused from work today.”

“What's happened?” Marie asked.

“Happening,” Behan corrected. “Young Edmond did not take kindly to the Scot's manhandling last night. Challenged him, he did, to meet at dawn by the river, there to settle their differences. Why Brand chose rapiers I know not, for the claymore is his weapon and Edmond has a name for using the rapier well. Perhaps he seeks to humble the lad with his own weapon.” Behan chuckled. “A cocky fellow, that Scot. By God, he reminds me of me forty years ago. Drink your chocolate, I say, and keep warm. I'm off to watch.”

Marie sipped the sweet, heavy liquid, felt new warmth and strength flow through her veins. A half-hour later, with the sun sneaking through the windows as dawn neared, she crept from the bed, wrapped up in a blanket and stole out, resolved to return to the servants' quarters and replace her torn clothing. The morning was cold and invigorating, crisp with the new day as she hurried through the garden.

Brand had come to her rescue, boldly swept her into his arms. But why? She blushed at the memory of their encounter in the woods. Two strangers had been drawn together. But by what? Desire? Love? No. That was only silly, wishful thinking. A serving girl and a great lord? Impossible. She hadn't dared speak so much as a word to him, had only …

“My God!” she breathed, the memory of the scene in the sculpture room flooding back. Her beautiful gown torn, skirt halfway up her thighs … She'd been half naked! Each nerve ending could remember the touch of soft, masculine hair brushing against her exposed breasts! Never had she felt so … so …

A duel! Behan had said a duel. “Oh, God, no,” she murmured, the thought filling her veins with ice. They must be found and stopped. Where would they be? The servants always sneaked away to watch if they could.

A flash of dull green. A stableboy disappeared around a tree, heading for the river. Of course! On the knoll overlooking the landing on the Thames. A quick glance around showed no one else in sight. No time for new clothes now. Time only to run, to see. If Jason should be hurt …
Oh God, please. No. Please do not let him be hurt
.

Beyond the manicured lawns, down through the wild reeds, up the muddy bank of the creek. Small drifting craft filled with curious onlookers hovered on the surface of the Thames. A duel was always worth pausing to watch. Better than a hanging. Breathless, she hurried the last few yards, wriggled through a hedge and rounded the gazebo. Below, men were clustered on the small flat knoll. Their breaths, cloud-white in the river wind, dissipated quickly. The roar in Marie's ears subsided, replaced by the clamorous treble of blades. Brutal, bitter tones. Rasp, strike, slide. A cry, and a shout from the crowd! The blades fell silent and the surging onlookers closed around the contestants. “Too late,” she muttered in dismay and fear.

If she could only see! Too many were in the way. On the river, the boats drifted off as the circle opened to allow a chaplain entrance. In that instant, though she could not see the wounded man's face, Marie could see a horrid crimson stain smearing the front of his white blouse. The chaplain kneeled, head bowed and hands clasped. Other, unseen hands swung a coat over the dead man's chest and face seconds before he was lifted to the shoulders of four men and carried from the field.

Dawn and death. A swordsman, white blouse flapping in the breeze, stepped aside from the knot of onlookers. Radiant in the new-risen sun, a shock of red-gold hair told the story. Marie breathed a sigh of relief.
Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you …

The body-bearers, accompanied by the rest of the crowd, passed Marie's hiding place and proceeded toward the house, the fallen man's father leading the sad procession. Jason Brand remained behind, alone. Marie suppressed a wave of panic. What would happen next? What could she do? Call out? What good would come of that, in front of Lord Penscott, to whom she belonged?

Still he stood, motionless and unaware of the anguish spilling from the unseen girl. Challenged, he had fought as any man would. Fighting, he had won the battle but lost the war. What now of the coming audience with King George? As if planned from the start, Dame Fortune had conspired to ruin his plans. It was foolish to think the outcome of the long-sought and all-important meeting would not be affected by the morning's events. The Penscott name was sacrosanct among Whiggery. No good would come of Edmond's death, save to rid the world of a troublesome, useless and tainted adornment of society.

A presaging breeze whipped through his sweat-soaked blouse. Jason shivered, reached to the ground, picked up a heavy cloak and threw it about his shoulders. Slowly, he trudged toward Penscott Hall. Not five hours remained until the impending audience with the king. In the meanwhile, prudence demanded the wise man prepare for a hasty exit, and take care to watch his back.

A stone-faced Thrush rapped on the library door. Lord Penscott, quill and paper in hand, looked up with a resigned sigh. Was there no rest? At but two in the afternoon, the day already felt infinitely long. Edmond lay in the next room, dead. The lad was his youngest, true, yet best loved. He was worth the name of Penscott. So quickly … so quickly … Grief had not yet caught up with the bereaved. Only anger and the full thrust of hate for the man who had killed his son, even if in a fairly fought duel. One day Jason Brand would die for his crime.

Penscott's turban lay under a heap of papers. He extricated it and coiled the cloth about his scalp. Their plans had been so carefully laid. Granted, the objective of the exercise had been achieved—Brand's suit had been denied out of hand and his compatriots would surely rise in anger—but the cost had been too great, damn it. The cost had been too great!

A discreet tap sounded again. “All right, all right. Come in,” he barked, damning all annoyances. Thrush entered.
Damn Thrush, too
. Master servants were the worst of a necessary lot. “Curse it, man. Am I never to be undisturbed? What's happened now? Has he killed someone else?”

“No, sir. Everything has been quiet. He's saddling his horse and will be gone within the half-hour.”

“Too bad,” came the bitter reply. “I should have liked to see him try to stay until morning and be run through for the delay. What do you want?”

“Captain Gregory has left too, my lord.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir. He left but minutes ago, and charged me to carry regards and courtesies and bring you this. There's a note too, m'lord,” he said, stepping into the cold light from the window and depositing a box and envelope on the desk.

“Thank you. Now get out of here,” the master of the house ordered in a voice as cold as the winter sun. Thrush bowed and backed out swiftly, silently closing the wide, paneled double doors.

Alone in the library, alone with his thoughts and memory of a son, the lord of Penscott Hall opened the walnut box and stared mutely at the unused dueling pistols.
The useless bastard! Worst than his father
.… Trembling fingers ripped open the seal on the note.

My lord:

I am called to London posthaste, and thence to sea. It is with deep sorrow and heavy heart that I return these fine weapons unfired. However, with your kind permission, I shall consider myself your avenger and one day, should God be willing, place your son's murderer in your hands.

I remain, sir, yr. obt. servant etc.

James Gregory, Capt.

Roger Penscott, Duke of Brentlynn, folded the note and sat back. Perhaps Gregory wasn't the fool initial impressions indicated. Perhaps he would serve after all. There was only one problem. “One day” was hardly soon enough.

The tale of the duel and Jason's subsequent audience with the king was all over Penscott Hall. His Majesty had met Brand, listened in stony silence and then dismissed him abruptly, giving him until nightfall to be away from the royal person. Jason's suit was denied and he was chastised through an interpreter for impudence beyond bearing. There was no doubt he would have to ride far and fast, for there were those who would consider the king's declaration adequate license for revenge. White-faced with rage, yet deferential and submissive in the face of absolute power, Jason had backed out of the room. Soon he would ride out the front gate and be gone.

Marie's tears had stopped hours before. Now she stood at the open door to the stable and tried to work up the courage to enter. Thick animal smells mingled with the heavy aroma of leather and the overpowering sweetness of late-mown hay. Trembling, she followed the afternoon sun inside, staying away from the shadows that fell away to either side.

“Oh!” A hand shot out to grip her arm and spin her around, jostling the lace cap from her head. A wealth of midnight hair cascaded around her shoulders. Marie struggled to catch her breath.

Jason stepped from the darkness. “Ah! My little forest nymph.” He grinned. “I beg your pardon lass, but considering what the day has brought, it's best I be overly cautious. I've been assured free passage from here, but Lord Penscott wouldn't be the first Englishman to break his word.”

“I … I wanted to thank you,” Marie stammered, handing him a cloth-wrapped bundle. “I tried to avoid him, but he insisted on forcing himself on me.”

“A little trick Master Edmond's now free to exercise with the devil,” Jason said with a caustic laugh. He started down the aisle, passing lesser mounts until he came to the eager mare he had ridden from London. Marie followed, saw the steed saddled and anxious to be off.

Framed by a shaft of sunlight from an upper window, Jason leaned against the stall and looked through the bundle. Marie stared at him. Golden beams of sun played among the ringlets covering his chest and transformed his shoulder-length mane into a radiant crown. Oh, why was he dressed so? His crisp, white shirt was open to the waist. Tight indigo breeches displayed each knotted muscle of his legs. She wanted desperately to touch him.

“Lass,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “Meat, bread. You didn't have to do this. They'll not be pleased if they learn of it.”

“I don't care,” she said, her eyes flaring with defiance. “You'll be able to ride farther without stopping. In case someone tries to follow you.”

Jason tied the bundle of food to his saddle and stepped close to her. Coppery fingers stroked her cheek and she felt her legs weaken at his touch. A moist, burning insistency flowered deep within her. His hand ran the length of her long, flowing locks. “Eyes as gray as the mists of Mourne, hair as black as the secrets they conceal. Who are you, lass? What matter of woman?” Marie shook her head, tried to speak. “No. Let me glean the answer my own way. Like this,” he said, crushing her to him.

Lips hungering, flesh yearning to join his, Marie matched his rising passion. Her breasts ached for his cupping, teasing caresses. Her tongue, on fire with fierce longing, darted against his. His hard strength made a wanton of her. She could not let him leave. Not now. Not ever.

A bell tolled.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Breath rasping in his throat, he released her. “Damn Edmond Penscott,” he swore, slamming one hand against the wooden planks.

“No!” Marie pleaded, trying to block out the sound of the tolling bell.

Jason backed the mare out of the stall and swung into the saddle. “I must be off, lass.”