The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga) (15 page)

‘Take care, Mary. Don’t let him play with your emotions. You know that Brent ...’

‘Oh, I know, John! Of course I won’t!’

‘But I see you looking a lot at him lately, in that fashion, and him, too ...’

So John had seen it. Then it was true. Her cheeks flamed, and she put her hands to them, both to attempt to disguise the colour from her brother and to cool them.

‘Much as I love Brent, when it comes to women,’ John said gravely, ‘he is a philanderer. You know how he was found ...’ Mary’s eyes grew solemn.

‘But would he philander with
me,
John? I am not the sort of woman ...’

‘You are a
very
pretty girl, Mary. Alas, because of our solitary life there are not enough about to tell you so, but any man would be inflamed by you if he was in his right mind. Imagine the effect on someone who had become enfeebled by illness. But when Brent is recovered, and ‘twill be soon, he will be off to France, Mary.  Do not let him trifle with you here.’

‘Be sure he will not, John. He is not like that, really.’

‘Take care, my little sister.’

Impulsively, John Allonby, a man older than his thirty years, whom misfortune and worry and the loss of a beloved wife in childbirth had prematurely aged, bent towards his baby sister and kissed her softly on the cheek.

The woods that surrounded the house on Catspaw stretched along the length of the lake towards Keswick. At times they thickened, and at times there was a clearing either in the midst of the wood or by the side of the lake. It was this fine timber that helped keep the Allonbys out of the debtor’s prison, and it was Stewart who was the expert woodsman, who knew when to cut and when to plant and when to trim back.

The larks sang that fine October forenoon as Brent walking slowly and still with a slight limp because his left leg had not quite recovered its full use, and Mary a little ahead of him, paused and looked about for a green sward on which to sit and eat their picnic. Brent pointed to a place where the trees fell back from the lakeside and a grassy stretch reached down into the water protected from view of anyone, other than a boat on the lake, by a hillock. Mary, the hood of her cloak falling backwards from her head, had been gathering fir cones for the fires that needed to burn so brightly in the large cold house in wintertime, and on her arm she had a large basket, half full. Brent had carried the warm bread and large ham pie in another basket and when they stopped he took out the flagon of ale and put it in the water to cool.

It was quite warm so he removed his greatcoat and laid it on the grass for them to sit upon. Underneath he wore the jacket and breeches of good broadcloth that had been found by him on the night of his attack, and a fine linen shirt, that Mary had freshly laundered for him with her own hands, open at the neck.

Mary’s cloak slid to her feet and Brent took that and placed it alongside his, aware as he did of her neat ankle just visible beneath a dress of locally woven cloth that was of a becoming blue, particularly complementary to Mary’s colouring. Brent’s heart beat a little faster at the sight of the ankle, and his mind was a confusion of thoughts and desires and of women remembered long ago.

What puzzled Brent was that he could remember none more recently than Joan Shuttleton, a whore he’d taken up with during his last days in Cambridge. He’d met her in London and taken her with him to live openly as his mistress, which was one of the reasons that his brother had summoned him home even before it was clear that grandfather’s last seizure would kill him.

Even the memory of Joan Shuttleton was hazy, as though that part of him had somehow become involved in his injury. He could remember very clearly his family and events and the death of his grandfather and the arrival of brother Tom; but the women who had formed part of so many of his amorous adventures were unclear in his mind, and particularly the one whom Tom had sworn was responsible for the state in which he had been found.

Tom had been quite blunt in describing to Brent the circumstances. How, even after many hours lying in the forest and on a slab in the mortuary, the traces of lovemaking were still evident about his body, quite apart from the fact that he had been found naked.

It was hushed up of course, Tom said. Norbert knew the family, and the doctor was bound by his medical oath not to tell. But Tom had no doubt his brother had an assignation in the forest with the gypsy he had met that night in the tavern and of whom there was no sign, of her or her troupe of travelling musicians, afterwards.

Gypsy? Brent’s face crinkled again as his eyes moved from the well-turned ankle of his gently nurtured cousin towards the lake. Gypsy? Brent had no recollection of a gypsy dancing in the tavern as Tom had said, flaunting herself before him. He had apparently told Tom they had met before. Brent closed his eyes and tried to reform half remembered impressions in his mind. But no ...

‘Brent are you all right?’ Mary had seen the spasm as his eyes closed and bent anxiously forward.

‘Yes, yes dear cousin. It is the light on the lake. What a splendid day we have here. Look how old Walla Crag dips into the water yonder, and Skiddaw, is it not a picture? First thing this morning you could not see it for mist. Here, come sit by me,’ he looked up and reached out a hand and saw that Mary was gazing at him timorously, not offering him her hand, her eyes almost fearful.

‘Why, Mary, don’t be afraid. I shall not harm thee!’ He laughed and her eyes met his and she saw all the strength and gentleness in them, not the fearful animal young male she’d caught a glimpse of in the morning and of whom, as he’d looked up at her and stretched out his hand, she’d instantly been reminded. After all, she was a grown woman. Her mother had been wed at her age. It was quite common hereabouts even at 16 or 17; some were no longer maids but matrons at 15. That she had been protected was due to the presence of her brothers and lack of close female company. Sarah was almost as old as John and they had never been intimate. Certainly Sarah had never confided in her about womanly things, never told her her thoughts on her approaching marriage to Ambrose Rigg.

Mary had grown up in an all-male household for so long, except for a few women servants and none of them close. Unlike richer friends of hers she had no maid, no old nanny to enlighten her about the things between men and women. All she knew, Mary surmised, and when she saw it as exactly and as explicitly as she had seen Brent that morning, boldly outlined against the window, she’d been frightened and disturbed.

And now here he was turning to her smiling, patting the ground beside him. Was her whole world about to change? Take on new meaning?

They ate hungrily; the fresh air and short walk had restored Brent’s appetite and Mary’s face glowed with pleasure as she saw him making short work of the pie, the freshly baked bread and the strong ale he had fished out of the lake.

‘It is so good to see you well again, Brent.’

‘And good to be well, cousin. I think Old Man Death thought he had me, but I thwarted him!’

‘Don’t speak like that. You are but a young man. ‘Twas an unfortunate accident ...’

Mary faltered, thinking of what Stewart had told her. She looked at Brent from under lowered lids.

‘Accident? You think it was an accident? I know not how I came to be there nor does anyone else. Ah, I see you looking at me Mary. You have heard that they said it was the fault of a woman. Well ...’ Brent shrugged, ‘’tis the first time being with a woman was such a dangerous thing.’

He laughed and she saw the expression in his eyes change as he looked at her and moved closer. It became bolder. Her mouth went very dry and her heart started to beat quickly in her chest. As he moved closer his arm stole about her waist and she could feel his hot breath on her cheek. ‘Women are not so dangerous are they, Mary?’ he murmured, his big hand pressing her slim waist.

‘I think it is
men
who are dangerous,’ she managed to whisper, aware of his hand, his presence, his warmth, ‘or so I heard tell.’

‘And you heard it of me, I’ll warrant. Well, I’ll not deny I love women. Ever since I was a young boy I was chasing the maids. I have had some of my best moments in a woman’s arms – every man will say the same if he is honest, and yet ...’ He moved away from her, his arm resting now on the ground.

‘I am not a womanizer, Mary. I am looking for someone perfect to whom to give my love. I know what people say about me, that I am idle, no good. But I have a good sword arm, a steady seat on a horse. I can box and run, and fight ...’

‘Fight?’ Mary looked up at him startled.

‘I mean fight in battle, Mary. ‘Tis true I never have, but ... Mary, can you keep a secret?’

‘You know I can.’

‘Then this is why Tom was here, not just to see grandfather. Tom is ...
you
are sure you won’t tell?’

Mary looked at him enigmatically, her eyes steady. Her heart had ceased its hammering.

‘I know why Tom was here. While you were so ill upstairs Tom and John and Stewart spent many hours talking – about the King. That is what you were going to say?’

Brent sat back, resting his weight on the palms of his hands, and looked across the lake. The sun had risen high over the opposite hills whose brown and purple reflections shimmered in the clear water, so that they seemed to form one very steep continuous range. The thick, wooded slopes of Lodore led up to Ashness Fell whose jagged rocky outline formed the horizon against the clear, blue sky. If he looked to the left he saw the spires and roofs of the little town of Keswick diminished by the huge Skiddaw range which towered protectively over it. To his right the lake narrowed and Castle Crag and King’s How loomed up on either side of the Derwent River as it meandered past Grange into Borrowdale.

The islands, too, reflected in the water so that the fir trees seemed to point up to the sky and down to the depths at the same time. From where he sat he could see St Herbert’s island and Rampsholme, and up towards Keswick, shadowed by Friar’s Crag, the home of the Earls of Derwentwater, firm supporters of the Stuart monarchs. It was from here that one had gone to fight for King James in 1715; from here that his brave wife, fleeing by night up by Walla Crag, had tried to save his life by selling the family jewels in London – all in vain.

The exquisite poetry and magic of the scene vied with the practical reality of the fate of Lord Derwentwater. One who had died for the man for whom Brent was prepared to sacrifice his life: King James III of England – languishing in Rome and exile.

‘Yes, about the King, Mary. I should have known you would know. And how do you feel about it?’

‘Why of course I am for it, Brent! My family, as you know, have always been staunch supporters of the Stuarts. I am with them heart and soul.’

‘Even to death?’

Brent gazed at her and she solemnly met his eyes. She felt then a bond with him that was stronger than death and wondered if he felt it, too. It was not just a desire for him as a man, a husband, a lover; but a feeling of union with him as a person, a fusion of their lives. What did it matter that Brent went with women of ill repute, that he was considered idle – though she had never considered him such? He was half Allonby, her first cousin, and the same blood flowed in their veins, the same obsession for a cause – the Restoration of the Stuarts, as nearly one hundred years ago another Stuart, Charles 11, had been restored to his rightful throne after many years in exile. It could happen again. It would.

‘Even to death, Brent; my brothers’, and mine and,’ she paused and her voice trembled, ‘even yours.’

Brent drew her to him and his arm encircled her once more. His cheek for the first time touched hers and he whispered into her ear.

‘The Cause is my life, Mary. My salvation. I will be a man and a warrior and show those who despise one that I am as bold as they are. My brother mocked me because I had no money and no occupation, no calling, he said. Now I have! I am going to France to be with Prince Charles, to fight for him unto death.’

‘Oh, Brent!’ Mary turned to him and threw herself into his waiting arms, pressing her face against his chest. Huge tears rolled down her cheeks, wetting the fine lawn of his shirt. ‘Brent, do not die! I cannot bear it. Do not speak like this, I beg of you.’

‘There, there.’ Brent patted her back and pressed her closer to him, sensing her womanly smells, her soft clinging body. He wanted her violently, to take her on the ground where they were now and make her sweet girl’s body his, see it yield its secrets for the very first time to any man – and how many women had done
that
for him? Precious few, if any. Certainly no one had done it as Mary would because he knew so well, had known for a long time, that she loved him, that she would do his bidding, even now. He held back her face and removed the tears with his fingers. Then he kissed the wet path they had made from her eyes to her mouth very gently like the pecking of a bird. Her head was held back and her eyes were closed as his mouth came very softly down on hers in a kiss that was tender at first, but became more passionate as he felt her response, saw her open her eyes and look at him, saw the longing in them, the desire matching his.

He pressed her back on the grass and lay beside her, his mouth still fast on hers as he slipped a hand through her bodice to feel the soft young breasts beneath. She didn’t stop him, but moaned as though the action pleased her. Surprised that she had not resisted, and excited by her passion and his own headstrong needs he grew bolder and unlaced her bodice and exposed the breasts completely. He gasped with wonder as he saw how soft and yet voluptuous they were, how the tender pink nipples, like plump raspberries, grew erect, either from the sudden exposure to the cold air or from her own desire. He knew not which as he bent his head and caressed them gently with his tongue, first one and then the other.

Mary, awakened for the first time, had never believed that such physical pleasure was possible. She didn’t resist or even mind as he felt beneath her bodice and then unlaced it. As his mouth left hers to caress her exposed bosom she opened her eyes to gaze tenderly at him, so proud of her gentle lover, that he wanted her and had treated her with such delicacy. She would have given herself completely to Brent then if he had asked it of her. She wanted to. She was not afraid and felt in her loins the need to merge with him. And there was a moment as he looked at her breasts and she gazed at him that it could have happened. She was aware of her nudity, and the sight of being so gazed upon by a man, seemed to inflame her own desire. But suddenly Brent drew her bodice close again and then lying down beside her, panting a little, took her head into the crook of his arm and kissed her hair. ,