Summer at Dorne

by Mira Stables

  There was not much science about the opening phase of the combat that followed. Neither contestant was a notable exponent of the noble art, though both had learned something of its principles as part of the education proper to a gentleman. For one or two anxious moments, as she watched the fierce flurry of blows, Chantal actually wondered if her champion, even though he had arrived in time, might not yet be defeated, for it seemed to her that Cousin Giffard was the more active of the two, with Dominic concerned rather to block his attack than to take the initiative. But as the grim struggle went on, Giffard’s breath began to come in gasps and there was sweat standing in great beads on his forehead. His attempts to land a telling blow grew wilder, feebler. Again and again he left chin and mark unguarded. Had Dominic not been imbued by a vengeful fury, determined to exact a heavy penalty for all that his little love had undergone, he could have ended it a good deal sooner. As it was, both Murdoch and Geordie had arrived and were standing in the doorway before he made an end, and so were privileged to witness what the enthusiastic if untaught Geordie later described to his father as “the prettiest left hook to the mark that a man could wish to see.”

  Having vented his fury, Dominic looked down at the huddled heap with acute distaste and brushed his hands together as though to rid them of some foul contamination. Then he raised his head and looked at Chantal.

  Neither spoke. He simply held out his arms and Chantal walked straight into them. Regardless alike of her own appearance and of the interested audience in the doorway, she held up her face for his kiss in the most natural way and, as he gathered her close, gave a great sigh of contentment and put up her hands to frame his face and returned his kisses with every sign of pleasure.

  A delighted Geordie nudged Murdoch, who, recalled to a sense of propriety, took him firmly by the arm and led him back into the entrance hall. But Murdoch, too, was a-grin with delight. Now they would do, he thought contentedly. There would be a wedding, with all the age-old ritual of celebration that attended the marriage of a Merriden. A ritual in which Murdoch’s heart delighted. And in good time there would be heirs, to care for Dorne in the years to come. She was a gallant little lass, the way she had taken thought to leave a trail for them, and herself terrified out of her wits as she must have been. She should bear sturdy sons.

  The lady herself had no thought for the future. The present was happiness enough. Gone were all her doubts, all her resentment of the submission required from a wife. In one simple gesture she had given herself and her future into Dominic’s hands and it was for him to do with her as he wished. Nor did Dominic recall the formal phrases in which he had planned to propose marriage. His thought was all for the comforting of the shaken, weary girl in his arms. She had suffered the most shocking indignities, and largely through his carelessness, he thought remorsefully. Though he would guard and cherish her for the rest of his days, he would never wholly forgive himself.

  He smoothed his lips gently over her soft cheek, pressed one more kiss on her mouth, and put her a little away from him, yet keeping his hands on her shoulders as though he could not endure to have her out of his hold.

  “Try to forget,” he said gently. “There is nothing more to fear, and we’ll have you out of here as soon as you’ve changed your dress.”

  She looked up, startled. “My dress?” she said wonderingly. And for the first time looked down at herself and realised the appearance that she presented. “Oh!” she said, on a gasp of horrified discovery. “What must you think of me?”

  That, at least, brought a smile to Dominic’s lips. “If I were to tell you, my darling, we should be here for some time. And since it is an object with us to get you away from this place before your presence here can be discovered, perhaps I had best leave that question until we are at leisure.”

  She blushed furiously and tried to pull the torn edges of her gown into a semblance of decency, but he told her not to fret over that since Hilda had packed a portmanteau with everything that she might need. “And was sorely put about because we refused to bring her along with us,” he added. “But there simply wasn’t room for her. Do you wait here, sweetheart, and I will bring it for you, and get Geordie to remove that – that corruption,” he finished carefully, selecting this term, of all those that sprang to mind, as being best suited to a lady’s ears.

  At Chantal’s suggestion the Honourable Giffard was bundled away in the small closet where she herself had been imprisoned.

  “’Twill do him no harm to come to his senses in yon hole and think himself locked in to perish o’ hunger and thirst,” said the vengeful Murdoch in satisfied tones.

  Dominic nodded entire agreement with these sentiments. “We’ll throw the key through the window before we go,” he elaborated. “Let him scrabble around in the darkness before he finds it.”

  He brought Chantal a bowl of water and soap and a towel. She made a hasty but adequate toilet in front of the fire, scrambling thankfully into a neat travelling dress of bronze-green corded silk and pulling a hooded cloak over it. She pushed her torn dress and soiled linen into the portmanteau, taking care that not so much as a hairpin was left behind to betray her brief occupation. There was not much she could do about her hair, but she coiled it up as smoothly as possible and drew the hood over it.

  Dominic, at any rate, seemed well pleased with her appearance when he came tapping at the door to know if she was ready. He snatched a quick kiss and told her that she was ‘a grand lass to ride the waters with’ which, on the Borders, is a compliment of no mean order. Then he hurried her out to the waiting carriage.

  With Murdoch driving and Geordie riding escort, the occupants of the vehicle were able to exchange notes on their adventures, though Dominic insisted that the full story must keep till the morrow. Chantal must rest. He regretted the discomfort that she must suffer from trying to sleep in a fast moving carriage but if possible he wanted her safe back in Dorne before morning broke. All of them were weary. They would take it in turns to rest and would do their best to disturb her as little as possible when they changed places. Did she not think that she could make herself reasonably comfortable propped in a corner with her feet on the opposite seat?

  Chantal was sure she wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink, but at least she could put up a good pretence of slumber so that they would not worry over her. “But there’s just one thing,” she said hesitantly. She really didn’t like to mention it, with Dominic so concerned over making haste, but, “I suppose you haven’t anything to eat,” she ventured. “I’m starving of hunger.”

  Dominic hugged her and laughed. “My precious, beloved brat!” he exclaimed. “Do you know, that was almost the first thing you ever said to me? All these months since Jester and I fished you out of the water, and you’re still falling into scrapes and then demanding to be fed! Well – thanks to Murdoch – this time the commissariat is better supplied. Last time I had to sacrifice my own lunch and sorely I begrudged it since I’d been up since dawn and was devilish sharp-set. What’s more we have an excellent cordial known to the natives as ‘malt’. I think – don’t you, Noll – that a small measure, suitably diluted with water, might help to induce sound sleep.”

  Oliver was rummaging in a hamper from which he presently produced some portions of cold chicken, an apple pie, rather battered from its travels, and a large hunk of cheese. It was difficult to eat tidily when one was being jolted and bounced over a rough road, but Chantal did not know when food had tasted better. The ‘cordial’ which Dominic obliged her to swallow when at last her hunger was appeased made her throat sting and her eyes water but was wonderfully warming and comforting when it got down inside. It made her drowsy, too, so that she allowed him to tuck her up in the carriage rugs without further protest.

  Whether it was the effect of the cordial or just natural exhaustion, she slept the night through, rousing occasionally when they stopped to change places, vaguely aware of the men’s lowered voices but drifting off to sleep again without so much as opening her ey
es. When at last she did open them it was to find Dominic smiling down at her and bidding her rouse, for they were back at Dorne and she must try to walk down to the boat.

  “Not that I wouldn’t gladly carry you,” he added, “but we are rather later than I had hoped and we want to appear as commonplace as possible, just in case there is anyone astir, so it would be better if you could walk.”

  It was a full day, with the sunlight glittering on the blue waters of the bay. Walk? Chantal felt more inclined to dance! And there, across the smiling water, was Dorne, beckoning to a future in which she would become more and more a part of it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lady Celia, displaying a determination in marked contrast to her usual vague gentleness, decreed that they should all retire to bed. Yes, of course she was longing to hear the story, but for the moment it was sufficient that they were safe home again. The details would keep, and she had no desire to have three invalids on her hands. The men were not unwilling, though they protested about unnecessary feminine fuss. Chantal, who felt perfectly rested and refreshed, begged off, saying that what she needed far more than sleep was a hot bath. In the primitive conditions obtaining at Dorne, hot baths were something of a luxury, but Hilda soon had the maids scurrying about the task of preparing one. Since it was so early she even agreed to Chantal’s request that her hair should be washed as well, since there would be plenty of time to dry it before bed time.

  When her leisurely luxurious toilet was completed, save for her hair, which still lay in damp strands on her shoulders, Hilda surveyed her critically.

  “If I may make so bold, miss, being abducted seems to suit you,” she said drily.

  Chantal twinkled mischievously. “Not being abducted,” she said. “That was horrid. It was being rescued.” And betook herself to the terrace where she could let her hair dry in the sun and dream blissful dreams of a future as Dominic’s wife.

  Lunch was a happy meal. Lady Celia plied them with eager questions and Dominic committed the heinous crime of feeding Jester at table. Even the hound looked surprised, though it did not prevent her from accepting the succulent offering and making off with it before he could repent his unwonted indulgence. To the startled faces of his companions he explained, in guilty apology, “I thought she had earned it. It was she who led us to the strip of linen that you had tied to the bush, and so showed us the pointer that indicated the way you had taken. If it had not been for that we might have cast north instead of south and so lost precious time.” He fell silent a moment, facing the implication of what he had just said, contemplating the horror that Chantal might have been called upon to endure, had they not saved those few vital moments, and, strong and happy and safe as he was, he too sickened and shuddered at the thought. But such torturing imaginings must be dismissed. Fate – or the luck – call it what you would – had been with them. He came back thankfully to the comfortable present.

  It was not just Jester of course. Everyone had had a hand in their success, from Oliver, who had done most of the driving so that the rest of them could search, to Geordie, who had recognised a pair of weary Cleveland bays in the stable of a lonely inn and had engaged the ostler in conversation about them.

  “That gave us a lead for the next stretch.”

  Chantal’s efforts to leave traces of her presence in the lonely farmstead had provided another gleam of relief. Dominic vowed he had lost count of the deserted, tumbledown buildings that they had searched in vain.

  “We guessed they would probably stop to eat somewhere where the horses and the carriage could be hidden, and that it was unlikely they would use an inn except when a change of horses was necessary, but it was a soul-destroying business when every moment counted.”

  Then Chantal must tell of her captors and of Rab Kennedy’s kindness and how he had told her that his wife and child were going with him to America where they hoped to make a new start.

  Dominic scowled. “Queer sort of kindness,” he grunted. “If it were not for the scandal I’d have the pair of them apprehended and brought back to stand trial.”

  But Chantal cried out at that, saying that he might do what he liked about Perkis but she held no grudge against Rab.

  “And you can’t touch one without involving the other,” Oliver pointed out, “besides the scandal. I devoutly trust that no one saw us come home this morning.”

  “Why not?” asked Chantal, surprised.

  “Because, my dear girl, we mean to put it about that we made a long excursion to visit Glen Trool, and while we might say that an accident to the carriage had delayed our return, it would be difficult to account for quite so long an absence,” explained Oliver patiently.

  “We could say I was visiting friends in the neighbourhood,” suggested Chantal carelessly, “though I really can’t see that it signifies where I was.”

  “We could say no such thing. And of course it signifies,” said Dominic roundly. “Haven’t you learned yet that in this part of the world everybody knows everyone else? There would be immediate enquiry as to the identity of your friends. Not from idle curiosity, but because of the need to trace their pedigrees and decide in just what degree they were related to the local gentry. And as for not signifying, just get it into that innocent head of yours that it is your good name that is at stake. Because your cousin was responsible for your abduction we cannot tell the truth, yet we must account for your absence from Dorne – if word of it should get out – or you wouldn’t have a shred of reputation left. Since you, and we, are well aware that you are an innocent victim, this may not seem to you of great account. But this is not London. Our neighbours are decent upright folk, the kindest you could wish to meet and the most generous. But where morals are concerned they are absolutely rigid. When we are married we shall want to spend a good deal of our time here. It would be extremely uncomfortable if every respectable female in the district refused to receive you.”

  What Chantal might have replied was, perhaps fortunately, lost, since Lady Celia put her oar in first. “Oh! Are you going to be married?” she enquired, with just such an air of pleased interest as she might have displayed if they had announced their intention of going into Newton Stewart to look at the shops. “How delightful! You won’t forget to write and tell your mama, will you, Dominic? She will be so interested. And these small attentions, you know, are most gratifying as one grows older. Do try to remember.”

  Dominic solemnly gave her the required assurance. But when she asked in a bewildered kind of way why Oliver and Chantal found her admonitions so amusing, the temptation was too much for him.

  “I’m afraid they’re laughing at me,” he told her gloomily. “As you know, I’ve always taken good care to steer clear of matrimony. But this time I am fairly cornered. Obviously, after her recent escapade, someone must marry the girl. Chivalry insists upon that. And since I was responsible for bringing her here, all the laws of hospitality demand that I be the sacrifice. You will appreciate that, once I have informed my parents of my honourable intentions, my doom is sealed. In the bosom of my family I need not strive to conceal the deep dismay with which I view my approaching fate, but noblesse oblige, my dear aunt, and I hope to maintain a resigned, if not actually a cheerful countenance in the face of the world.”

  At this point his promised bride picked up the apple which she had just selected and flung it at him. He fielded it neatly and bit into it with relish. “Just what I wanted,” he declared, “sweet and crisp with a touch of tartness.” And if the expression in the blue eyes gave the simple words a different significance, at least Chantal subsided, smiling across the table at him with her heart in her eyes for all the world to see.

  Lady Celia shook her head and said that she did not think she would ever understand the modern generation.

  “Isn’t it going to be a trifle complicated?” asked Oliver thoughtfully, when his aunt had gone off to her own sanctum, declaring that she must look up the antecedents of the Delaney family so that she could incorporate Chant
al’s family tree into the Merriden history. “I think you should be married as soon as possible” – a remark which met with unqualified approval from both his listeners – “because only so will Chantal feel really safe. But she is not of age. And to be asking Lord Hilsborough’s permission to pay your addresses is rather an awkward business under the circumstances.”

  Dominic looked grim. “I shan’t ask,” he said coldly. “I shall inform his lordship that, with or without his permission, I propose to marry his ward, since he is apparently incapable of protecting her from the improper advances of his own son.”

  Oliver held his peace. He could not wholly approve such abrupt dealing, however much his sympathies lay with his brother, since it held a faint flavour of blackmail. He said pacifically, “It’s odd, isn’t it, how these black sheep appear from time to time in our best families? A throw-back, I suppose, to some scoundrelly ancestor. Hilsborough’s older boy isn’t at all a bad sort. Blockish, but good-hearted enough.” His eyes lit to pure mischief. “It will be interesting, don’t you think, to see what Aunt Celia makes of Chantal’s progenitors?”

  “I can guess what she’ll find on the distaff side,” retorted Dominic promptly, his brow clearing. “A long line of redoubtable females who kept castles for Crusading husbands or directed the defence of their homes against assault by Roundhead troops. Tough and dauntless.”

  “So they had need to be if they chanced to have Merridens to deal with. For of all the stubborn, arrogant” – words failed her.

  Dominic grinned delightedly. “My sweet, submissive little love. Always ready to show hackle,” and pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly, to the amusement of the watching Oliver. And Chantal wondered once more why it was that however he might tease and provoke, his touch, his kiss, could instantly disarm her, so that all she desired was to cling more closely in his hold and surrender herself to his love making.