She nearly hurled the painting against the wall in her frustration. He had looked at it, shrugged and pulled her down onto the bed, and when she struggled, it had only excited him further, and now she was even more bruised than before and just as dishevelled. She drew her knees up close and used a finger to prod at the picture. Maybe the magic was gone, she thought with a mingled sense of relief and disappointment. Not entirely, it wasn’t, because it still whispered and sang. But Kate had not seemed much perturbed, and as for Henry, he had held it this way and that, said that perhaps she needed to become better at defining the horizon. Not everyone was susceptible to the tide of time, she concluded. Maybe only women?
She left it out in the open the following few days, and Henry looked at it at times, not at all at others. No, because Henry had found a new wife beneath the silent, well-groomed demeanour, a woman who snarled and fought back, giving as good as she got. My lioness, he’d laugh, promising that he’d tame her this time too, and she would increase her efforts to fight free, aroused by the violence and the intensity. It was hard and rough, she had splinters in her knees, a constantly sore posterior, while he had bite marks up the inside of his legs that made it difficult to walk.
They sleepwalked through their days, and then came the night, and in the hours when the world lay bleached of colour, he rose above her and demanded more. Every time Lucy fought him, and every time it ended as he wanted it, with her widening her thighs, her skin flaming from her last punishment.
*
Kate’s evening event was a great success. The dancing had gone on well into the small hours, and when the guests finally left, Kate sank down to sit in her favourite armchair.
“Oh dear,” she groaned. “I fear this evening will carry quite the price on the morrow.”
“Evening?” Henry laughed. “Night, Mother. At one point, I was convinced they would all stay for breakfast.” He smiled over to where Lucy sat with closed eyes, her foot tapping in a remembered rhythm. “She enjoyed it.”
“She seemed to,” Kate said and yawned. “She was beyond doubt the prettiest wife here.”
“Yes, very fetching, and a competent dancer as well.”
“I wonder how she does that,” Kate mused.
Henry scratched at his hair. “She can feel the vibrations of the tabor, and as that sets the beat, she can easily follow.” He stood and stretched, dropped a kiss on his mother’s head, and went over to where his wife was sitting.
“Bed?” he mouthed, holding out his arm. She swayed onto her feet, somewhat woozy from having drunk a bit too much, and slipped her arm under his. As they were leaving the room, Henry’s eyes caught on the polished lute that lay atop the virginals.
“Emily Farrell forgot her lute,” he said to Kate. “I dare say that means we’ll see her early tomorrow as she comes to reclaim it. Edward has confided he suspects she is fonder of her instrument than she is of his.” Henry laughed at his own double entendre and then hastened Lucy up the stairs for yet another marital bout in the wide bed.
*
Lucy woke late, and beside her Henry lay snoring. Lucy smiled. This new game of theirs had an appetizing edge to it, almost so that she had forgiven him that first time. Almost. But she was glad he hadn’t disappeared into nothingness, she thought, sneaking a look at him. She stretched. Not a patch on her where he hadn’t somehow left his mark over the last few weeks.
The door opened. Lucy threw a sheet over her husband’s nudity, gestured for the maid to come in, and sat back against the pillows, fiddling with the long ties of her shift. He woke when the tray was set down and they shared the food in silence – well, she was always quiet – and then Henry rolled out of bed with a grunt and looked about for shirt and breeches.
“Business,” he said as he left the room.
Business indeed. Lucy smirked at his back. It was Kate, not Henry, who ran the Jones estate, with Henry doing what his mother needed done. He didn’t seem to mind much, trusting his mother’s judgement implicitly, and why shouldn’t he? Since his father’s death, Kate had more than tripled its worth through a series of astute investments and, as she admitted to Lucy, sheer luck.
After waiting while the breakfast tray was cleared away, Lucy sat down for her daily communion with her patch of blue and green. Strange – where before she could sit and stare at it for hours with no discomfort whatsoever, the last few days she had experienced a sensation of sudden tilts and whirls, exhilarating at times, exceedingly disconcerting at others.
Today, the painting shared with her the million sounds that live within the sea: the song of whales and mermaids; the rush of currents through the endless forests of seaweed; the clatter of a pelican’s beak; the dull plop of a jellyfish landing on a rock.
Only by chance did she happen to look up in time to see Emily Farrell come up the garden path with little Nicholas in tow, and in her haste she left the painting on her desk and hurried down the stairs to greet them.
Lucy neither liked nor disliked Emily, but she was fascinated by her hands: very narrow and very white. Emily used them to underline whatever she was saying, and to Lucy it was like watching the mating dance of a pair of graceful birds. Everything Emily had close she touched, light fingers caressing tabletops, embroidered cushions, the ornate silver candlesticks – even the frames around Kate’s paintings. And when she picked up her lute, her hands splayed themselves wide over its rounded back, sensually running over the dark wood. Up and down her hands went, sinuously her left hand flew up the neck to where the peg box reared back, and Emily smiled, content in that her beloved instrument was whole.
If it hadn’t been for those hands, it wouldn’t have happened. Hypnotised by them, Lucy’s attention wandered. When Lucy saw Emily look about for her son, it was too late. The boy was already standing at the open door to her bedroom, and with a falling heart, Lucy recalled that the painting was still on her desk. With a strangled moan, she made for the stairs, with Emily at her heels. The boy entered her room, the door swinging shut behind him, and Lucy flew the last few yards. She wrenched the door open and froze. Emily pushed by her and threw herself at her disappearing son.
Chapter 22
“A moose?” Matthew laughed. “We’d have our work cut out for us getting that back home.”
“But we’d only need the one beast,” Mark said, “and Offa always said they made good eating.”
“We have to find one first, and so far, we haven’t.” Ian was moving gingerly, face pale and drawn, and Matthew pursed his lips, wishing he had insisted Ian ride while they walked.
“For beasts the size of a large horse, they’re quite canny,” Jacob put in. “Difficult to find.”
“Which is why we have the dogs,” Matthew said, “although so far they haven’t been much use, have they?”
“These aren’t hunting dogs,” Mark snorted. “These are mostly mastiff. Now, Robert has a lurcher bitch that he’s planning on mating with that otterhound of his, and—” Whatever else Mark was going to say, he swallowed back at his father’s raised hand. Delilah was standing stock-still, every quivering muscle in her body indicating something was not as it should, and by her side, Viggo had adopted a protective stance, floppy ears laid back tight against his head, teeth already bared.
“What?” Mark whispered.
“Over there,” Jacob replied in an undertone, and then the slope before them was full of men on horses.
Matthew couldn’t help it. His first reaction was to turn and flee, blood chilling rapidly into slush when he recognised the lead rider. How many of them were there? Seven, no eight, and by now Philip Burley had seen them, sneering as he clapped his heels to his horse, charging towards Matthew.
A stillness came over Matthew. The horse came thundering towards him, and it seemed to him he registered every clod the hooves dislodged, every steaming exhalation from the distended nostrils. His musket lay snug against his shoulder, and he wasn’t even aware of having raised it, all of his concentration on the approaching horse and t
he man that sat astride it. He squeezed his finger round the trigger, waited. Sixty yards, forty yards, and still Matthew held back, because this was a shot he had no intention of missing, and as Burley was wearing a breastplate, Matthew aimed at his head.
Beside him, Ian crowed and fired his musket, hitting Burley’s gelding squarely in the chest. Damn! So close, and now his son’s itching finger had ruined this golden opportunity to once and for all rid this world of one of God’s bigger failures. The large roan toppled to the ground, flinging its rider over its neck. With a bloodcurdling cry, Matthew leapt towards him, and on the ground, Philip screamed.
He landed atop Burley. In his hand was his knife, tantalisingly close to Burley’s dirty neck, and any second now, Matthew would slit it. The handle slipped in his hand. Burley tried to rise, and Matthew brought his knee down on Burley’s chest, wincing when it connected with the cuirass. So intent was Matthew on his prize, that he didn’t see the other man bearing down on him, nor did he hear his sons’ warning cries. Something slammed into him. A dull jolt ran from his shoulder and down into his arm, and the knife fell unhanded to the ground.
Philip tried to wrest himself free. Matthew was vaguely aware of a weight on his back, round his neck, but he wasn’t about to let go, not now, and he drove his fist into Burley’s face once, twice. His knife – where was the goddamn dirk? There! He tried to reach it, but the man on his back clapped him over the ear, and Matthew’s head was forced back, a blade at his neck. He gagged. Not like this! He wasn’t meant to die like this! Ian was screaming something, there was a loud thwack, and the man on Matthew’s back was gone, with Ian raising the stock of his musket to deal the outlaw yet another blow.
Matthew turned to finish Burley off, teeth bared in a snarl. Philip had crawled a few yards further into the forest, and Matthew threw himself towards him. Ian appeared by his side, moving with a speed and agility Matthew hadn’t seen in years, and there was Walter, and Ian swung for him, driving him back.
From behind them came a scream, and Matthew froze, recalling that he had other sons here, and, God, was that one of them? His single-minded focus on Philip wavered, eyes darting over the clearing. Mark was on the further side, and there was blood on his hand, up his arm, but he was alive, and back to back with him stood Jacob using his musket as a club. Ian’s loud curse had him swivelling back, only to find himself staring at a pistol.
“I’ll shoot!” Walter screamed, dragging his dazed brother backwards. “I swear I’ll shoot the cripple if you come any closer.” The muzzle was now pointing steadily at Ian.
“Cripple? I’ll give you for cripple!” Ian launched himself towards the Burleys but Matthew grabbed him by the arm. At such a close range, Walter wouldn’t miss.
“Nay, lad. It’s not worth your life.”
“We can take them, Da!” Ian was almost jumping on the spot.
“Not like this,” Matthew said, indicating his useless arm. He called back the dogs, and had no choice but to watch the Burleys disappear into the undergrowth.
“Damn!” Ian crashed his musket into a nearby shrub, raised it to do it again, and froze halfway through the movement, face contorting with pain.
“Sit,” Matthew said, helping Ian down onto the ground.
“I can stand,” Ian snapped.
“Aye, of course you can,” Matthew replied, “but it’s a long walk back, and after having incapacitated at least two of them, you might need a wee rest.”
“Two?” Ian asked.
“Aye, two.”
*
It took them hours to get back, with Ian having to be carried over the rougher parts, even if he loudly insisted that he could walk – he was no weakling, aye? When their home rose into sight, Ian was set down, and, with gritted teeth, he walked the last part on his own, eyes going a dangerous green when Jacob suggested that he at least lean on him. Doors opened: from the smoking shed came Alex, and there came Betty, flying in the direction of Ian who, by now, was a sickly yellowish white.
“I’m not sure, but they were more than six.” Matthew stood aside to allow Jacob and Mark to enter the kitchen first, supporting Ian between them. Moments later, he was seated at the table, the makeshift bandage over his shoulder straining with his movements. He studied his hurting fists in silence, and raised his face to meet Ian’s eyes over the table. A huge bruise covered Ian’s right cheek, there was a deep gash across his forehead, his knuckles were badly skinned and he could barely move on account of his back. But all the same, Ian glowed.
“But how?” Alex couldn’t stop touching Matthew. Since the moment he’d staggered in with their three sons, she hadn’t taken her hands off him, in one way or the other. He shrugged her hands off, and with a nod indicated that she do something about Ian’s face where the blood had begun to well again from the gash that sliced through his eyebrow to rise in a curving line all the way to his hairline.
“They didn’t expect us up there, and nor we them,” Mark said through a bruised lip.
“So it wasn’t an ambush,” Alex said, relief colouring her voice.
“No,” Jacob said, “they were coming from the north-east.”
Mr Jefferson and Constance stood quiet in a corner and listened while Jacob and Ian took turns telling them what had happened, from the moment they heard Philip laugh to when Walter had dragged his brother off to safety.
“And were they hurt?” Alex applied a poultice to Ian’s face.
“Walter no, but Philip – well, he seemed in a bad way.” Jacob grinned.
“But not dead,” Ian muttered, flinching under Alex’s hands.
“Oh, so this hurts, does it?” she said. “More than having your brow sliced open by a knife?”
“Aye,” he said, eyeing the needle she had in her hand with trepidation.
“And then what?” Mrs Parson asked, dabbing at Mark’s lip.
“I shot one of them,” Mark slurred, looking greensick. Matthew extended his good arm to give him a hug.
“They ran off, the Burleys,” Ian said. “They just left their men to fend for themselves.”
“How nice.” Alex put the last stitch in. “Here,” she said to Betty, “you take care of the rest.”
“What were they to do?” Jacob asked. “Philip was nigh on unconscious, Ian was swinging at anything that moved, and Mark and I had the rest well under control.” He shared a smile with his elder brother who smiled back.
“And the others?” Alex looked at Matthew. “What happened to Burleys’ men?”
“Two were in a bad way,” Matthew said. “One shot in the groin, the other badly bludgeoned around the head. As to the others, no more than the odd cut or so.”
“And you let them go? Outlaws on our land?”
“Nothing else to do, Mama.” Mark smiled briefly at Naomi who was hovering over him. “They took off, and what with Da’s arm and Ian…” He broke off when Ian glared at him.
“They’d be fools to come here,” Jacob put in. “I reckon they’re making for Virginia as fast as they can.”
“Oh.” Alex went over to the hearth and poured boiling water into a bowl, adding crushed handfuls of lavender and chamomile. “Take your shirt off,” she threw over her back, directing herself at Matthew.
“Who are these Burleys?” Mr Jefferson said. “Are they old Sam Burley’s sons?”
Matthew grunted from under his shirt. With Jacob’s help, he succeeded in pulling the shirt over his head, uncomfortably aware of how his guests’ eyes widened at the sight of his scarred torso.
“I don’t know the man in question, but if these are his sons, I can but commiserate. From Virginia, aye? Four brothers, one dead since years, one already hanged, and the others, with God’s help, will soon adorn a gibbet of their own.”
Very briefly, Matthew described the Burleys’ colourful career, and then he almost jumped off the stool when Alex took hold of the bandage and tore it away to bare his shoulder. “Lord in heaven, woman!”
Mrs Parson came over to take a look.
“Symmetrical,” she said, patting Matthew on his unharmed shoulder. “Last time I treated you for a shoulder wound, it was on this side, you collect?”
“Nay, I don’t. Alex dragged me all the way down from the moor, didn’t she?”
“A strong lass,” Mrs Parson said, “and so protective of you.”
“Yes, yes,” Alex interrupted, “but that was ages ago, and now we have to do something about this instead.”
“Not a wink of sleep,” Mrs Parson went on, unperturbed. “All night, she sat with your head in her lap and yon dirk in her hand to defend you.”
“This dirk?” Matthew studied the knife his father had given him when he turned fifteen, knowing that it wasn’t. No, she’d been brandishing the blade he stole when escaping prison.
“Aye, and she in breeches and short—” Mrs Parson broke off, throwing a look at their guests, both of whom were listening avidly.
“Breeches?” Constance laughed. “Really, Mrs Graham!” She smoothed down her impeccable dark blue skirts, fiddled with the matching full-sleeved bodice, and threw Mr Jefferson a discreet look, forming her small mouth into a seductive pout.
“What had happened?” Mr Jefferson asked, oblivious to Constance’s preening.
“Nothing much,” Alex replied, “and it was so long ago I barely remember anyway.”
“Aye, you do,” Matthew said so quietly only she could hear him.
“Of course,” she whispered back. “Every moment of that first month with you.”
Matthew’s jaw ached with the effort of keeping quiet when they were finally done with his shoulder. He took the pewter cup that Ian held out to him, and shared a silent toast with his eldest son, going on to toast the other two as well. He was light-headed from not having eaten since breakfast, and the alcohol created a burning warmth in his belly that spread in comforting waves all through his body. He clasped Ian’s hand in his own. “You saved my life, lad.”
Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga) Page 18