Chapter 8
Never underestimate the importance of cheese.
At least, she remarked cheerfully, it was a road of sorts. And a road must eventually lead somewhere. It wouldn’t make any sense to build one otherwise.
Mr. Compton informed her that English roads, except those built by the Romans, derived from cow paths, thus their meandering habit. And since he didn’t put much credence in the logical powers of female cattle, he wouldn’t be surprised if this particular rutted, weed-infested trail led them over a cliff to their deaths.
She pointed out, with the brilliant logic of female humans (a trait she specifically mentioned), that since they were on the Yorkshire moors and nowhere near the sea, there weren’t any cliffs for them to fall over.
He gave her the distinct impression that, though he was too polite to mention it, he would be happy to assist her in her descent should they find themselves in the vicinity of, say, Dover, a place famous for cliffs.
To put it bluntly, Mr. Compton was out of sorts, grouchy even. She wasn’t quite sure why. Not that being hungry, dirty, and chased by vicious dogs wasn’t enough to try a man’s temper. But she thought something else had upset him and nobly forbore from nettling him. A shame because, even when grouchy, Mr. Compton was fun to spar with. It would have made the journey go faster. Instead she plodded on in silence, thinking about every meal she’d ever eaten and wishing she’d appreciated them more at the time.
They’d barely exchanged a word in an hour when they reached a crossroads.
“Any preference?” he asked.
“I wish we had any idea which way is Stonewick. We may be going in the opposite direction.”
“Very likely.”
At that moment they heard the clop of hooves coming toward them. “Shall we hide?” she whispered. “It may be the kidnappers.”
He straightened his back, folded his arms, and frowned. “If it is, I am not in the mood to run. I have a few questions I’d like answered.”
That seemed rash to Celia, who had no desire to face even one man with a gun, let alone two or more. On the other hand it might be a harmless stranger who could help them. The lack of a suitable hiding place decided her. She took up position beside him in the road and tried to imitate his fighting stance, learned, no doubt, at Gentleman Jackson’s Bond Street Saloon, and the way he brandished his fists.
“Thumbs out,” he murmured. “On second thought, if it comes to a fight, leave it to me.”
He looked very dangerous with his dark eyes and darkening jaw. Perversely, Celia found the situation exciting.
The horse came closer and rounded a curve into view. It was almost a disappointment when a cart followed. The driver wore a rustic smock, similar to that worn by Mr. Compton, but there all resemblance to either her kidnapper or her companion ceased. Fair, thinning hair, long whiskers and a red shiny face topped the largest man Celia had ever seen. Even Mr. Compton was dwarfed by him. Though he might not be taller, he was twice as broad. She hoped very much it wouldn’t come to fisticuffs. She feared this giant would pound poor Mr. Compton to pulp.
“Not him,” she murmured. “I’ve never seen him. But may I suggest I do the talking? Good people, we are not Gypsies.” She mimicked his condescending tones.
Mr. Compton smiled. “Be my guest. I can’t wait to see you apply the common touch.”
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said with a friendly wave.
The giant made a noise. His horse understood and stopped. “Afternoon.”
She smiled. “Fine day.”
“Aah.”
“Would you be good enough to tell us how to reach Stonewick. Is it far?”
He scratched his balding pate while he gave the matter some thought. Like many Yorkshiremen, he seemed a man of few words. He did, however, have eyes and they were surveying her person with noticeable interest. She tugged at her shift to make sure it covered both shoulders and tried to lengthen the blanket to cover her ankles.
After a lengthy perusal he glanced at Mr. Compton, whom he found less worthy of examination, then back at Celia. He scratched his shoulder.
“East.”
“You mean Stonewick is to the east?”
“Aye.” He pointed to one of the four roads.
“If we take that road will we reach Stonewick?”
“Maybe.”
“How far is it?”
The question provoked him to eloquence. “Don’t rightly know.”
“Do you have any idea? I’m sure you must know the moors very well.”
“Over Revesby way.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Ten, fifteen miles mayhap.”
“Oh dear! That is a long way. Do you know anyone who could drive us?”
He thought some more and scratched some more, his stomach this time. “Nay. But I can take you partway.”
“Oh, would you? How kind? Shall we get in the cart?”
The giant looked at Mr. Compton and waved his thumb. “Him in the back. You ride with me.”
As she sat squeezed next to the driver on the bench, Celia’s nostrils were overpowered by a smell she preferred to identify only as rural. To be fair her own scent was likely less than fragrant.
“I am Celia and that’s Terence back there,” she said, trying to speak and breathe through her mouth at the same time. “What’s your name?”
“Joe.”
“Are you married, Joe?”
“Nay.”
“Do you have a sweetheart?”
“Nay.”
“Do you have a farm?”
“Aye.”
“A sheep farm?”
“Twenty sheep in t’ flock.”
“So many! Do you have many lambs? I love lambs.”
Terence grasped the sides to save himself from being bruised black and blue by the jouncing cart and listened to Celia prattle on to their laconic host. He hoped the oaf wasn’t misinterpreting her interest in him. He hadn’t failed to notice a gleam of interest in Joe’s eyes. Women, he guessed, weren’t in plentiful supply out here on the moors. Then something riveted his attention: a wheel of cheese, resting in a pile of straw next to him.
Ask him about food. He willed her to hear his thoughts as his stomach clenched.
After a while Joe ventured an inquiry of his own. “You Gypsies?”
“No indeed. Terence, Mr. Fish, is a gentleman. We are escaping from an evil villain. A foreigner.”
Joe responded with a grunting noise that might have been sympathy, but more likely dismissal of anyone born outside the North Riding of Yorkshire.
“That’s why we need to reach my friend at Stonewick. We’ve been walking for a day and a night and had almost nothing to eat. Do you think you could spare us some supper?”
In his lengthiest communication so far, Joe allowed that he could, if they came to his cottage.
“Oh, thank you! Joe.” Celia patted the giant’s arm.
Terence’s mouth watered even as he wondered how they’d pay for their meal. Perhaps Joe would like an erotic novel. That would be a handy way to dispose of it before Celia got to the good bits.
Joe’s horse was built for endurance, not for speed. The sun had almost descended by the time they reached his cottage, an isolated cote similar in size and design to the site of Celia’s imprisoent. The dwelling and a small barn in matching stone were set in a walled barnyard in which a few mangy chickens scratched among the weeds in dusty earth.
Celia jumped down from the cart. “What a fine place, Joe. And you have a well in the barnyard. Do you mind if we draw some water to drink?”
While Joe unharnessed the horse and led it out to pasture, they conferred over a thirst-quenching bucket.
“Will you stop making up to that fellow?” Terence said, keeping his voice low. “Lord knows what he thinks.”
“I’m doing nothing of the kind! I’m being nice to him. You may not have much notion of agreeable conversation, but I do. Please note that Joe has brought us part of our way in comfort.”
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“Some comfort!”
“And is going to provide us with food.” A look of something like ecstasy lit her features. “Did you notice the cheese? Thanks to me, we have a chance of getting a good slice of it.”
“How much remains to be seen when he realizes we have no money.”
“Joe won’t charge us. He’s a sweet man!”
“Joe is a Yorkshireman.”
His own instinct that he knew a good deal about Yorkshire was confirmed when Joe, having produced a loaf of bread, a good wedge of cheese, and half a dozen wrinkled apples, asked for a shilling. Informed by Celia, in her sunniest tones, that they had no coin, the farmer prepared to return the provisions to his larder.
Before Celia could begin to weep—the agony on her face far surpassed anything he’d so far observed—Terence entered negotiations. As expected, Joe was unimpressed by The Genuine Amours of Peter Aretin. Pity. He’d probably enjoy the book, if he could read it.
Which left one pair of gentleman’s boots, possibly made by Hoby and certainly costing more than a shilling. More than many, many shillings. Not practical footwear for farm life, and Joe’s feet were enormous. But even in a small market town they’d fetch a guinea or two.
Celia held her breath as Joe subjected the stylish footwear to a careful examination. Finally he nodded, but she couldn’t contain a moan of grief when Joe removed three apples from the pile and brandished his knife to cut the cheese wedge in half. Mr. Compton, proving himself a canny Yorkshireman when it came to bargaining, pushed the blade so only a sliver would be lost. After some back-and-forth they settled on three quarters of the original amount. The loaf of bread remained intact. He stowed the bounty into the sack as Joe described a shortcut over the moors that would bring them to Stonewick. But before they could take leave of their host, they heard the bay of a hound from the direction of the road, echoed by a furious bark from Joe’s sheepdog.
“Strangers.” Joe muttered the single word with a ferocious frown.
Celia’s heart sank at the word. She might be wrong but she had a premonition about a visit that, judging by Joe’s face, was unusual. She seized the countryman’s arm and spoke in a fast near-whisper.
“Can we hide? It may be the foreigner I told you about.”
Mr. Compton flexed his fists. Joe appeared undecided.
“Please, Joe,” she said urgently. “He wants to capture me again. He’ll take me away if you don’t help us.”
“Go in the barn.”
Chapter 9
Though not the best manners, sometimes you have to hit and run.
Not a moment too soon they pulled the barn door closed. Agreeing in sign language, she climbed a ladder to a hay loft, Mr. Compton following behind, his body crowding her up the narrow wooden ladder. In case Joe proved incapable of fobbing off their pursuers, they burrowed into the hay.
It was dark and cool and the hay smelled fresh and sweet. They lay on their sides, Mr. Compton behind her with one arm draped loosely over her waist. They seemed cut off from the world, the distant melody of birdsong and their soft breathing the only sounds. She was acutely sensible of his beating heart, his chest pressed against her back.
A cacophony of barking dogs and flapping hens shattered the stillness, then a counterpoint of male voices. Celia strained to hear through the open window of the loft and sensed Mr. Compton angle his head for the same reason.
Her instinct had been good. A familiar, slightly exotic voice asked—rather rudely—if a man and a woman, scantily clad, had passed that way. Thieving Gypsies, they were. Celia smiled. The man had no idea how to manage Joe. Predictably he received no answer at all.
The other man spoke for the first time, revealing a local accent and a better notion of how to make friends and gain information. “Our hound lost the scent at the crossroads. Followed you then. There’s a half crown for you if you tell where they’rt.”
Joe hemmed and hawed. “Might remember for five shilling.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
A pause. “Four then, but only if your news is worth it.”
“The brass first,” Joe said. “I know where.”
Mr. Compton’s arm tightened, heavy and comforting. His whisper buzzed in her ear. “Stay up here and let me do the fighting.”
A moment’s silence as Celia imagined rather than heard the clink of coins.
“I were driving home. Met Farmer Thorpe coming from crossroads. Man and a lass in his cart. Never seen them before. Reckon they be the ones.”
“And where’s Thorpe’s place?”
“Over to Bracewell.”
Their release of tension was mutual and simultaneous. So were their movements. Somehow she was on her back in the hay and he lay over her. A flutter of excitement rippled under her ribs. His mouth came down on hers.
She’d never been kissed before. Bertram had too much respect for her to take liberties beyond a salute on the back of her hand. She had imagined it a static experience, a mere meeting of stationary mouths. Instead his lips were warm and firm and very alive, nibbling at her own, coaxing her to open and admit the hot mist of his breath. Initial uncertainty quickly turned to pleasure. What a lovely feeling it was! She moved her own lips in return.
Good heavens! His probing tongue came as a shock, but one soon adjusted to. Caressing inside her mouth, it set up a tingling that somehow shot to her breasts, her hardening nipples, down through her torso and lower.
More than the physical reactions, delicious as they might be, kissing Mr. Compton gave her a feeling of intimacy, of knowledge of the man at a deeper level than the little she knew of his real person, or the false one she’d invented.
Tarquin. No, Terence. And her pleasure was marred by a twinge of genuine guilt, the worst she’d suffered, that she had robbed him of his identity.
She thrust aside such inchoate thoughts. Leaning back into the bed of hay, she sensed her whole body soften, almost melt with blissful sensation. Without conscious knowledge, she parted her lips, welcoming his invasion. Her entire body relaxed into openness, ready for whatever came next.
What came next was a banging at the barn door. With a muttered oath Terence pulled back onto all fours. She lay still, staring at him, her brain void of a single sensible thought. He settled back on his heels and offered a hand to pull her up, then brushed off her hair and shoulders.
With trembling fingers she removed a handful of hay that clung to the crown of his head. “More of a scarecrow than a pirate now,” she murmured.
“And what do you think you look like?” Pale golden rays from the late afternoon sun came through the window, caught the swirling dust and lit his features. He smiled at her with an unguarded expression, perhaps a tender one. Her heart turned over. She cupped his bristly jaw and gazed into his eyes, trying to read the message in their basalt depths.
Then the barn door opened to admit a bath of light. “You can come down now,” Joe said. “They’ve gone.” She lowered her hand.
“Thank you, Joe,” she said, once they’d returned to the barnyard. “You saved us.” And gave his beefy arm a grateful squeeze.
“They’ll be right busy in Bracewell. Half the folks there are Thorpes.”
“That’s very clever!”
“We are most grateful for your assistance,” Terence said, holding out his hand. “We should be on our way.”
Joe ignored the hand. “I have coin now.”
“That was clever of you, too,” Celia said, “to make them pay you for false information.”
“I’ll give you three shilling,” Joe said. What a kind man, she thought, determined to reward him well once she had the means. He pulled the coins from his pocket and offered them to Terence. With his other hand he grasped her lower arm. “Three shilling and I keep the woman.”
Well, really! He didn’t even offer the full four shillings. Was that all she was worth? She couldn’t believe she’d been so mistaken in her gentle giant.
Terence seemed less fl
abbergasted than she by this turn of events. He stepped forward and pulled her away from Joe. “The lady is not for sale.”
Joe grinned. They already knew he enjoyed a negotiation. “Three and sixpence,” he offered.
“I’m afraid I am unable to oblige you, at any price.” Terence drew her close. He sounded as disinterested as Tarquin Compton refusing a glass of wine offered by a footman.
“Three and six and the boots.”
“No.”
“And more cheese.” Joe’s brow wrinkled with pain as Terence shook his head. “Four shilling then.”
“I’m sorry, but Celia is my woman and she stays that way.” She felt a little thrill of joy at being so claimed, at the sinewy strength of his arm about her waist.
His staunch refusal baffled Joe. He applied his powers of persuasion to her instead. “See what I have.” A sweep of his arm indicated the scope of his riches which were, to a country fellow, quite considerable. Come to think of it, they were quite considerable to her, too, her worldly value being precisely nothing. Half seriously she contemplated his offer. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d accepted a proposal for mercenary reasons.
“You can have the chickens for your own,” he coaxed.
Bertram had proposed to her because he had four sons to care for. A handful of chickens was a less burdensome gift, but still required attention. Why did men never offer her anything that came without responsibilities?
She looked at Joe’s ruddy complexion and rotting teeth, thought about kissing him, and shuddered. She breathed the odor of the sheep that she guessed sometimes shared his living quarters. When she accepted Bertram Baldwin’s proposal he hadn’t been a handsome man, nor was he young. But he did bathe.
“I’m sorry, Joe,” she said softly. “Thank you, but I don’t love you and I don’t believe I could.” She leaned into the shelter of Terence’s less earthy embrace.
Joe’s eyes shrank, slitted and blue in the florid folds of flesh. They surveyed the dandy’s trim figure, lingering below the waist. He no longer looked friendly. When compared to the farmer’s beefy shoulders, barrel chest and massive thighs, Terence, even at some inches over six feet, seemed puny. “You’ll be better with me. He’s but a small man, happen with a tiddly little pillock.”
The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (Burgundy Club) Page 6