The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter

by Mary Ellen Dennis

  “Perhaps I mean to court it, Bess. Perhaps the knowledge that life can be yanked away at any moment is what makes life so exciting.”

  “Really! Do you miss your cousin so much you’d follow him?”

  “I miss him so much I’d avenge him. Moreover, my attitude has less to do with Zak than… events.”

  “What do you mean?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “Tell me why you’re not some respectable farmer or solicitor. Tell me why you chose to become a highwayman.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “All the remembering in the world cannot alter anything. If I told you my life story, I would still remain what I am. You think to change me but you can’t.”

  “I don’t want to change you. I want to understand you.”

  He considered for a long moment, then shrugged. “I was a soldier, Bess, a respectable soldier. I fought at the Battle of Guilford Court House. Some call it the turning point of the war, but I only know that we marched and marched. The weather was miserable, snow and rain. Cornwallis had chased the Colonials out of the Carolinas. But once we entered Virginia, we were outnumbered by their reinforcements. We had to retreat to the south. Earlier, Cornwallis had destroyed many of our supplies so that we could march faster. He had also laid waste to the countryside. Thus, we were forced to retrace our path over scorched earth which yielded precious little in the way of food.”

  Elizabeth imagined the blackened fields, the starving men, the bone-weariness, the despair.

  “When we finally met the Colonials,” Rand continued, “we were outnumbered two to one. I’ll never forget the countryside where we made our stand. The golden hills and dark woods, and the courthouse off to one side. I still can’t bear the sight of rolling hills and forests. That’s why I shy away from the south. I mislike the very thought of Dorset or the Cotswolds or the Vale of Evesham, especially Evesham. So similar. They almost seem interchangeable…” He faltered, his eyes bleak.

  Elizabeth was familiar with the Battle of Guilford Court House. For days… nay, weeks, her father had talked of nothing else. Ultimately, Cornwallis had ordered his gunners to fire grapeshot, which had proven disastrous to both sides.

  “A black cloud appeared, racing toward us, as if driven by demons. It finally stopped to hover above the enemy.”

  The timbre of Rand’s voice had changed. Elizabeth attributed the sudden huskiness to emotion, and she longed to reach out, hold him, mitigate his painful memories.

  “The cloud frightened us, for it came out of nowhere. It was an evil omen. We knew it. Lightning flicked like serpents’ tongues, and thunder growled, but only drops of rain emerged.”

  “Lightning?” The whole scene sounded familiar. Perhaps she had read about the storm in the press.

  “We saw the cloud and we were terrified, for we had already sensed our cause was lost. We believed God had sent the blackness to hide our forthcoming tragedy. It was so dark we could barely see the abbey, though occasionally we could hear the prayers of the monks.”

  Elizabeth blinked, surprised. She hadn’t known America possessed abbeys. America was so young. Its abbeys would be fresh and beautiful. America’s abbeys would not reveal the inevitable decay wrought by King Henry and the dissolution.

  “We marched up the slopes of Green Hill, right into the heart of the enemy. We were so outnumbered. It was futile, of course, but I didn’t care. I still loved battle. What made it particularly difficult was that in many cases we were not fighting strangers, but brothers and friends.”

  Elizabeth knew that to be true. During the American War, loyalties had often been hopelessly tangled. General Cornwallis himself had opposed many of the acts leading up to the Revolution, and countless officers had refused to serve against the Colonials. On the other hand, fully half of all Americans had remained loyal to England.

  “We crashed into the enemy line.” Rand’s voice was a harsh whisper. “All around me, soldiers were falling. I heard the shouts and screams but I pressed on. A thousand deaths made no difference. I loved the very thought of war. The smell of the horses, the noise, the fear, the blood. I had fought so many battles, this seemed but one more. We had always been victorious before. Our cause was just. Why would we not prevail again?”

  Elizabeth had a hard time imagining Rand as the war lover he portrayed himself to be. Obviously, the Battle of Guilford Court House had been his turning point. It had changed him, as war must always change men.

  “The wings closed in on either side, crushing us. Then I knew. We would all die, there on Green Hill.”

  Not all, thought Elizabeth, but the losses had been tremendous. One fourth of the General’s command had been killed or wounded.

  “Is that when you hurt your leg?” she asked. “When General Cornwallis fired into the line?”

  “No. My horse fell on me.”

  Elizabeth winced. She imagined the snap of breaking bone, the pain and fear he must have experienced. “How dreadful,” she said softly.

  “A broken leg was the least of my problems.” He ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “That was the end, at least for me. Both sides were right. Both sides believed in what they were fighting for. Both sides were wrong. And nothing mattered anymore. I felt detached from the entire business. It all seemed so irrelevant. Something happened to me that day on Green Hill.”

  “And now society’s rules seem just as irrelevant.” She wanted to say something more profound, something comforting, something that would put the past in perspective and reroute Rand’s life, but she couldn’t find the proper words. Instead, she reached out and caressed his smooth-shaven cheek.

  He jerked back, as if emerging from a trance. “You must return to your parents, Bess. There is danger here.”

  “Danger from whom? Do you consider me dangerous?”

  Yes, Rand thought. How could he explain? She wanted to make love, and he knew he would be ineffectual, if not brutal. The memories he had just revealed had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. He could smell blood. He could hear the screams of the wounded. He could see the shapeless forms of the sightless dead.

  He watched Elizabeth tilt her head. The moon spilled its light across her face. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but her lovely mouth appeared resolute.

  “I want you, Rand,” she said. “I want you now, tonight, evermore.”

  “No, Bess.”

  “Aye.” She unbuttoned her coat, then her waistcoat. Her slippers, skirt, and underclothing were soon shed, until her lithesome body was shrouded by nothing more than moonbeams. Her hands, sure and steady, began divesting Rand of his shirt.

  “No,” he repeated, batting her hands away. Then, almost trance-like, he removed the pins from her neat club and stroked the shiny masses of her hair.

  “Do not build a wall,” she pleaded. “Do not keep me out. I want to love you.”

  “I don’t know what love is,” he replied bitterly.

  “Of course you do. Did you not mean it when you said you loved me?”

  “I meant it, Bess, I swear. ’Tis because I love you that I don’t want to do this. I would only hurt you, betray you, and soon you would grow to hate me.”

  “Never! Even if I hated you, I would love you. Please lay beside me and help me prove how much we love each other.”

  This was all wrong, he thought. He should be wooing her. He had always wooed his ladies. Bess, however, was unique. She didn’t play the coquette and she didn’t play the whore. She didn’t even seem to realize that her honesty would precipitate his defeat. If he said no again, she’d simply drag him down onto the grass and feather him with kisses until he was helpless.

  She raised her arms, inviting him, cajoling him. The motion revealed the delicate bounce of her breasts. Moonlight made her nipples the color of dusk, the color of shade. She was so fragile, so vulnerable,
so overpowering. He could smell his own lust and he could feel his body trembling and he could no more master his hunger for her than he could master his dreams of the past.

  Elizabeth glimpsed Rand’s face as he bent to kiss her. His features were all shadow and moonlight. She felt his mouth come down upon hers in a violent assault, stealing her breath. Her head whirled. She felt powerless, overwhelmed by her own desire and the hard, unyielding press of his body. After a short space or long minutes, she couldn’t determine which, he drew back. Head still spinning, she gazed into his face.

  Rand’s face, but not his face. The darkness of hair, but darker somehow. The same features, but not the same. Coarser. Bolder.

  Unable to accept this obvious illusion, she reached up to stroke his face again. This time her fingers encountered a beard. She yanked her hand away. Behind her, she heard the chanting of the White Monks and the rustle of their ghostly habits. “Who are you?” she whispered, her heart rising and beating against the pulse in her throat.

  The moonlight teased his face, revealing, hiding. Strong white teeth flashed against his beard as he said, “Do you not know me, Janey?”

  She felt as if her legs were being sucked into quicksand. She tried to force herself to turn and flee, but her body seemed without strength. “What did you call me?”

  Clouds crept across the moon, encasing the ruins in darkness once again. When Rand spoke, his voice was as it should be. “Do you insist on propriety, Bess? After all that has passed between us, would you have me call you Miss Wyndham?”

  “No. Of course not. I only meant…” She struggled to see his face, fearing she would encounter that someone else, that dark, brutal, exciting someone else, who was as desirable as he was repellent.

  Something moved within, an ancient memory. Her mind almost grasped it before it floated away, like the souls of the dead monks.

  “I thought…” She shivered, as if a chill wind had sprung up, even though the air remained oppressively stagnant. “I was mistaken. I have been imagining things.”

  He laughed. “’Tis your vocation to imagine things, Bess.”

  “True,” she replied. But in a sudden burst of insight she knew. Her raven-haired knight. Somehow she had blended the two together in her mind. Either that or there was another more frightening explanation, one she didn’t dare consider, one that might drive her mad.

  She sighed. Rand had spoken of turning points, but their relationship had passed its own turning point a long time ago. She experienced anticipation, fear, and a strange sense of fatalism, as though she had embarked on a journey into an uncharted land and she couldn’t steer or change the direction, no matter how hard she tried. Why would you want to change the direction? This is where you belong, a voice inside her whispered.

  Rand seemed unaware of the fact that they had been momentarily suspended in an illusory realm. Beginning where he left off, he cradled her chin in his strong, callused hands.

  She felt his lips claim hers. His lips were moist and warm, soft and firm, yet they moved with a hungry fervor. She inhaled the scent of horse, leather, and sandalwood, but this time the monks were silent. The earth spun and her head whirled, but this time it was her reaction to Rand’s kiss. And this time, when the moon reappeared, it smiled.

  Elizabeth noted that the moon’s smile was sideways, crooked, just before Rand lowered her to the ground and slid his palms beneath her breasts, rendering all contemplation impossible.

  If she had been more aware, more coherent, she might have thought the moon was mocking them.

  Afterwards, she lay in the crook of his arm and listened to the rhythmic cadence of their heartbeats.

  “Will I see you again?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “In my own time.”

  Fifteen

  The Harvest Ball was always held on the night of a full moon so that participants would be guided by its light. Guests from as far south as York had purchased tickets, all the surrounding inns and assembly rooms were packed to the rafters, and woe to the boarder who desired private accommodations.

  With that last thought, Elizabeth smoothed her lavender silk gown, a gift from her Aunt Lilith who had arrived this morning. Lilith had toted a vast array of baggage, but no husband. He was consumed with business affairs, Lilith had stated resolutely. Elizabeth surmised that her uncle’s affairs were, at best, the consumption of gin; at worst, an affaire d’amour. Damn all men!

  After plaiting her thick braid with a blue love knot, Elizabeth leaned out the open bedroom window. A pumpkin-colored moon illuminated the carriages stretched along the highway. She swallowed a yawn, her fifth or sixth; she had lost count. “Dorothea says this will be the best ball ever,” she told Lilith, who shared her room. “I hope she’s right.”

  Lilith fastened her own sapphire bracelet around Elizabeth’s slender wrist. “Why shouldn’t she be right? The weather is fine, the crowd grows by the minute, and you have an attentive suitor in Lord Stafford. What more could anyone ask for?”

  “I… nobody has sighted the highwayman,” Elizabeth stammered, then realized she hadn’t answered her aunt’s last query. Or perhaps she had.

  “There are patrols everywhere. He would never attack tonight.” Lilith studied her niece. “Would he, Elizabeth?”

  She pretended not to hear by closing the window, retrieving her hand mirror, and carefully inspecting her face. Rand had said “In my own time,” but a full week had passed without even one glimpse of him. Her body ached for his touch, and she felt bewildered, nay, betrayed by his indifference.

  Far more disturbing than Rand’s absence, however, was the memory of her raven-haired knight. She had seen him at Fountains Abbey. It hadn’t been a trick of the fickle moonlight or her vivid imagination. It was the same face that teased her when she wrote her novels, the face that haunted her dreams. Which meant what? She didn’t dare contemplate what it might mean. A part of her was even relieved that Rand had made no effort to visit. As much as she loved him, she also feared him. No. She didn’t fear Rand, only the secrets he held and the unsettling things that happened whenever they were together.

  Impulsively, Elizabeth gave her aunt a hug. Then she gathered up her skirts and exited the room.

  Walter waited near the front door. A lively tune, dominated by a racing fiddle, intruded from the courtyard.

  “Good evening, my lord.” Wishing he were Rand, Elizabeth curtsied, keeping her back and shoulders straight so that her gown’s fitted bodice concealed more than it revealed.

  Nevertheless, Walter’s gaze lingered on her breasts. “You dazzle me, dearest,” he said. “In truth, you are by far the most beautiful woman here tonight. No. In all of the north. In all of England. I cannot wait to get you to London.” Grasping her by the upper arms, he kissed her on the lips.

  Startled by his boldness, she shoved him away.

  He gave her a naughty-boy grin. “I couldn’t resist,” he said. “You look so perfect, and your eyes shine brighter than your sapphires.”

  She smelled the wine on his breath. “If my eyes shine, they shine because I am angry. I do not appreciate your rude behavior.” Elizabeth realized she was overreacting, but his lips had provoked such revulsion, she felt like cleansing her mouth. “If you don’t want to quarrel, I suggest you control yourself.”

  “I’m sorry, dearest. It’s just that I have come to a decision which shall change my entire life, and I am exuberant at the very thought of it. And, in truth, you looked as if you wanted to be kissed.”

  “Really, Lord Stafford!”

  “No, no, I was mistaken. On my oath, I will comport myself like a gentleman.”

  He led her out into the courtyard, adorned with enormous baskets of flowers. Dorothea thought the blooms lent fragrance and color to the evening, and she was probably right, but Elizabeth found the smell cloying, almost nauseating.
Paper lanterns and decorations wound around the light posts, the tables of food, and the platform upon which the band played. Father was flinging about the mayor of Middleham’s plump wife, while Dorothea stood on the sidelines, smiling her cat-smile.

  Elizabeth bit back a greeting. Her father was no longer her beloved papa. Despite his words to the contrary, he had wagered on the bull baiting and lost several pounds. Walter had promptly settled the debt, and Lawrence now praised Lord Stafford’s virtues like a well-trained parrot.

  “Let us find a quiet spot in the garden where we can talk,” Walter said. “I have decided we should be married immediately and we must discuss our plans.”

  Speechless, totally aghast, she allowed him to pull her toward the privacy of a secluded hedge area. “But I haven’t agreed to wed you,” she said when she finally found her voice.

  “Stop playing coy, Elizabeth. You should be flattered that I am such an ardent suitor. I’ve met hundreds of women, most richer, many younger, and all with less independent dispositions, but it is you I want. I can’t explain what it is about you, perhaps it is merely the fact that you’re so reluctant…” He paused, shaking his head. “In any case, I’ve already approached your parents with a formal offer and they’re delighted.”

  “Of course they’re delighted. They pant like thirsty dogs. Our marriage would relieve them of all financial burdens. Does that not make you think twice?”

  “I have thought twice, more than twice, and I’ve concluded that your hand in marriage is well worth the paltry sum I’ve loaned your father. I would pay triple the amount just to bed you, my pet, but bedding you is not enough. Not anymore.”

  Elizabeth suppressed the urge to slap him. Lord Stafford would definitely appear in her next novel as a villain whom her heroine would torture in an exquisitely diabolical manner.

  “Let us leave our relationship as it has been,” she said, striving to maintain her composure. “We enjoy each other’s company, at least most of the time. I don’t want more, and I don’t believe you do either.”