Major Wyclyff's Campaign (A Lady's Lessons, Book 2)

by Lee, Jade

  "This is horrible of you," she hissed at him.

  He merely grinned, then spoke to the baron and the eager crowd. "It is quite a quandary," he said, his eyes twinkling with deviltry. "Perhaps we should be thrown in gaol for the night. That might teach her a lesson. Let me see if I still wish her afterwards."

  Immediately the room echoed with cheers, liberally peppered with crass remarks. But it was the major's bawdy wink that was the final straw for Sophia. She stepped forward, outrage making her hands clench in front of her. "Do not be ridiculous! What of my reputation? I shall be completely ruined." What was he thinking, sending her to a common prison? Ladies were not treated this way! And why was the baron looking pleased by the suggestion?

  Anthony lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. "I thought you cared nothing for your reputation, my dear. That is, after all, why we attended the fight in the first place."

  "But... but I shall be spending the night—"

  "In gaol, my dear," boomed the baron. "Lady Sophia, I hereby find you guilty of... of disrupting the peace and a very fine afternoon of sport."

  "Sport!" she exclaimed. "Where is the sport in watching dumb animals murder each other?"

  The baron continued as if she had not spoken. "As for you, Major Wyclyff, you shall accompany her. Appear before me in the morning to tell me of your decision."

  "But you cannot do this," sputtered Sophia.

  Unfortunately, no one paid her the slightest heed and, from the unholy glee on Anthony's face, she knew she would get no help from him.

  "Come along, my dear," boomed the baron as he came up beside her. "It is this way."

  "But—"

  "Silence, or I shall make it two nights."

  Sophia had no choice but to quiet. The baron placed a hand on her arm and neatly helped her step over the dead birds still on the floor. The major was left to follow at his leisure. The crowd shifted before them, and their ribald comments made her face burn. Soon, Sophia found herself in front of a heavy wood door, which the constable took great ceremony to pull open.

  "Here?" she asked.

  "Of course!" responded the baron congenially. "This is our gaol!" Then he leaned forward, dropping his voice to an undertone. "It is the only lockable room in the house."

  "But... but it is a wine cellar!"

  "Naturally. I am quite sure you will be comfortable there," he said with a broad wink. Then he turned to the major. "There is a priest's hole just off the main chamber down there, and I trust I shall not have to lock the both of you in so that you don't drink all of my wine?"

  If possible, Anthony's grin grew even wider. "Absolutely. Of course," he added with a wink to the crowd, "cockfighting is very thirsty work. I am sure the lady will wish a drop or two. She has been known to imbibe on other occasions."

  Sophia gasped at his crude reference to her earlier attempt to disgust him with inebriation. "How dare you!" she cried. "You know quite well—"

  "Yes, yes, my dear," he interrupted. "I am sure you need not elaborate."

  "Of all the vulgar..." It was at that precise moment that Sophia spotted her rescue. There, trapped between the butcher and the baron's poor confused-looking wife, stood Percy, clearly torn between amusement and horror. If the major would do nothing to help her, then surely she could convince her friend's betrothed to assist her.

  Pushing away from the baron, she stepped toward him. "Percy!" she cried. "Help me! Do something!"

  The boy started, obviously surprised to suddenly become the focus of the crowd's attention. To add to his shock, he was roughly pushed forward by the butcher, then jostled about until he stood directly in front of the baron.

  Still, much to Sophia's relief, Percy had enough wits about him to begin an earnest plea on her behalf. "I say," he began, "this is not at all the thing. Sophia is good ton, after all. We can't have her tossed in gaol."

  Sophia closed her eyes, feeling a headache begin to pound in her temples. This was not quite the learned argument she had hoped for. Nevertheless, the baron did not seem to mind. He cleared his throat to study the boy.

  "And just who might you be?"

  The young man straightened his shoulders, meeting the baron's look with calm distinction. "Percy Fitzgerald, Lord Waverly." The effect would have been just what Sophia had wanted, if his voice had not cracked on his title.

  "Another suitor, sir," added Anthony in a dry voice.

  "Throw 'em all in together!" called someone in the crowd.

  "An' see 'oo comes out standing!" added another.

  "Now, now," bellowed the baron. "I will have no bloodshed in my wine cell—I mean, in my gaol." He turned his heavy stare on the boy. "Is that what you wish? Do you want to join them down there?"

  Percy blanched, his cheeks becoming the color of his fine lawn shirt. "In there?" he squeaked. "But Lydia will have my ears for it. Not to mention Mother." And, with that, he hastily backed out of the room. Sophia watched his departure with a sinking heart while the crowd lambasted the boy for such a lily-livered display.

  "Very well," bellowed the baron over the din. "Down with you." He gestured Sophia toward the rickety stairs descending into the dark cellar. She did not move at first; instead she stood watching the baron clap the major on the back and wish him the best of luck. But then the crowd began pushing in, and she had no direction to go but down the suits. The major followed quickly after, making no attempt to hide his grin.

  Once they were inside, bit by ponderous bit the door closed behind them, settling into place with an echoing thud that easily cut off the bawdy comments of the crowd. The only light was from a candelabra that had been thrust into the major's hand.

  Sophia watched it all happen with a brittle kind of detachment. She was now locked in for the night with the major. Her future was over. Her reputation destroyed. Her dreams of a quiet spinsterhood forever shattered. And there was only one person to blame.

  Major Anthony Wyclyff.

  After all, he was the one who had truly begun this entire debacle. If he hadn't been absolutely insistent that she marry him, she never would have thought to go to the cockfight in the first place. Neither would she have been drinking or kissing, for that matter. None of the last dreadful, wonderful, bizarre week would have happened.

  And that thought made her very, very confused, twisting her emotions into a tangle of conflicting feelings. It was all too much for her, and so she took refuge in anger. Pinning the major with her coldest stare, she practically hissed her words at him: "You are quite the most odious man alive," she fumed. Then she turned her back on him and flounced the rest of the way down the stairs.

  * * *

  Anthony watched Sophia stomp away in high dudgeon and could not suppress a grin. Finally, he had done it. It had taken a cockfight of gargantuan proportions, a bribable baron, and gaol, but he had finally gotten into an excellent battle position. He'd broken through Sophia's cool reserve.

  Good lord, she had punched that overweening viscount in the face! She had been a magnificent, avenging fury descending on that stuffed popinjay! Now, that glory seemed to follow her even into this dank cellar. He watched her cross the narrow room, glaring at inoffensive bottles, her back as rigid as an iron pike.

  She was furious with him.

  Fortunately, he knew it was only a tiny step from fury to passion.

  He could not have been more pleased if she had declared she would wed him then and there. But he knew it would take a good deal more persuasion to get her to that point. And now, he thought with a grin, he had all night to persuade her.

  "Shall we see what accommodations our illustrious baron has provided?" he called cheerfully.

  "I hold you directly responsible for this turn of affairs."

  "Me?" he cried with offended dignity. Actually, he cared not the least whom she blamed for the situation, just so long as she remained at his side. Tonight and always. "I was not the one who chose to level a peer of the realm. Nor was I the one who thought cocks bred for battle would be b
etter off roaming the countryside."

  "I did not think the birds were so stupid!"

  "You did not think at all!" Anthony felt his cheery mood dim at the memory of Sophia in the middle of all those frenzied roosters. For as long as he lived, he knew he would recall his worry for her safety. "Sophia. Are you sure—"

  "I am completely whole," she snapped, knowing what he was going to ask.

  Watching her skirts swirl as she spun away, Anthony relaxed. Sophia's spirited display reassured him that she was unhurt. If only he could reassure her about his leg and health as easily. He had caught her many anxious glances, especially whenever she saw him limp.

  "And stop grinning at me," she snarled from where she leaned against a wine cask. "If you think for one moment—"

  "Are you thirsty, my dear?" he asked, hoping to distract her from her temper.

  "No!"

  His smile became more of a smirk, as he took in her posture and fiery pride. "You are absolutely magnificent," he said, and he meant it. Before she could find a scathing retort, he lit a new candle from a stack he found on a nearby shelf, held it out for her to take, then raised his candelabra to illuminate their surroundings. "Shall we see what our dear baron has provided for our incarceration?"

  She huffed, holding out her candle with clear disgust. "It makes no difference whether this is a pig's wallow or a king's palace; I am still quite angry with you."

  "I know that, my dear, but I, for one, would prefer to make the pig's wallow as much of a palace as possible." Holding out his light, he began inspecting the cellar.

  The room was long and thinned into more of a passageway because of the long racks of bottles stored here. Apparently, the baron enjoyed wine. There were racks and racks of various vintages all along the wall, with more than a few empty spaces from what the baron had already consumed. Anthony spotted brandy and port wine and all manner of drink.

  He stepped forward, bringing his light closer as he noted the enormous variety of offerings; then his attention was drawn to one side as Sophia sighed heavily and wandered away down the passageway. He let her go, knowing she needed time to cool her temper. It took at least ten minutes before he heard her gasp.

  "Oh, goodness," she said, her voice clear despite the distance between them.

  "Is there some difficulty?" He moved quickly toward her, anxious for her safety. This had been a clever plan, but he did not want her getting hurt.

  "Not for me," she answered. "But then, I suppose you have slept in worse. Still, I cannot say I envy you tonight's accommodations."

  Anthony made it to her side, at last able to understand her comments. As the baron had promised, the passageway ended in a rather austere room, no doubt once used as chambers for a servant or priest. Sophia was looking at a rather dismal straw tick mattress that drooped in the middle of a narrow bed. It was the only item of furniture in the room.

  "It will not be comfortable," she admitted, "but it will be better than letting you stand all night on your leg."

  He looked around the filthy little room, wondering at her words. "As you said, I have slept on much worse in my life. But where do you expect to rest?"

  Sophia merely shook her head. "I am too angry to sleep at all tonight," she said. Abruptly, she stuck her head back into the passageway then looked at him. "But, this is appalling. There is not even water to clean your wounds."

  Anthony felt his smile return. "Gaol is not intended to be comfortable."

  "It does not have to be repulsive, either."

  He did not answer, not wishing to disillusion her. He had only once been incarcerated. In Spain. And it was not an experience he cared to remember. Compared to that, this was indeed a king's palace.

  The mere memory of that place was enough to make him feel tired. With a sigh, he set down his candelabra, stripped off the tattered remains of his coat, then set that down on the straw tick. He sat atop it with an audible groan.

  As expected, Sophia's attention immediately turned to him. "Are you ill, Major? Feverish? Perhaps we could end this farce if—"

  "I am quite healthy, if a little tired."

  His words apparently did not reassure her. Inserting her candle in a sconce on the wall, she knelt in front of him, her hands trembling slightly as she touched his knee. "Is it your leg?"

  "That and perhaps a dozen other minor injuries."

  She swiftly rose to her feet. "Then I shall call the baron at once. He will get a doct—"

  "All I require is you." With a quick shift of his weight, he caught her wrist and gently pulled her down to sit beside him.

  "Major! If you are ill—"

  "I merely wish to speak with you."

  "But a fever..." Her voice trailed away as she pressed her hand to his forehead. He allowed her to do it, allowed her to reassure herself that he was fine. He did not speak until he heard her sigh of relief.

  "You see," he said softly, "I am fine. Please, Sophia, can you not sit and speak with me?" He held his breath waiting for her decision, but in the end, she nodded, shifting to sit by his side, her rose skirt settling softly about her.

  "Very well, Major," she said calmly. "What do you wish to discuss?"

  He leaned forward, trying to capture her hands, but she remained steadfastly out of his reach. In the end, he leaned back watching her expression carefully. "Your fears for my leg. Sophia, why do you worry so?"

  "I thought you understood by now." She paused, scanning his face. When he did not respond, she beetled her eyebrows in a clear frown. "Major, why were you so upset when I released the birds?"

  "Because you could have been severely hurt... blinded or maimed—"

  "You died."

  Her soft words silenced his anger, allowing him to understand her message. If he felt terror at just the memory of Sophia in danger, how much more pain would he feel if she had nearly died? Did she feel so much horror whenever she looked at him? Did every sight of him remind her of his supposed death?

  "But I did not die," he said for what seemed like the hundredth time.

  She pushed up from the cot, frustration making her movements short. "You refuse to understand."

  "Because you refuse to see me as whole!"

  She stopped, turning toward him so that the candlelight fell full on her face. And in that moment, he saw true fear on her face, a terror that seemed to engulf her. But then it was gone. He watched in amazement as she shuttered her expression, closing it down until she stood as if frozen solid.

  Why was she so set on remaining afraid? he wondered. What did she risk in believing him healthy?

  He had no answer, and soon she was speaking again, her words soft, her body held excruciatingly rigid. "I do not wish to argue."

  "Nor I," he returned.

  They regarded one another in silence. And in that stillness, he studied her, seeing why she had been called the Ice Queen. Whenever the woman felt threatened, whenever anyone or anything veered too close to her pain, she froze—inside and out—refusing to feel, refusing to be touched by any other soul.

  He could not allow her to remain like this. Not with him. But how could he melt through her reserve? How could he reach her?

  "Please sit down," he asked softly. "It hurts my neck to forever look up at you like that."

  She wanted to refuse. He could see the wariness in her eyes. But Sophia was too tenderhearted to cause him any pain, even a simple crick in his neck. Slowly she came forward, finally settling herself on the edge of the cot. Then, before he could think of something to say, she began speaking, her voice cool and composed.

  "It occurs to me that I have not thanked you for your assistance with the birds. I realize I might have been severely injured." She turned to look at him, and he read sincerity in her eyes. "Thank you, Major, for your help."

  A peace offering, he realized, and he responded with all the chivalry in his soul. "It was my duty and my honor, Sophia."

  She relaxed slightly, a rueful smile touching her lips. "And now we are incarcerated l
ike common criminals. Small thanks for your heroic deed."

  "Your appreciation is thanks enough," he said with absolute truth. Indeed, he would brave a thousand demonic chickens if it meant another night with her at his side. But he could not say so to her. Indeed, he was startled by the vehemence of the thought.

  Rather than dwell on his unruly emotions, he chose instead to look out into the wine cellar. "Perhaps we could get something to drink. I am afraid I find myself quite parched."

  He started to fit task to word, but she stopped him with a single raised hand. "Please, allow me. It is the least I can do after you stopped that huge brute of a rooster."

  "There is no need—"

  "I want to." Then she was gone into the passageway, and he could do nothing but lean back and enjoy the highly pleasurable experience of having Sophia attend to him. It was not that she had never assisted him before. She had, in fact, been most supportive during his early stay in the hospital. But somehow this seemed different. Today, she seemed motivated not out of an abstract pity or concern, but by simple desire. She wished to help him.

  That would have made up for the cuts and bruises from a dozen cockfights.

  She returned quickly with a fine brandy. "Is this acceptable, do you think? I do not know what one serves with fleas and dust."

  "Normally," he said with a teasing smile, "port is called for in such circumstances. But I believe the Prince Regent once claimed a preference for brandy."

  She smiled in pleasure at his sally. "Well, I am glad we shall be upholding the royal custom. Especially since we have no glasses."

  He reached out, taking the bottle from her, managing to extend the movement into a soft brush across the back of her hand. "Then, from the bottle it is," he said cheerfully, his happiness having more to do with her blush than any drink.

  "The baron left a tray at the top of the stairs," she admitted with a shy glance. So saying, Sophia slipped from the room. Anthony counted the seconds until she returned. He was at a hundred and four when she stepped back into the room, a large tray with bread and cheese in her hands.

  "A veritable feast," he said, though his eyes were on her.