by C. J. Archer
"He will be once he's used to farming. He just needs time to adjust."
"Perhaps it's not a good idea to let him catch me kissing his sister, then."
She grinned. "He's probably more inclined to challenge you to a duel now than he would have been only a few months ago. His temper has certainly worsened."
"I used to be quite a good swordsman," Nick said. "Thomas too. We had wooden swords as children and used to battle each other in the long gallery. Because he was older and fairer, he got to be the English sea captain, and I was always the Corsair. As we grew up, the level of our playing did too. The wooden swords got replaced for starters."
"You fought your brother with a real sword?"
He smirked. "How else were we to learn the art of swordplay?"
"But you could have hurt each other." She clicked her tongue. "I honestly don't understand men at times."
"Yet you have two brothers."
"Gentle creatures, both of them. They own swords, of course, but they've never used them in real combat. Henry doesn't even take his into the village on market day, although other gentlemen do."
"So I have nothing to worry about if he challenges me to a duel?"
They'd reached the kitchen garden. Brutus sat near a rosemary bush, panting, his big eyes watching their every move.
"Is that your way of saying you're going to try and kiss me in public again?" she asked.
He strode ahead along the path that separated the garden into herbs on one side and lettuces on the other. Brutus fell into step beside him. Both paused at the doorway and waited for her. "Only when you're ready, my little light. Only when you're ready."
***
Nick and Brutus heard the riders before Lucy did. She and Nick were inspecting the day's progress with the front porch as they waited for Henry and his farmhands to return. The builders were almost finished, and she couldn't wait to see it without the network of scaffolding covering the brickwork.
"Wait here," Nick said as the two men rode toward the house. "I'll see what they want."
He strode off before she could remind him that she was the mistress and he the guest. Brutus trotted alongside him, his tail wagging madly. He loved meeting new people.
Nick hailed the riders and the two men dismounted and nodded a greeting.
"Are you the master here?" one asked.
"I'm Mistress Cowdrey," Lucy said before Nick could speak. "This farm belongs to my father and my brother manages it. This is our guest, Mr. Coleclough."
The men removed their hats but neither looked at her. Both boldly kept their gazes locked with Nick's.
"Do I know you?" he asked them.
The older of the two licked his lips as he inspected Nick, taking particular interest in the bandage. The few strands of gray hair clinging to the man's shiny head were matted with sweat, and his face was craggier than a cliff. His companion was a little younger and leaner with a reddish beard that was in need of a trim. He wore a brown linen doublet with brass buttons down the front, the embroidered shirt cuffs poking out of the sleeves for effect. A townsman then, and a well-off one at that.
The lanky groom strode toward them. "Take yer mounts for you, sirs?" The men handed him the reins and he led the horses to the trough near the barn.
"My name is John Sawyer," the younger man said to Nick and Lucy. "And this is Thomas Upfield. We're from Larkham."
Lucy felt rather than saw Nick stiffen.
"You been in Larkham of late?" the older man, Upfield, asked.
"No," she said. "Why? Has something happened?"
"Sir?" Upfield said to Nick. "Have you been to the village of Larkham?"
"Mistress Cowdrey asked you a question," Nick said. "It would be ungentlemanly not to answer her."
Upfield sneered. "Do we look like gen'lemen to you?"
"You look like you need to be taught some manners. I'm available, and I'm an excellent instructor."
Sawyer cleared his throat and bowed to Lucy. "Our apologies, madam. We didn't mean to offend. Upfield and I are weary from riding all day, and our business is unpleasant."
"And the nature of your business?" she pressed.
"Murder."
She gasped and pressed a hand to her stomach. "Good lord, who has been murdered?"
"Alderman Renny."
She'd never met the man, but she'd seen him around the Sutton Grange market. He'd pranced about like a peacock, his large belly almost bursting out of his doublet. His booming voice carried through the crowd, and no one could have failed to hear his derogatory remarks about the produce supplied by all the Sutton Grange villagers and surrounding farms, including Cowdrey. Later, he'd apparently become rolling drunk at the Plough Inn and spoken crudely to a few of the women. He'd been thrown out after he'd tried to lift Milner's daughter's skirts. The only ones who'd gotten angry on his behalf had been a few of his fellow Larkham villagers. Perhaps these two had been among them.
"Who would do such a thing and why?" she asked.
"'Twas a traveler," Upfield said, scratching his balding head. He continued to study Nick, his gaze sweeping up, down, up, down. "Nobody knows why."
Sawyer rubbed the back of his neck and for a moment Lucy thought he'd disagree with his companion, but he did not.
"He was a big man, like you," Upfield said to Nick.
A cold ball of dread settled in Lucy's chest. Her fists closed at her sides. Slowly, slowly, she turned to look at Nick. His Adam's apple bobbed, and he crossed his arms. He did not meet her gaze but stared at Upfield.
"He was fairer, though," said Sawyer. "His hair was brown and reached his shoulders, and he had a full beard.
Lucy's knees weakened, and Nick caught her arm to steady her. He did not let her go, but his hand relaxed and his thumb caressed little circles on her sleeve.
"How long have you been here?" Upfield asked Nick.
"Three days," Lucy said.
The men exchanged glances. "And before that?"
"He can't re—"
"Stoneleigh," Nick cut in. His thumb stopped circling and his fingers tightened their grip. "Do you know it?"
"Aye," said Sawyer. "Old Farley's a good man, his daughter and her new husband too. Holt, isn't it?"
"He's a friend of mine," Nick said. "I was visiting him when I met with an accident that prevented me leaving the area."
"Then why ain't you stayin' at Stoneleigh?" Upfield asked.
Nick touched the bandage on his head. "I'm not supposed to be moved, or the wound will open up. Mistress Cowdrey and her brother were kind enough to offer me a room until I recover."
Upfield grunted but didn't look convinced. Lucy tried very hard to keep her face bland, her gaze unwavering. She even managed a warm smile. "You both look tired and it grows late. Supper will be served as soon as my brother returns, and you're welcome to join us."
"Thank you, madam, that's kind of you," said Sawyer. He jabbed his elbow into Upfield who thanked her too. "Can we trouble you further for a bed for the night? It's a fair ride into Sutton Grange from here, and it'll be dark soon."
"Of course, if you don't mind sharing a small bedchamber with each other."
He gave her a little bow. "Don't mind at all, madam."
"There's a pail of water for washing near the barn. Everyone has to use the kitchen entrance, I'm afraid," she said, indicating the scaffolding. "One of the maids will show you to the room."
They nodded and wandered off toward the barn. Upfield glanced back at Nick, but Sawyer trudged across the gravel, his gaze on his feet.
"Why did you lie?" she said to Nick as they watched them go.
"It wasn't a lie," he said. "I was at Stoneleigh before I came here."
"Yes, but not for any length of time. You could have been in Larkham before that."
"You heard them. The alderman was murdered by a big man. I'm a big man. The alderman's family would be baying for retribution, and it would be too easy to blame me."
"The killer was fairer in coloring, and he ha
d a beard. That's not at all like you."
"I still think it's best not to give them any reason to doubt their witness accounts." He rubbed his forehead and sighed. "I have a headache, Lucy. I don't think I'll be down for supper."
"I'll have it sent to your room." She pressed her hand to his cheek. It was hot. "Can I get you anything?"
He leaned into her palm. "You've done more than enough, little light." He did not smile, and there was no gleam of good humor in his eyes. It was like looking into a different set. Where before they were two velvety soft orbs, now they were deep and black and devoid of spark.
They walked together to the kitchen entrance and went inside. They parted at the main stairs and she headed to the parlor where Matilda was strewing herbs over the rushes. Lucy paused at the door and turned to see him halfway up the staircase, watching her. She waved and he lifted his chin in response then continued on.
It was like looking at a different man. Where had her amiable youth gone? And why did he look like someone beset by demons?
CHAPTER 11
Eleven years earlier
Nick hadn't been able to go anywhere for two weeks after the whipping. Even the smallest movement opened up the wounds anew, so he'd stayed in bed until they healed. His only visitors had been the maids and his brother. Thomas took one look at the marks on Nick's back and turned green.
"Carter?" he asked after taking several deep breaths.
"I don't know. I blacked out. Ask Father," Nick spat. "He was there."
Thomas swore and paced the room, shaking his head and muttering to himself. He came to an abrupt stop beside the bed where Nick lay on his side, his head propped up on his hand. "Why? Why would he do this?"
"Because of whom I saw in the cottage."
"Who was it?"
Nick sat up slowly and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "Our mother."
Thomas dropped into a nearby chair and shoved his hands through his hair. He did not argue or disagree, but sat there like a limp sack. Nick had never seen his brother look so small before. So vulnerable. "Is she all right?" he asked.
"I don't know," Nick said. "You should go and see for yourself."
"You know I can't," he choked out.
Nick knew. Thomas didn't have it in him to disobey their father. "I'm leaving," Nick told him.
Thomas merely nodded, as if he'd known all along it would come to that.
While Nick remained isolated in his bedchamber, waiting for his wounds to heal, Thomas quietly went about gathering supplies and stocking a pack for him. He refused to go with Nick, but he didn't try to convince him to stay either. They talked a lot over the next few days, more than they ever had. About where Nick would go, what he'd do, and about their childhood, which they had begun to realize was unusual. Ever since his first visit to the village, Nick had slowly become aware of how isolated he and Thomas were. His brother seemed to have formed the same conclusion on his own.
"I don't like leaving you behind," Nick said on the night before he was set to leave.
"I'll be all right," Thomas assured him. "Father is aging. He needs me." He spread his hands to indicate the bedchamber that Nick had occupied since he was a child. "This is my home, my birthright. I won't walk away from it. Anyway, I'm twenty now, and he said he'll take me to court next time to find a wife." He offered up a small smile, as if in apology for not having the strength to confront their father.
Nick didn't blame him. Thomas had always been given more leeway, even being allowed to visit the tenant farms with their father on occasion. Perhaps because he was the heir and needed to know how to run the estate, or perhaps because he wasn't the disobedient son.
"There will always be a home here for you, Brother," Thomas said. "When I inherit, things will be different."
It was relatively easy to sneak out of the house without anyone noticing. Nick's father had set some of the grooms at intervals around the perimeter, but only during the day. Apparently no one expected Nick to escape at night.
The vines covering the front of the house held his weight, and he dropped down to the ground with a soft thud that didn't even wake the dogs sleeping inside. With his pack in hand, he raced through the formal gardens and past the outbuildings into Bowen Wood beyond. He wasn't afraid. The woman wasn't a witch. She was most likely his mother, and he didn't believe in fairies or monsters.
He hadn't counted on getting completely lost, however. The moonlight couldn't break through the dense canopy, and in the darkness, he veered off the path. He kept walking but gave up and decided to wait for dawn. The night was crisp but dry, and he must have fallen asleep. He woke up with the strong sense that he was being watched.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dull early morning light, but then he saw her. She stood amid the trees, staring at him, her face not exactly blank but empty somehow. If she recognized him, she didn't show it. She wore a simple black gown, and her gray hair hung in ropey tangles to her waist.
"Good morrow," he said. He rose slowly so as not to startle her, but needn't have worried. She came at him, very fast, and clamped her hand around his wrist. Her grip was stronger than he'd expected.
"Nicholassss." Her voice was thin and scratchy with a slight accent.
"You know my name?"
"Of course I know my son's name."
So she was his mother. Now that he was closer he could see the Mediterranean complexion, the near-black eyes. There were hints of beauty in her high cheekbones and full, curving mouth, but time had ravaged her skin and scored deep wrinkles across her forehead.
"I never liked it," she said before he could make his voice work.
He found that absurd for some reason and laughed. She laughed too, revealing broken and blackened teeth.
"Why are you living out here?" he asked.
"He put me here." She screwed up her face and pointed down the path which Nick assumed was in the direction of Coleclough Hall although he was still too disoriented to know for certain.
"Father? But why?"
"Mad."
He wasn't sure if she meant her husband or herself. It could even refer to both.
She pulled his wrist hard. "Come."
"Where are we going?"
"Eat."
He let her lead him along the winding path to her cottage. The inside was just as neat as the outside. There were no rushes on the floor, but the boards were scrubbed clean, and the walls too. What little furniture occupied the small parlor bore not a speck of dust, and the hearth was cleaner than any at Coleclough Hall.
"Do you live here alone?" he asked as she pushed him into a chair near the window. A small fire burned low in the grate, over which hung a cast iron pot. Delicious smells of stewing meat filled the room. His stomach growled, and she smiled as if it were the sweetest sound. "Mother?" he prompted when she didn't answer him.
"Mama. Thomas called me Mama. You were too little to talk, but now you're big… call me Mama."
A piece of his heart that he'd thought long broken, began to tick. His chest swelled. "Mama," he echoed.
She caressed his face. Her fingers were rough and callused, but her touch gentle.
"I've been watching you when you play in the garden. Watching from the trees. I waited for you to come. Waited a long, long time."
"Waited? Here?"
"I could have gone. I could have sailed home to Firenze, but I wanted to stay." She stroked his cheek and her broken fingernail scratched him. "I wanted to be near you. My boy. My beautiful baby boy. When you were born I knew everything would be all right, as long as I had you."
Her hand began to shake. Nick clasped it between both of his own. It was stone cold.
"Did Father send you away?
"He did not let me come to you. Not anymore." Her eyes were as dark as a starless night and seemed to stare into nothingness.
"Father? But why? Why has he kept you away from Thomas and me?"
"Because the devil lives in him," she spat.
Ni
ck frowned. "I don't understand. Mama, tell me what happened. Is it because you wanted to leave Father when you found out what he was like? Did you want to take us with you back to Florence? Is that what he's afraid of?"
She grunted a laugh and pulled away. "Herbs. It needs herbs." She walked out of the house, and he could see her through the window in the small garden, picking at the low growing plants. When she came back in, she tipped the leaves into the pot and dusted her hands.
He stood and wanted to grasp her shoulders or take her hand. He did not. He wasn't entirely sure how she would react to his touch. She didn't seem skittish, but she did not appear to be completely aware either. Her attention seemed to be either focused on the pot or some distant sound that only she could hear.
"Mama, we have to get away. Now. We'll go somewhere safe, somewhere far away from Coleclough Hall. Don't worry. I'll take care of you."
She picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the contents of the pot. "I'm your mother," she said, peering into the pot. "I take care of you."
He smiled though his vision blurred. He'd wanted to hear a mother say that to him for many, many years. As a child, he'd hoped his father would find a new wife, someone homely with kind eyes. Someone who wanted sons as much as he, and Thomas wanted a mother. But hearing his real mother tell him she would take care of him was all his boyhood dreams come true.
"It's ready," she announced. She picked up a bowl from the nearby table and spooned stew into it.
"What about you?" he said when she handed it to him. There didn't appear to be any other bowls in the cottage.
"I ate earlier. This is all for you." She touched his hair and smiled. "Eat now. You're too thin."
"We have to go, Mama. When they realize I've gone, this will be the first place Father will come."
"You eat, I'll gather my things. We'll leave when you're finished."
"There's no time."
But she disappeared into an adjoining room, and he had no choice but to wait. He might as well appease her. He swallowed a few mouthfuls of the stew. His mind was too occupied with plans to really taste it. They needed to move fast but with no means of transport, they would have to walk. They couldn't go into the villages, and he wasn't sure if his mother was up to sleeping outside or in barns. It wasn't going to be easy.