by Once a Rogue
Lucy was too winded for speech, but Bridget still had enough spit left. “She’s a whore, milord, and she ought to be pilloried!”
Whether he agreed was not immediately apparent. Lucy was lifted onto his horse with no further ado. He swung himself up behind her, and then they were off at a gallop.
* * * *
Bollingbrooke Hall was an impressive house of brick, sturdy and squat, in the midst of gently rolling green lawns with a small lake, a fountain and two lines of cypress hedge leading up to the front entrance. If she were in a better mood, she might have enjoyed her impromptu visit, at least for the first half an hour, while Lord Oakham was kind and attentive, and before other ideas bloomed in his head.
It was quiet and cool inside, with dark, oak-paneled walls reminiscent of her father’s house. This was something familiar to her, the steady structure of everything in its place, no one questioning, servants quietly obeying and eager to please. But, oddly enough, she felt more at home in the Carver’s farmhouse than she did here. Probably looked more at home too, she realized, running fingers through her tangled hair. Her skirt was torn and stained with dirt. She’d even lost a shoe. And her hands! Looking down at them now she thought of John once mocking her “lily soft” hands. Well, the last few weeks had put paid to that, just as he’d promised.
Anger bubbled up again when she thought of Bridget Frye assaulting her straw bonnet. That insult was worse even than all the wicked names spurting from those fat, ignorant lips. The lovely straw bonnet, pounded into the road, flattened, killed. Lucy began to cry then, the tears she’d choked back earlier now falling without mercy.
“My dear lady, you have been much abused!” Lord Oakham poured a glass of wine and passed her a kerchief to wipe her tears, both accepted with gratitude. “You must tell me what happened.”
She blew her nose soundly. “It was nothing, Lord Oakham. A silly argument, a trifling affair over a…a hat.”
“Bridget Frye has a hot temper and should learn to tend it better.”
She smiled crookedly through her tears. “I fear the same could be said of me, sir.” Despite everything, including her decimated bonnet, she didn’t want to get anyone in trouble over this absurdity. It was all her fault from the very beginning. Her long-suffering father, confused John, generous Nathaniel, the kindly Mistress Carver, poor, patient Alice and jealous Bridget. Somehow she’d got them all entangled in her sins, just because she once made the reckless decision to spend one night with a stranger. Then there was her own poor mother, a death for which she might also be blamed. Was no one safe who came in contact with her?
She once thought leaving her family would be best for everyone, but now it seemed there was nowhere she could go without causing further chaos.
“My beautiful straw bonnet,” she sobbed, her mind spinning. In her confusion over John, she sought one symbol to focus on, unleashing all her emotions upon it. “It’s ruined! My beautiful new bonnet.”
“Never mind, my dear. I shall get you another.”
He didn’t understand, of course. It was impossible to replace that particular bonnet, her first proof John had more than lust in mind when he thought of her. She’d meant to keep it with her forever, no matter what happened, no matter where she traveled.
A servant brought in a silver tray of cherries, freshly picked, and Lord Oakham insisted she taste them, holding them out by the stalks with his own slender fingers, until she accepted them between her lips. Very broken and unhappy, she took the cherries in her mouth and felt more tears trickle down her cheeks.
She had wounded them all. And John, John worst of all.
He would surely never forgive her when he knew the truth. She should never have walked into that Norwich bawdy house.
* * * *
Bridget’s broad face was crimson, her hair strewn over her shoulders. He saw her first as she marched through the gate toward him, fists clenched. Alice walked quickly behind her friend and appeared in some distress.
He was on his way out to find Lucy, but stopped when he saw the two women on his property.
“John Carver,” Bridget exclaimed with a brisk nod. “Is your mother in?”
“Yes, she’s…”
“Good, I’ve much to say to her and it can’t wait. By the by, your whore’s been taken to the stocks on the common. “
While he stared after the irate woman in some bewilderment, Alice scurried across the yard and handed him a shoe. “There was a fight. Lucy went with Lord Oakham on his horse.”
He stared.
“I’m sorry, John. I tried to stop Bridget. It’s none of our business what you do, but you know how Bridget is, with her temper.”
“Oakham?” He tried to understand.
“He rode up and stopped the fight. Lucy went with him.”
Enraged, he snatched the shoe from her hand. “Did she indeed?” Of course she did. She’d been waiting for just such an opportunity to move on to greener pastures, no doubt. Leaving Alice behind and knowing his mother was well capable of handling the likes of Bridget Frye, he mounted one of the farm horses, not bothering to fetch a saddle, and rode full-tilt for Bollingbrooke Hall.
* * * *
She began to feel a little sick of cherries.
“Perhaps a sugared nut or some marchpane?” he asked, showing her one of the other trays his servants had brought.
Laughing uneasily, she teased, “Lord Oakham, are you trying to fatten me up for slaughter?”
“Food, so I find, is a great soother of the nerves.”
Suddenly conscious of his chair moving subtly closer to her own, Lucy got up and limped to the window in her one shoe. “It is very kind of you, my lord, but I’d best be going.”
“Where?”
“Back to the farm, of course.”
There was a slight pause. “Not to Lord Winton?”
All those half-chewed cherries now piled up in the back of her throat. She stared at him, the tear-soggy kerchief clutched tightly in her fingers.
“Or to your family in London, my dear?” He smiled. “You should never have removed your linen cap, Lucasta Collyer Winton. Your red hair is all too recognizable.”
And the sun came crashing down.
“Don’t be alarmed. I will help you. It is not my intention to cause you further harm.” His eyes were very pale, his expression placid. Lord Oakham was probably a very good card player.
“What can you mean?” she demanded.
Watching her thoughtfully, he caressed his pointy beard. “I knew from your manners at table, your posture, your refined voice, even your ladylike gestures of hand….”
The cherries turned sour, panic squeezing and grinding in her belly.
“Clearly you were accustomed to grander surroundings than Souls Dryft.”
“Lord Oakham, I…”
“Young lady, your secret is out.” He smiled, playfully waggling a finger. “You were not born to a life of drudgery with a yeoman farmer. I saw at once. And when I heard about Lord Winton’s runaway bride…”
“You are mistaken, sir.” She tried to force out a laugh, but her throat was too tight.
“I do not yet know how it happened that you came to be here, I cannot conclude whether it was John Carver or Captain Downing who stole you away from Winton, but I am aware of the debt your husband owes Carver. I also have some familiarity with John Carver’s vengeful temper. Supposedly reformed, he has never fooled me. They are a family of reprobates who would not know how to treat a lady of your exquisite charms.”
“I assure you, my lord,” she snapped, the words frostbitten, “I am not that woman.”
“No. I see you are quite changed.”
Not knowing what to say, she blew her nose again, loudly.
“My dear lady, there is nothing to fear. You are quite safe here with me. I would never mistreat you as they have done.” He crossed the room to clasp her hands, turning them over, tut-tutting. “Making you work until those silken hands are sore and chapped. Hush, hush.
” He held a finger to his lips. “There is no need to thank me now for this rescue. I’m sure you will have ways to show me your gratitude later, my dear. Now let me order you a bath.”
Rescue from what? Oh, but a bath, that would be lovely, she mused.
“And we’ll see what we can find for you to wear,” he stood back to survey her gown. “We can do much better than this! And you need shoes, stockings, something for your hair.”
It occurred to her that she was not about to be arrested. What he had in mind was something else entirely. “Lord Oakham, I must…”
“No one need know you are here.” Long fingers wrapped around hers, he raised her knuckles to his lips and peppered them with kisses while she gently struggled to pull away. “Lucy, my sweet, your reluctance only increases my amour. I am in the grip of a very powerful emotion…”
She was amazed, watching this fine fellow cover her clenched hands with wet kisses, sink to his knees and declare himself her slave. “Please, my lord, you really must try to control yourself. My brother would say a man is only as strong as his stiff upper lip.”
But he persisted, following her across the Turkish carpet on his knees, trying to kiss the muddied hem of her gown. “I will give you anything, Lucy, anything your little heart desires!”
She’d never known any man to make such a display, especially not for her, but in the past she’d never been alone with her suitors. The night with John, at Mistress Comfort’s, was the first time she’d spoken to a man without her father present, listening to every word.
“My lord, please, stop! I thank you for the offer, but I’m quite happy where I am.” She’d said it aloud at last. Yes, she was happy on that farm. Even when John was angry with her, she would rather be there with him than anywhere else. How odd it was she now knew happiness, while her entire life was turned upside down and inside out, while she didn’t know if she was coming or going.
Whipping his head back, Lord Oakham observed her warily, as if fearing she’d come unhinged. “But how can you be happy there?”
“I can’t explain it. I feel as if I belong there.” So many times she’d warned herself it was time to leave, to get out of his way before she brought more trouble down on John’s head. Yet she stayed, insensate to reason, too engrossed by this man she might never have met, if not for one chance encounter in a Norwich brothel.
His eyes hardened. “You mean to stay with John Carver? You choose him over all that I could give you?”
“Yes,” she whispered, the sound of his name warming her through to the very bones. She would never be his wife, of course, could never make love to him again, but simply being near must suffice. Somehow she’d manage. He needed her to look after him.
And in the next moment she cursed inwardly at this madness, knowing it wasn’t feasible to stay, under any circumstances.
Oakham made another grab for her hands. “Madam you will oblige me to tell what I know, if you go back to his farmhouse. I cannot keep your secret if you deny me the pleasure of your company, Lucy.”
She tried to think, desperately searching for escape.
“Stay with me, my sweet. I’ll keep you safe, buy you the finest gowns.”
With what, she wondered dubiously. She knew he’d sold land to John Carver just to keep himself solvent.
“Beside me, you’ll lay your head on the thickest of goosedown pillows…”
“But I cannot stay with you.”
“Then you force me to turn you in.”
“My lord, you rush to hasty conclusion. I said only that I could not stay with you today. Perhaps you will give me time to consider….”
“How much time?”
Eyes scanning the room, they landed finally on the table centerpiece, a horn of plenty. “Till the harvest fête, my lord. ‘Tis not long.” She’d be gone the day after, she decided, gone for good. “If you can be so kind as to keep my secret until then, I shall know I can place my trust in your noble hands.” Pausing, she gave what she hoped was her most flirtatious smile. “And likewise, the rest of me. But you must promise to not tell anyone I am here.”
He was consoled, content to wait. Reaching for her bare foot, he drew it up onto his thigh, exclaiming over the delicacy of her toes and the slender curve of her ankle. She laughed because his fingers tickled and also because she was quite hysterical by then.
Chapter 15
The door burst open. John Carver marched in with a whip in his hand and a frown on his face. Her avid suitor dropped her foot, scrambling upright.
“This woman belongs to me, Oakham, whether she likes it or not!”
“To you, Carver?” Lord Oakham exclaimed in outrage. “Perhaps for now, but only temporarily.”
“Outside then, if you please, and we’ll discuss this further.”
“Oh John!” Lucy cried. “Such a fuss you make. Lord Oakham was just…”
“Aye! So I see.” He stormed across the room, but she met him halfway, blocking his path. She saw the determination in the set of his jaw, the readiness in his braced shoulders and clenched fists.
“John! Behave yourself, for pity’s sake,” she hissed, fearing he might strike out at Lord Oakham and forget the vow he’d made to his mother. “No more brawling, remember? New leaf?”
“You’re coming home with me.”
“Well, of course I am.”
“Because I …” he stopped, his frown lopsided, blue eyes quizzical. “Oh. You are?”
She sighed, shaking her head. “I was simply returning a neighborly visit to his lordship, who very kindly gave me some cherries.” With one bob curtsey for Lord Oakham, she dragged John back out again. For once she was the one doing the dragging.
“Cherries?” he growled, booted heels kicking up dust, bicep flexing under her hand. “Why would you eat his cherries, when you have ours at home?”
“Is that all you care about? Damn the cherries!”
“Don’t say damn to me! Watch your language!”
His hypocrisy made her laugh out loud. “He offered me a bath, too,” she said, living dangerously, unable to stop herself.
“A bath?” he choked out.
“He clearly knows how to treat a lady.”
“You want a bath, you can have one at home.”
“So you can spy on me, I suppose,” she threw over her shoulder.
He spun her around to face him and leaned down. “I’ve seen it all before. I don’t need to spy. I’ve got it up here.” He tapped his temple with clenched knuckles. “Where I can look at it anytime I want.”
“Do keep your voice down,” she muttered wearily.
“Why should I? ‘Tis the truth. I made you mine that night. You’re mine to look at, no one else’s.”
She turned her face up to his, eyes narrowed, and then said, very deliberately, “Damn you. Damn. Damn. Damn….” She lifted on tiptoe for the last breath. “Damn.”
They had stopped by his horse, which waited placidly, drinking out of Lord Oakham’s fountain.
He ground his jaw, sheer vexation oozing from every twitching muscle. “Do you want a bath or not?”
“I’ll wait,” she replied, smiling sweetly, “until the next time you go to Norwich market. For your needs.”
Slowly he nodded, tongue pressed into his cheek. Reaching inside his jerkin, he brought out her missing shoe. “No one looks at your bare feet except me. Put this on.”
“No.” Still irritated by the way he burst into Lord Oakham’s house, swinging his whip as if she were an escaped cow or pig, she wasn’t about to follow his orders. He was a possessive ogre with no manners and he’d embarrassed her once too often. John Carver needed a lesson, if he thought he could treat her like cattle.
“Put it on,” he repeated.
“Who was the whip for, John? For Lord Oakham, or me, if I refused to go with you?”
He inhaled sharply. “Have I ever hurt you?”
“No, but I suppose you will, sooner or later. You’re a man aren’t you?”
�
��Put the blessed shoe on, Lucy.”
Instead she took off her other shoe and threw it at him. It hit his shoulder because he was too slow, too astonished to duck in time. Hands on her waist, she waited for his reaction. His shoulders tensed; his jaw moved in another slow grind while he tapped his whip against the palm of one hand. A moment passed. Then another.
Finally he stepped forward, swept her up in one fluid motion and sat her on his horse. Before she spoke another word, he mounted behind her and turned the horse for home, her shoes in his hand, along with the whip.
“Never go off alone like that again.”
She’d tried his patience as far as she could and now he simply put his arms around her and took her home. Whatever reaction she’d expected, this was not it. Apparently he wasn’t willing to fight with her today, but he would’ve fought for her, she knew it.
John Carver would never hurt her physically. Her first instincts were true.
Comforted, she nestled further into his chest, her head against his shoulder, her own anger abated by his steady, calm strength. How might any woman stay cross with him for long? She’d tried it and failed miserably each time. And it wasn’t always anger making her quarrel with him, she knew that now. She’d never had much patience with men before and they’d had little for her. This was all so new and strange, it took a while to settle within.
“I suppose he plied you with the same treats and promises he gives every beautiful woman, to win her over.” He tossed her shoes into her lap. “Fell for it, did you? Like a fish on a hook.” He teased her now. “I would’ve thought you’d know all the tricks employed by men.”
She was silent. He rode very slowly, holding the reins and his whip loosely in his left hand. The right hand rested on his thigh, until it moved to her hip, holding her lightly in a caress that might be excused as accidental.
Just in case it wasn’t accidental, she let her own hand rest on his thigh, her fingers spread timidly over the broad muscle.
He thought her beautiful.
Somehow, when he said it, she believed it.