by Joan Vincent
“Sirrah, stop that,” Ruth indignantly commanded. She put a hand behind Merristorm’s head and grabbed hold of the collar of his greatcoat. “Help me get him back on the seat.”
“Brazen gel,” snapped the merchant’s wife. “Really, Mr. Clayton,” she objected.
“It is Mr. Merristorm, Father. The gentleman who assisted us yesterday.”
Marietta gasped. “What is he doing here?” she asked goggling at the unconscious form.
“I haven’t any idea. Father, do you not recall him?” Ruth asked again.
The merchant’s wife, jostled by her husband’s efforts to move Merristorm’s feet poked him hard in the ribs. “Help her get him back upright,” she snapped. The woman crowded Marietta against the side of the coach. “Get to it now,” she commanded her husband and then glared at Ruth.
“I mean to file a complaint about the kind of company we have been forced to endure on this trip,” the woman hissed as her husband moved to obey. Arms akimbo she raised her eyes heavenward and muttered under her breath.
After they had lifted, tugged, and finally shoved the unconscious figure upright into the corner, Ruth wedged her hip and shoulder against Merristorm to hold him in place. She tugged free her handkerchief and began to blot the blood that had seeped from the cut on his forehead.
“This is the man who helped you?” Marietta asked incredulous. “But you said he was–”
“’Tis shameful to let her consort with–with that,” the merchant’s wife waved at Merristorm’s unconscious form.
Before Ruth could muster a suitable reply, Lucian’s hand rose and fumbled at Ruth’s breast as if to further enrage the bad-tempered woman.
Startled, Ruth flung it back. When the hand thumped down like a stone, she guiltily looked at his face. The slack features and bobbing head confirmed he was innocent of any intent to offend, at least in this.
The stout woman nudged her husband. “How he must carry on when he’s not drunk himself into the ground.”
Ruth shivered at the woman’s malevolence and shook her head to halt whatever Marietta intended to say. The loud splat of raindrops against the windows announced a renewal of the cold downpour that had plagued them most of the afternoon.
Ignoring the peevish woman’s glare Ruth anchored her right elbow atop Merristorm’s arm to prevent any repetition of the incident. She soon discovered that with every lurch of the coach she had to press against Merristorm from shoulder to knee to keep him on the seat. The constant contact, his warmth, and his scent fomented thoughts that beguiled and troubled.
I pity him, Ruth thought and evenly met the merchant’s wife’s disapproving glare. He may have drunk himself insensible but I can’t let him be thrown about like an animal. Not after he helped with Father.
She glanced at Sampson and her gut twisted. He stared forward with that strange blank look as if his essence had left his body. It made her think of how she and Rob had argued on his last visit to Blewbury. He had said he would not wed her if she would not put her father in a mad house.
Closing her eyes, Ruth summoned back memories of what life had been like before this downward spiral had begun. How she had prayed he would be better during Rob’s visit.
Ruth tried to bring the pale image that could have been anyone in the King’s uniform into sharper focus and failed.
Why did I ever agree to wed him? Because he was a friend?
Because I believed I loved him, Ruth thought. The coach rocked Lucian against her. The mere thought of this man’s kiss stirred her more than Rob’s had ever done. How fickle we both were.
But bitterness still tugged at Ruth’s heart. Rob let everything slip away from us. He refused to even try to accept Father’s condition. How easily he left me.
She glanced at Lucian. Where Rob had been steady and dependable this man was not. The foolishness of the feelings he kindled slapped her in the face. When this man learned about the strange unknown illness that was stealing her Father’s mind in bits and pieces he would not listen to her arguments, not plead with her. He would run from her.
Ruth let that truth settle through her. She tasted its bitterness in her soul and wrenched away from a disappointment she knew was foolish.
Is Lucian the wastrel he appears? Ruth wondered unaware of her unconscious use of his given name. Why is he on this coach?
Ruth recalled the four men who had brought him to the coach and thrown him inside. There had been one a little behind the others. His malevolent smirk of satisfaction had chilled her. What did any of it mean? Ruth shook the fruitless thoughts away and returned to the original issue.
He has done us nothing but good. What harm is there in aiding a helpless man? Ruth thought with uncharacteristic rebelliousness. He will be off the coach and out of our lives long before Whitby. Until then I–
You will what? challenged her practical side.
See that he is unharmed, Ruth decided. Be as Christian to him as he was to us.
But a fool just as well, whispered her heart.
* * *
Great North Road Afternoon
Lucian, deep in a drugged sleep, remained unaware as the coach kept going north through Welwyn, Badock, Biggleswade, Beeston Cross and Eaton Socon.
As the coach neared St. Noets a slight glimmer of consciousness tweaked Lucian upward through the darkness. Part of his soul tugged him back toward the deep eternal night. He heard a groan but didn’t realize it was his.
A scent teased the stubborn thread that clung to life, lured Lucian closer to the surface once again. The darkness whispered for him to surrender to it.
The scent, female he was certain, ensnared him. Drew him higher from the pit. It tantalized, summoned him to a dreamlike state where thought became possible. He unconsciously tried to shift his weight to gain more contact.
Not roses, Lucian considered numbly, and shuddered. His muzzy mind couldn’t grasp why, didn’t recall the scent of death he had associated with roses since his fiancée’s death.
The scent faded. The dark beckoned.
Lucian’s head bounced hard. A soft gentle touch pillowed it and filled him with the fragrance of lily of the valley. An image hovered just out of focus. He strained, struggled closer to it. A profusion of burnished auburn coils rewarded his effort. Beguiled, he drew as deep a breath as his lethargic chest muscles allowed. Her scent.
As the warmth drew away Lucian saw the hazy image of a woman running towards him. A fuzzy recollection of a collision, of a body that was soft where his was hard, that fit his so well, raised his consciousness another step. Lucian fought to bring her face into focus.
Sea green eyes wild with fear shattered his complacence. Ruth, he shouted but there was no sound. Had he failed her? Tormented Lucian screamed but there was nothing but silence.
Then Lucian became aware of a foul taste. As he tried to identify it sour brandy mingled with it, rose in his throat. He tried to swallow the bile, but his muscles only half worked. He choked, tried to cough and swore in frustration at his inability to do anything.
From somewhere a thought belled. You didn’t fail Ruth.
He battled the incoherence of the thought.
Hadn’t the chance, came the bitter chime quickly followed by the taunt, you’d have done so had you had half an opportunity.
Bitterness welled. The dark cleared. He saw himself in the chair in his flat, the floor littered with empty bottles. Had he drunk himself to death at last?
Lucian struggled to test whether it was true. This time his hand moved but he had no control over it. Fumbling against something he was surprised when a hand told hold of his and held it. The hand was warm, carried her scent. Ruth.
With a half growl, Lucian forced his so-heavy-lidded eyes half open. He looked forward blearily. Ever so slowly a fat man jittered into focus but joggled as if the chair he sat in jounced over rough ground. The effort was too much. Lucian was forced to lower his head and rest.
The hand holding his tightened. Lucian drew in a breat
h, drew strength from her scent. With fierce concentration he managed to slowly turn his head and opened his eyes.
Miraculously Ruth’s face swam before him. When it came into bleary focus he saw they sat cheek by jowl. Saw that she stared back at him with those beguiling eyes of chameleon green.
A sense of peace gradually eased the coil of fear that had tightened about his heart. Lucian tried to summon a smile but then unease flickered like fog across his joy, chilled him. How can we be together? Together where?
The more Lucian tried to clear the fog dulling his mind, the more it thickened. He hovered, unable to break the strands of the drug that slowly dragged him back into unconsciousness.
Has to be a dream. Dammed strange dream.
Lucian thanked the gods that it wasn’t his usual suffocating nightmare. This was tolerable. More than tolerable, he mused as the dream brought Ruth back into his arms before the dark curtain descended once again.
* * *
St. Cedds Church Whitby
Donatien waited patiently for Peace Jenkinson even though she had delayed their meeting. A chill skittered along his spine when he saw her approach. This happened every time. He no longer could claim it was because he recognized the woman. It was something far more personal. He ruthlessly suppressed the disturbing emotional response just her presence drew from him. Instead Donatien stepped back from the paneless window into the shadows of the deserted church and focused on the problem of solving the puzzle she had become.
Had Peace killed her husband to gain control of the smugglers? Did she knowingly ship weapons to France? Or would he have to kill her to succeed?
Geary saw her make the sign of the cross as Peace walked past gravestones scattered along the east side of the church. She honours the dead buried there? Or is it mere superstition?
Then rusty hinges shrieked her entry. He saw Peace pause, her hand over her heart, and gaze fearful.
He silently moved behind her and touched her shoulder.
Peace shuddered and whirled to face him.
“We are quite alone, Mrs. Jenkinson,” Geary assured her. He removed his hat as she backed away. “I am sorry if I frightened you.”
A sudden loud flutter of wings propelled Peace forward and into Geary’s arms.
He put a hand to her waist as he looked down into her wide blue eyes. The scent of woman and the citrus of bergamot filled his nostrils. The long cold walk had placed roses on her cheeks. His breath caught.
* * *
The light touch of his hand on her waist somehow steadied Peace. She looked up, shaken that he should have such an effect. She smelled something on his breath that vaguely reminded her of France. Long moments later she stepped back and turned away.
“Silly of me to be frightened by birds,” she murmured.
“It has been many years since St. Cedds has had vicar or curate,” Geary noted. “Come. We must hurry.”
“But–”
“The rectory is not far,” Geary assured her and offered his arm.
Peace walked past him as if she did not notice it.
He caught up with her in the churchyard. “This way,” he said and went ahead of her.
The rectory was a central square of native stone two stories high with a steep roof in need of repair. On each side recessed wings were faced with worn wood, their shutters hung askew. The tall unmown weeds and grass all around it added to the air of dilapidation and abandonment about it. She followed Geary to the back door and acted surprised when it swung open without a sound.
“Come,” Geary called to her from the doorway across the room. He gave a conspiratorial smile. “I found this the other day and thought it more convenient for you.”
Peace followed him into the main part of the house to a large room with a huge fireplace that took up most of one wall. She watched as Geary went to the wood panel on the right side. At his touch, it swung open. She stifled a curse.
He disappeared inside and reappeared a moment later with a lantern. When it was lit, Geary stepped back into the opening. “I shall light the way, Mrs. Jenkinson, and catch you if you trip.” When she was inside he closed the panel behind them.
Peace pretended to look back in alarm as it clicked shut.
“We shall leave by another way,” Geary assured her and led her down a narrow corridor to a set of stairs. In the basement Geary opened another secreted door.
* * *
Thinking furiously what to do, Peace followed the Preventive Officer down another flight of stairs, through a long dank tunnel, down more stairs and then into a cave-like room. On either side were tall stacks of crates and barrels.
Geary went to one, set down the lantern and lifted a loosened lid. He then picked up the lantern and motioned Peace to join him.
When she peered over the side of the crate and saw flintlocks and rifles in the lantern’s light. She followed Geary to another and saw the same. But she was puzzled when he led her to the other side of the cave and a narrow tunnel.
“Here,” Geary lowered the light, “a man was found murdered here. Do you know anything about it?”
Peace stared at the trampled dirt floor. There was no sign of the blood that was pooled beneath Carrouri when she had found him.
“Mrs. Jenkinson, do you know anything about the murder?” Donatien persisted.
“Only rumours.” She shivered. “Let us leave this place.” Peace blinked and a silver flask appeared in Geary’s hand.
“Drink,” he commanded.
Peace lifted the flask to her lips and took a sip. This is what she had smelled on his breath. “What is this?”
“Something to warm you. Let us go before we are discovered.” He took the flask. After he pocketed it, he took Peace’s arm and led her into the tunnel.
Fifteen minutes later they emerged into another cave with light at the entrance. She looked back and guessed they were almost a mile from the rectory. A horse neighed. At one side of the mouth of the cave, she saw that a small wagon with a single team waited.
When they were on the seat, Geary again offered Peace the flask. He watched with satisfaction as she took several sips. “Not too much. I do not want you to think I mean to take advantage of you.”
“Do you not, Mr. Geary?”
“If I did I would threaten to tell the authorities that you know something about Carrouri’s murder.”
Peace glanced sharply at him, but the Riding Officer’s attention was on his team.
Neither spoke on the drive back to the Wise Owl. Peace jumped down before Geary could make a move to help her.
“We shall speak this eve,” she told him and did not see the self-satisfied smile that followed her.
Chapter Six
Cambridgeshire Late Afternoon
The cold damp air chilled Ruth to the bone. Even the sun which had come out briefly now appeared to frown behind shroud of clouds.
How far can it be to the widows' destination, East Retford? Ruth wondered of the women who now occupied the seats vacated at St. Noets. Huntingdon, Alconbury, Stamford, Grantham, Newark and then East Retford. Not far. Too far considering the lecture on propriety when they discovered Lucian was not her husband.
As the road had worsened it proved easier to keep him in place if she held onto his greatcoat with her forearm against his chest but that only added fuel to the censure. With a sigh Ruth considered releasing Merristorm’s greatcoat. What would they say when he fell into their laps at the next rut?
Unwilling to find out Ruth continued to steady Merristorm. Despite the homily and her certainty of the lack of any place for Lucian in her life the longing continued. With a furtive glance at the unconscious man Ruth wondered how many other women received lectures about moral degradation because of him.
That he had known many women she had no doubt. How handsome he must have been in regimentals. How many women must have encouraged and welcomed his attention.
Repulsed by and angered at the trend of her thoughts, Ruth released Merristorm’s grea
tcoat. “Watch and pray, that ye not enter into temptation.”
But Lucian’s solidness, his heat, his scent ate at her resolve. The coach lurched through another of the endless ruts and his torso fell forward. With a resigned sigh Ruth pulled him back and wedged her hips tightly against his.
As the afternoon continued Ruth’s head bobbed sleepily and then settled against Merristorm’s upper arm. When the pitch and yaw ceased and a noisy hubbub intruded Ruth yawned widely and glanced at Merristorm as she sat up straighter.
To Ruth’s amazement he opened his eyes and stared at her as if dazed. Then she noticed the fine sheen of perspiration on his face and saw his throat muscles flex.
“Father, help me get Mr. Merristorm out of the coach. I fear he is about to be sick.”
Once they had him out of the coach Sampson supported Lucian who could barely stand. “Leave him to me, Ruth. Not something a man wants a pretty woman to witness.”
This was her father but for how long? “Father,” she protested.
“Look to Marietta,” Sampson ordered as he manhandled Merristorm towards the side of the coaching inn’s stables.
The now rare note of authority surprised Ruth. She watched the two men’s wobbly progress for a few moments and then took her sister by the hand. “Let’s get some bread and cheese.”
“Are you certain he will not harm father?” Marietta asked.
“No more than either of us did when we were puling infants,” Ruth assured her.
* * *
When Lucian stopped retching the vicar propelled him away from the mess and back toward the inn. When Merristorm’s knees started to buckle Sampson propped him up against the wall. “I’ll be right back,” he told him.
Dipper of water in hand Sampson hurried back and found the young man had sunk into a crouch. He shook Merristorm’s shoulder until the young man lifted his dark head and blearily stared at him. “Here,” he pressed the dipper into his hands. “Rinse your mouth and then drink. Small sips.”