Honour's Redemption

by Joan Vincent

  The hoot of an owl floated from somewhere behind the house and sounded again.

  Lucian thought nothing of it until another pair of hoots followed close on the first’s heels. He listened intently but heard only the ordinary creaks of the house and the brush of a branch on a window at the front of the house. Even with the silence Lucian’s nerves remained stretched taut. It’s nothing.

  The unease that rides me is all about Ruth, he told himself. He stifled a groan. You knew better than to even think it. What did you expect?

  If you were Ruth would you have accepted the proposal?

  The past eight years rose like a plague of devils.

  His sane mind had known he had no chance with a woman like Ruth. If only he could think when he was around her. His heart hitched at the sound of her voice. The sight of that magnificent red hair and those too lovely green eyes wreaked havoc with his body. As badly as he wanted, as he needed her body, Lucian wanted her soul. He wanted her safe.

  I can’t keep him safe anywhere. The ache that echoed in Ruth’s voice when she said those words tormented Lucian.

  Open your heart and mind to the truth of what happened.

  Lucian lowered his head into his hands. Ruth urged him to examine the past. If only he was as certain as she that he could.

  Hoot. Hoot.

  Those bloody owls.

  Hoot. Hoot.

  Damnation, Lucian swore. He snapped his head up. Owlers.

  He slipped back up to his room and came back down with his pistol in his waistband. At the foot of the stairs he thrust his feet into his boots cursing lowly at the bruised toe’s protest.

  In the kitchen Lucian moved silently to the window. He scanned the darkness to the north, then the south and back. Nothing.

  ‘Haps I’m wrong and the smugglers aren’t out. Lucian prowled down the dark hallway to the parlour. He felt his way to the fireplace, went past it, and pressed his ear against the wall.

  Not a single sound.

  Lucian growled. There was nothing to it but to reconnoitre. Following a hunch, he slipped out the front door and inched around the south side of the house. He had barely passed the corner when a tiny light twinkled and was gone.

  The glint from a fox’s eyes or some other beast most like, Lucian thought but halted. The sense of human beasts nearness kept him in place. He watched and waited with growing impatience. It was noth—

  A flicker of light cut off the thought. Certainty moved Lucian’s hand to his pistol. That’s several paces to the east of the first. Shielded lanterns?

  A smile curved his lips as Lucian headed due west for a time and then turned back to the north. A horse’s snuffle pulled him up short. He listened. The soft munch crunch was unmistakeable. Ahead of him stood a horse busy in his feedbag.

  One way to keep the animal quiet, Lucian thought. Then the unmistakable clink of metal reached his ears.

  Taking a firmer grip on his pistol Lucian crept toward it. He was almost upon the cart before he realized it was there. It took only a moment to discover it was empty. The horse, busy with its feed bag, ignored him. Lucian stole forward.

  Moments later he found a second cart. A wink of light halted him, a second flicker showed it was coming towards him. Fading back into the brush he crouched and waited.

  The scrape of a crate against the floor of the cart told Lucian the men had come to it. A grunt and the soft pad of feet followed. Then silence.

  Lucian counted to fifty before he crept up to the cart. A single box remained in it. He stuffed the pistol in his waistband and put his hands on the edge of the lid. Pressing up against it did little. The weight surprised him.

  The whisper of cloth against dried grass warned him of someone’s approach. Lucian melted back into the shrubs.

  This time the scrap was followed by a thud and then low curses amidst a clatter of metal and wood.

  “He’ll have our heads if’n some’un hears us,” swore one of the men.

  “Shut yer mouth then,” snarled his partner.

  Lucian thought about the clatter. Instantly a picture of a Portuguese cart being loaded with crates of muskets appeared before him. Why would they deal in muskets?

  I must be wrong, Lucian thought. Else we’d have been murdered in our beds.

  That danger remains if the smugglers think I or the Claytons mean to interfere in the business. Lucian walked slowly to the front of the wagon and realised the smugglers carried their goods towards the house.

  There must be a tunnel near by. Best to find it.

  With pistol cocked Lucian crept from the brush and past the cart. A few feet further and he heard the approach of cloth-covered boots treading on the dry grass. He slunk several feet to the side and sank onto his haunches.

  Four men loomed out of the darkness. One carried a lantern shielded but for a narrow shaft of light. They paused when abreast of Lucian.

  Don’t turn the lantern this way. Don’t, he willed.

  The three short owl hoots very close to Lucian nearly set him into motion. A hand to the ground, poised to flee he waited for discovery. But the hoots sent the men along-side of him back to the carts at a trot.

  Moments later he heard the unmistakeable sounds of carts in motion. They slowly faded and still he waited. When no one appeared Lucian slowly stood to ease cramped muscles. Intent on finding where the men had come from he crept forward.

  Rounding a clump of brush Lucian found he was on the southern edge of the open area at the back of the house. The dark hulk of the vicarage loomed against the night sky. Lucian looked at the window of Ruth’s chamber and then slowly swung his gaze down and back to the right.

  At first he thought he was wrong about a tunnel. Lucian narrowed his eyes and knew the odd black rectangle, darker than the night was real. It had not been there during the day. It had to be the entrance of tunnel.

  Elation soared through Lucian but caution tamped it down. Before he could decide what to do the hair on the nap of his neck stood on end. A second later searing pain sent a flash of stars before his eyes.

  * * *

  Geary gazed at the prone figure with grim satisfaction. He slipped the thin stiletto from its sheath strapped to his forearm and knelt beside Merristorm. He brought the sharp edge of the blade against the side of Lucian’s neck and applied enough pressure to slice through the top layer of skin.

  “Your life is forfeit,” he said softly but saw Peace Jenkinson and found his hand stayed.

  All right. Not yet. With a grimace Geary shrugged upright. Only two days more at most. His death would arouse her distrust. No, there shall be time before I go.

  Geary stared at Merristorm’s back and then looked toward the house. How to muddy the waters? A smile slowly formed.

  Chapter Twenty

  St. Cedds Vicarage October 22nd Morning

  Ruth quietly removed the chair from beneath the knob of her father’s door and peeked inside. He still slept. She slipped the door shut. Staring at it, refusing to look toward Lucian’s door to the left, Ruth bit her lip.

  What should I do?

  Follow your heart.

  The right decision for everyone? Ruth amended.

  Through the restless night she had debated whether her duty to her father and Marietta compelled her to wed no matter what the cost. Common sense urged capitulation to desire. But would Lucian be but another Rob. Dare she take the chance?

  We have enough funds if we are frugal. I can manage father, Ruth reasoned as she turned to the staircase. Whoever is behind the pranks surely will not truly harm us. If only there was a way to let them know we mean them no harm.

  Unease crinkled along her nerves. Last eve there had been some of the same noise, subdued yes, but the same as the night of Hobbleday. Ruth paused at the top of the stairs and marvelled at the quiet. The house was just like any other in early morn.

  Her thoughts turned to the work of the day and the quiet took on another meaning. How odd that Sairy Jane is still abed? I must put on water for tea
.

  Warmth flared across Ruth’s face. What if the old woman had heard everything last eve?

  Ruth glanced back at Lucian’s door and saw it stood half open. Their wanton behaviour on the step rose in her mind’s eye, a cascade of heat that thrilled and terrified. If witnessed the consequences would be dire but Ruth had found she could not regret Lucian’s embraces nor his kisses.

  Ruth clenched her jaw. I cannot wed a man who does not love me. Worse, one intent upon destroying himself.

  But would the cost of not wedding him be any easier to bear?

  Suddenly Ruth had to talk to Lucian. She hurried to his door and froze. The bed clothes lay rumpled, flung aside as if he left in a hurry.

  Gone.

  Comprehension failed her. Ruth grasped at straws. He can’t be gone. Jemmy is asleep on his palette in Father’s chamber.

  But Lucian never meant to take him, her practical side sniped. He never meant his offer last eve. Only wanted under your skirts.

  “Stop it,” Ruth whispered. She put a hand to her heart to shield it. “He would not just depart without a word.”

  But fear taunted, jittered across nerves already too taut. Not to see Lucian ever again stole Ruth’s breath and chilled her to the bone despite her heavy wool gown.

  Fool, Ruth thought as she headed down the stairs. Did you really believe he would stay?

  At the bottom of the stairs Ruth looked toward the parlour. You will not check every chamber in this house for him. You will not. She forced her steps into the kitchen.

  The first thing Ruth saw was the uncorked bottle of sherry. How much had he drunk? Any? Tears pricked her eyes.

  If you accept him now he may never face what troubles him. Could you watch him drink his life away? Endure his touch when he is foxed; when after you have lost all respect for him?

  Did she want Lucian’s erratic drunken behaviour during the interminable journey from London to Whitby in her future?

  Ruth raised the sherry bottle to smash it before she realized what she was doing and almost did not halt its descent in time. Shaken by the ferocity of her emotions Ruth carried the bottle to the cupboard and shoved it inside.

  Hands fisted, Ruth stared at the floor and worked to gain control of the waves of anger and resentment that flared stronger with each heartbeat. Her responsibilities, before the ballast of her life, cannonaded the hopes and dreams of loving and being loved.

  “’Tis not this place that is dangerous but he,” Ruth said through gritted teeth. The silence bore down on her. Her stomach growled reminding her that preparation for breakfast should be well underway.

  Sairy Jane? Where could she be?

  Ruth hurried into the scullery and opened the door to Sairy Jane’s tiny chamber. The narrow cot that nearly filled the room was neatly made. And empty. She returned to the kitchen and hurried to the window.

  Frost glittered like a magical carpet across the expanse behind the house. An untouched expanse. No one had walked to or from the house that morning.

  A hollow choked caricature of a laugh escaped Ruth. “’Tis not the place that is dangerous,” she said again. “’Tis a handsome treacherous rogue and a foolish heart.”

  Ruth went to the fireplace. Taking the poker in hand, she stirred the banked fire. “I spend the entire night fretting over him. Worrying how to help him and he . . .” Ruth spluttered. “This place is so dangerous that he deserts us.”

  Gone.

  “What was I thinking? What did he think he was about with his kisses and fine words?”

  “Good morn.”

  The greeting startled Ruth. She blushed as Sairy Jane trod into the room tying on an apron.

  “Trying to get under yer skirts as like as not,” the old woman said as she took the poker from Ruth’s hand. “They can’t help it the poor beasts,” she sighed. “’Tis a wise woman thet uses it, so to speak, fer her good.”

  “Sairy Jane,” Ruth exclaimed, her question forgotten. Heat rushed up her cheeks.

  “’Tis plain talk but true,” the old woman said. “What’s the poor lad gone an’ done that has set up such a twitter?”

  Ruth almost flinched from Sairy Jane’s piercing gaze. “He has left us.”

  “Why der ye say thet?”

  “His bed is empty,” Ruth said defensively.

  “Checkin’ it are ye?” The old woman winked as Ruth’s mouth dropped. “Ye do look tuckered but I fear it be from frettin’,” Sairy Jane said. “Ye shouldna spend yer nights fretted o’er him.”

  “I do not—” Ruth began but fell silent beneath the old woman’s knowing look.

  “It takes some blokes a bit o’time afore they ken they want ta be leg shackled,” Sairy Jane added stirring the simmering coals.

  “Please, Sairy Jane, don’t speak such foolishness. Someone might hear you.”

  “What might I hear?” asked Marietta at the door.

  Ruth’s stifled a gasp and hurriedly asked, “Did you check if Father was awake?”

  “He bade me a good morn as if nothing had happened,” her sister beamed. “Jemmy is helping him dress.”

  How am I ever going to tell Jemmy Lucian has left him?

  “What is wrong, Ruth?” Marietta inquired kindly.

  “A bit of the headache,” she lied. “It will be better after some tea.”

  Sairy Jane swung the kettle over the fire. “The boy forgot to fetch more water last eve.”

  Ruth went to the door and picked up the empty bucket beside it. “We shall break our fast in the dining parlour,” she told Marietta. “Father will do better if we keep everything as much like the past as possible.” The incongruity of it threatened to undo Ruth. She hurried out the back door bound up in conflicting thoughts.

  The air fairly snapped with crispness turned cold by a light breeze. It went unnoticed as a variety of questions beginning with why yawned before Ruth along with a bottomless pit of other unanswerable questions. She hooked the bucket beneath the spout and angrily pushed down the pump jack handle.

  After several strokes water gushed into the bucket. With each downward thrust Ruth stoked her anger. It was easier to fume than admit the hurt. When water splashed over the top she gave one last furious push to the handle.

  “I can do this without his help,” she said aloud as she tipped the excess from the bucket. When the water level was low enough to carry without sloshing out, Ruth straightened.

  She looked across the unbroken stretch of frost to the south and followed it to the trees on the west. A soft breeze swayed the tallest stems in the open area. A pair of corn buntings caught her eye as they winged peacefully overhead. Ruth picked up the bucket and looked in the direction the creature Hobbleday had come. The sparkle of the dew across the open area made it seem more a dream than ever.

  “They won’t dare try to frighten with Hobbleday again,” Ruth said with more bravado than confidence.

  As if to contradict her a low guttural sound crept out from the stable.

  Ruth swallowed a spurt of fear and bent her gaze on the dilapidated building. It is nothing.

  The side door stood partially open. It blocked her view of the interior. Uneasiness rippled across her shoulders. Something suspiciously like a groan floated to her on the gentle breeze.

  Ruth looked to the back door of the house. ‘Haps I should get Jemmy.

  Coward, Ruth accused. Just go look. She looked down at the water in the bucket she carried. Icy water would discourage man or beast, Ruth decided. She pulled her skirts up and to the side with the other, hitched the bucket a bit higher, and walked determinedly toward the stable.

  Nearing it, Ruth studied what appeared to be a dark shadow to one side beyond the door. Something appeared to be heaped against the other side of the gate in the partition that separated the stalls from a small storage area.

  Ruth halted at the door. A friendly whicker eased her anxiety. The sight of the gelding Lucian had purchased gave her a surge of hope.

  The horse walked up to the partition
. Bridled and saddled it faced her with reins trailing. “What is this?” Ruth asked. “Have you returned or are you leaving?” She stepped through the door and saw that the scrawny nag also was no longer tethered to the front of its stall.

  While Ruth puzzled why the nag roamed freely the gelding nuzzled the heap.

  What can it be? Ruth wondered and cautiously approached the half wall. She lifted the bucket and balanced it on the top of the partition as she peered over and down. Ruth saw at once it was not a heap of clothes but a man.

  Recognition skittered through her as she looked down at the head of coal black hair. Dear God, the horses could trample him.

  And then she saw the empty bottle on the ground between Lucian’s sprawled legs and that he had slumped into a heap of horse droppings.

  Utter fury crushed Ruth’s relief that he had not left them as well as her alarm for his safety. “You—you speak of danger and then—and then drink yourself into a stupor,” Ruth gritted through her teeth. “The only danger was that I believed you would protect us.”

  The horses nervously backed away from her angry words.

  Lucian raised his head, clamped a hand to it and groaned.

  “How could you?” Ruth accused, her voice brittle and unnaturally high. She tilted the bucket and dumped all of the cold water over his head.

  Grabbing her skirts Ruth ran from the stable. A few feet from it she halted. Why did he do it? Why?

  Ruth gulped down a sob. The empty bucket bumped against her leg as she started back to the house. She veered back to the pump, grabbed its handle, and worked it.

  “Whatcha’ doin’?” Jemmy called from the back door.

  Ruth dashed a hand across her eyes. “I shall be there in a minute.”

  Trotting down the steps Jemmy said, “I’ll carry it fer ye.” He halted when Ruth turned.

  “Why yer cryin?’” he asked worriedly. “Yer Pa be better this morn.”

  “I know that,” Ruth said with a determined effort to pull herself together.

  A string of epithets and the neighs of horses turned Jemmy towards the stable. He glanced back at her anxiously. “Are you all right, Miss Ruth?”