It was then that he heard the dogs. A faint distant baying echoed in more than one place. First he heard it faint and far off to the east. He cocked an ear and waited tensely. The sound was echoed by a distant baying far to the west.
It was then that he knew that they were lost. There would be no time for Charlotte’s ankle to recuperate, no flight into Scotland. No future.
His pursuers below were determined men. With the help of their dogs they would comb these hills, scour them like the rain. The dogs would find the mare he had set free, too tired to be far away, and then the dogs would find them.
The thought of his own death did not move him so much—he had faced death with courage on many a slippery deck. But what of Charlotte? He had a sudden horrifying vision of Charlotte being attacked and savaged by dogs and then carried away to her bridal bed and a man who only wished to use her young innocence to cleanse himself of the results of his own debauchery.
As if to blot out the picture, he closed his eyes.
And opened them with a savage gleam.
He would fight! When he heard swords clanking or horsemen coming up that narrow defile—and surely he must, for horses’ hooves would ring on the rocky surface and alert him—he would hurl down stones upon them, he would loosen boulders, he would send man and beast careening down the mountainside to their doom!
Sadly, common sense returned.
Stones . . . against muskets, against long swift swords. He had foresworn the ball and the blade as emblems of a trade he despised, put them out of his life in an effort to be worthy of Charlotte. Regret for his rashness poured over him. God, to have a cutlass in his hand and a pistol in his belt at this moment! He could not even defend himself properly against armed men!
He would fight—aye, he would do that, he would throw down his boulders, he would dart about trying to dodge the musket balls that would be aimed at him—he would fight, but in the end by sheer numbers they would overcome him. And if they did not kill him on the spot, which was likely, they would carry him off to a magistrate to be hanged nice and proper for horse thievery, or more likely for trepanning, for her uncle would doubtless swear he had kidnapped Charlotte with a forced marriage in mind— and the penalty for trepanning was death. Looking down over those winking lights far below, he had the eerie feeling that he was already dead, that the same evil fate that had placed him willy-nilly aboard the Shark had contrived to bring him here to Kenlock Crag so that the gods might laugh to see him struggle against overwhelming odds.
It was only after Tom had accepted the fact that tomorrow’s dawn might be the last that he would ever see that he began to think, and after a while his eyes lit up and he glared down into the darkness.
They would have him—naught could be done about that. But they would not have Charlotte!
10
Kenlock
Tom came down the short distance from the peak with his mind made up.
“What did you see?” she asked, even as he vaulted over the low wall.
“Lanterns.”
Her breath caught. “Lots of lanterns?”
He nodded.
She was looking up at him, fear in her eyes. “Enough to bar our way to Scotland?”
“I’m afraid so.” He sighed.
They were both silent for a space. He stood looking down at her, thinking how lovely she was, how untouched, and how vulnerable.
“Then if we can’t try for Scotland, what do you think we should do?” she asked in a low voice. “Try again to go around the base of this mountain and strike out for Carlisle?” He nodded again. “It’s possible. ” And it was, if miracles still happened.
“We could take a ship from Carlisle,” she said wistfully. “We’ve no money for passage,” he felt constrained to point out. “And now no horse to trade for passage.”
“Yes, but your mother lives in Carlisle, Tom. Surely at a time like this she would help us?”
She would not, but why should he spoil the illusion? Let Charlotte dream a little longer. The dream would be over soon enough.
“Yes, we'll go to Carlisle." He tried to sound convincing. “To my mother. "
“Shouldn't we be starting?" she asked in a small voice.
“Not yet, there's plenty of time before morning. "
Fear crept into her voice at his offhand tone. “And if my foot is better, we could be in Carlisle tomorrow night," she said unevenly. And then, “Oh, Tom, hold me!"
He sank down beside her. It was exactly what he had had in mind. There was only one way to save her once he was done for, and that was to render her no longer a virgin. That would turn away the evil lord who would use her for his disgusting purposes, and there were others, men of wealth and power, men who could take care of her as he could not, who would covet her for her beauty and for all that she was. That tall fellow who had come out with her into the garden at Castle Stroud, for instance—and there would be others. He was not the only man who would fall in love with a girl like Charlotte. At Castle Stroud he had seen the great candlelit chandeliers and heard the strains of music floating out, and he had known what it meant. The gentry of Cumberland had discovered Charlotte now, and hers was a face they were not likely to forget. She could escape her uncle and men such as Lord Pimmerston and find for herself a bright future . . . with his help.
There was time—time enough for his purposes, at least. For there were other mountains about, and the searchers might well waste their time climbing those first. Even if they chose this crag, they might search a long time before finding the narrow defile he had taken—and in any event they probably would not attempt the ascent before morning.
Charlotte had moved over a little to give him room on the smooth rock surface. Hot desire for her welled through him every time he touched her—even brushing her skirt could bring a dark flush to his cheeks—and now . . .
He reached out ever so gently to take her in his arms, and she went into them, burrowing deep, as if to seek cover. Tenderly he stroked her golden hair. Making her his—even though it was only for a night—would make death worthwhile, he thought, and felt her quiver as he leaned down and dragged his lips over her own, traced a warm line with them along her smooth cheek, over her chin, and down her pulsing white throat to bury his hot face in the enchanting area between her young breasts.
Charlotte quivered beneath this sweet assault. Shyly she rubbed her cheek against Tom s dark hair and moved her body a little, the better to fit against his own. He was undoing the hooks of her bodice now, and she made no move to stop him. There was a purposefulness in him tonight, and of a sudden the reason for that purposefulness knifed through her.
“Tom," she whispered. “You think were going to die, dont you?”
His head came up and he looked into her troubled eyes, lit by the fitful moon that had slid from behind the clouds to bathe the border country in its pale radiance. He would lie to her no longer.
“I don’t mean to let them take me alive,’’ he said quietly.
A shudder went through her slight form.
“Then I’ll go with you, Tom,’’ she said, lifting her chin defiantly. “We can stay here through the night, and when we see them coming in the morning, we can throw ourselves over the edge into the chasm.’’ She nodded toward the distant sound of white water cascading far below at the base of the cliff.
Over the edge to oblivion.... His lovely girl, she meant to die with him. Tom’s eyes misted over.
“I’ve no intention of throwing myself over this or any other edge,’’ he said sternly. “I intend to fight for my life.’’
She was clinging to his coat, holding on to him with real desperation.
“I promise I won’t survive you, Tom,” she choked. Her grip on him was tightening in panic as she spoke.
This sudden urge to join him in hell was no part of his intention. He took Charlotte firmly by the shoulders, gave her a little shake.
“But you must survive me, Charlotte,” he said earnestly. “Otherwise it
will all have been in vain and I’ll die knowing I’ve failed you. ’’
Her jaw was set stubbornly. He tried another tack.
“You have a long life to live and you’ll soon forget the fellow who stole a horse and tried to carry you off to Scotland. You’ll find a better man—and you’ll be happy.” God, he hoped she'd be happy!
Her fierce shake of the head told him where she stood on that.
“At least promise me you won’t do anything rash—not right away,” he said huskily. “Promise me you’ll give life a chance.”
“I won’t do anything rash right away,” she promised. “But”—her eyes glinted—“later I will! I’ll join you wherever you are!”
He had to hope that before that happened the right man would come along ... to replace him in her heart. He tried again.
“Somewhere there’s a house like Castle Stroud waiting for you—with the right man inside. There’ll be children, dancing, fine clothes, trips to London—you want all that, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” she said sadly. “I want all that. But I want it with you, Tom. All the time we were in Castle Stroud together I was imagining what it would be like to live there with you beside me.” She gave him a sad, almost derisive look. “I could have Castle Stroud, Tom—indeed, it’s being forced upon me.”
But at what cost. . . .
“The right man will find you, Charlotte, if you’ll just let him.”
Her face seemed to fall apart.
“I don’t want them, Tom. I only want you.” There were tears in her voice and she clung to him like a hurt child.
Her words thrilled him, sang in his brain. For a dizzy moment he felt he could survive anything.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured, caressing her throat, her shoulders, letting his hand slide along the smooth skin of her bosom. “I’ve wanted to do this since first I laid eyes on you. Just consider that you’re giving me a great gift, one that I’d die for willingly. And anyway,” he added recklessly, for he did not want her “first night” to be spent in sighs and tears, “let’s look on the bright side. We may live through this—others before us have survived worse.”
Of course they had—and she and Tom would too!
“Oh, Tom, we will make it—we'll hide, we ll escape them!” Confidence began to well through Charlotte as Tom’s questing fingers again sought her breasts, released them from the cloth that bound them, fondled them so that little warm shivers went through her.
“We'll live together forever, Tom, we’ll have children, a home of our own ...” He had eased her out of her bodice now and his hands were warm and tingling on her back, sliding up and down the smooth skin as his lips against her breasts worried first one pink crest and then the other. “Oh, Tom”—her voice broke—“tell me you think we can!’’
“I think we can,” he lied in a slurred voice, and her body sagged against him in mute surrender as, reassured by his words, some of the tension left her.
But whatever happens, we'll have this nightl was her thought and his as her skirts were swept up and she felt his long fingers gliding up her smooth thighs, gently probing her secret places, bringing a soft low moan of desire to her lips.
Tom took his time. Whatever happened on the morrow, Charlotte should not be deflowered hastily or roughly or with lack of care and tenderness. He wanted these moments to be magic moments—for her as well as for him. And although he did not consciously think about it in the wave of desire that had taken him in its grip and that soon would be too much for him to hold back, he wanted to be remembered. He wanted Charlotte to give a smiling thought to Tom Westing now and then after he was long gone.
And so, even though he must break the seal of her girlhood, he would try in the doing of it to bring her joys undreamt-of. And to that end he stroked her sweet young body, he teased her breasts, nibbling her nipples to hardness, he dragged his warm lips across the skin of her soft responsive stomach, he tickled with light caressing finger that silky mound of hair above her thighs and explored its silken recesses.
“Charlotte, Charlotte,” he sighed. “A man could fill his life with you.”
“Oh, Tom, we should have forever,” she choked. “Not just a night.”
“Hush,” he murmured.
Yes, hush! she thought rebelliously. Hush, lest Fate should overhear—for it is Fate decides the odds! But she did not say it. Instead she clung to him with all the love that was in her.
Wild new feelings were assailing her senses, surging feelings deeper than the sea, stronger than the storm winds racing off the high crags, feelings both wondrous and new. She was dizzily conscious of his teasing, stroking, tempting her, readying her for his first thrust.
And when it came she quivered with the sudden shock of it, gasped, and lay for a moment so still he was afraid he had hurt her too much. And then, as if to tell him he had not and to give him silent permission to continue, she stirred in his arms and tried to press her warm femininity even closer in perfect trust.
He was touched by the innocent ardor of that slight expressive gesture and went about his work with care and skill—and strength.
Long pulsing moments later she was no longer a maid and her world was tumbling about with crazy upside-down rhythms and dazzling new delights that led her up and up as her back arched upward to meet him and swept her down again in joy as he drew back for each fresh thrust.
“Tom,” she murmured brokenly. “Oh, Tom, I love you so.” But her voice was hushed by his kisses even as her body and spirit, joined with his, seemed to soar from Kenlock Crag out to the farther stars.
And Charlotte came back to the world content, feeling somehow magically reborn, no longer Charlotte-the-Alone, but Charlotte-Loved-by-Tom. It was a wonderful feeling. She felt her whole body tingle as he left her to roll over and lie beside her at last.
This, then, was fulfillment. And in the blinding splendor of young love, she suddenly could not imagine anything really bad happening to them. The whole world was theirs already—surely they would be allowed to keep it?
“Oh, Tom,’’ she murmured. “We will win through. I feel in my heart that we will.”
Tom dragged himself up on one elbow and grinned down at her. Her optimism was catching.
“Perhaps. They say the devil protects his own. And I’m surely one of the devil’s own!”
“No, you’re not!” Her arms were around his neck again. “You’re a fine good man who’s had bad luck, that’s all! And your luck will change, Tom—I feel it. See?” She lifted her foot into the air. “My ankle feels better already. I’m sure I’ll be able to walk tomorrow. And then—oh, Tom, we’ll elude them, I’m sure we will!”
She nestled against him in the golden ephemeral optimism of the afterglow, confident their world would be righted. And Tom, who had seen the lanterns, took her again—took her with all the fire and fervor and torment of one who knows he lives beneath the shadow of the sword. It was a night like no other.
11
At dawn Tom rose and checked on Charlotte’s ankle. It was red and swollen, and if she moved, it throbbed—there was no question of her walking. Cold water to bathe it would help, and they were both thirsty. He would have to chance being seen searching for water, for it might become impossible later if these hills were swarming with climbers out for his blood.
He was lucky. Only a short distance down the mountainside he found a little bubbling spring that trickled downward over the rocks. He drank thirstily and carried water back to Charlotte in his hat. When she had drunk all she could, he bathed her ankle with the rest of the water and she sank back, insisting the pain had eased.
“We will rest here until the pursuit moves off in some other direction,” he told her in a confident voice, keeping up the charade they were playing out between them. “By then your ankle will be better.”
“Yes,” she said, reaching down and touching her swollen ankle gingerly. “People can live a long time without food,” she added. “So long as they have water—and we hav
e water. ”
Her cheerful courage stabbed him through, and he turned away so that she could not read his face and know what he was thinking.
“Tom,” she said, lying back and folding her arms behind her head. “Tell me about the time when you were a little boy—I want to know all about you. ”
And Tom, to entertain her and keep her mind off hunger and danger, found himself recounting to this silent solemn-eyed girl things that he had never told a living soul, told her about his failures and his triumphs, what he had thought of when death had loomed near, all his cherished hopes and dreams.
When he had finished, Charlotte’s eyes were filled with unshed tears and she sat up and took him in her arms, held him to her like a child. “I never knew it was possible to love anyone so much,” she told him in a choked voice.
Tom did not know what he could possibly have said to merit that heartfelt response. He knew simply that he wanted to be worthy of this girl and to get her safely through—wanted it more than anything else in this world.
And on the wings of such feelings their young bodies blended in a silent love song that knew neither time nor place but only a vast tenderness and a caring that healed old wounds and made life seem a wondrous vibrant thing.
When it was over, Tom gently disentangled himself from Charlotte’s twining arms and legs.
“I hope I didn’t hurt your ankle,” he said gruffly.
He had, but Charlotte would have died rather than admit it. “If you had,” she told him with a light laugh, “I don’t think I’d have noticed! She stretched luxuriously. “Oh, Tom, tell me they won’t find us. Tell me they’ll go away and leave us in peace, and we ll make our way to Scotland and be forgotten. ...”
“They’ll go away,” he told her moodily.
But not till they’ve got what they came for, his own thoughts mocked him.
And yet, lying here with her in this sheltered place with the warm sun streaming down and only an occasional bird winging overhead, it was easy to imagine that they would win through. Despite his better judgment, he found himself half-believing it. He propped Charlotte’s foot up again on a rock made comfortable by having his hat atop it and watched her go to sleep, curled up in this haven to which he had brought her.
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