Tempest

by Sandra Dubay

  Sighing as she remembered the description of her heroine's dashing lover, Dyanna trudged down the rutted highway toward London.

  As the road cut a swath through a thick forest, Dyanna debated whether she should try to go on. Night was falling; she thought it might be wiser to find a bed beneath some ancient and drooping treeor, better yet, a bed of straw in the corner of some farmer's barn.

  As she turned the question over in her mind, her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats. Her pulse quickened. Here it was! Adventure was approaching at a gallop and she was still less than one day away from school!

  "You there!" a masculine voice commanded. "Stand and deliver!"

  Dyanna dropped her bundle, pinched some color into her cheeks, and turned around. Her face fell. Instead of the handsome, dashing rogue Jenny had found, Dyanna was confronted by a skinny man astride a scrawny, swaybacked horse.

  "How do you do," she said, her disappointment evident in her voice.

  The man's eyes widened. "Why, you're no more'n a girl!" he exclaimed, his too-prominent Adam's apple bobbing in his bony throat. "What do you think you're about, then, bein' out alone and it gettin' dark?"

  Dyanna shrugged. "Are you a highwayman?"

  "That I am. But I don't expect you'd have anything worth my while in that bundle of yours."

  "I'm sorry, no. Only a few clothes. I'm running away, you see. I'm looking for adventure."

  "Adventure, is it?" He eyed her with grave disapproval. "If you was my daughter, I'd give you an adventure with a hickory switch!"

  Dyanna lifted her chin and treated him to her haughtiest stare. "Then I'm glad I'm not your daughter!" She frowned. "By the bye, I've heard that highwaymen rape women they come upon alone and defenseless. Are you going to rape me?"

  The highwayman drew back in his saddle, obviously aghast. "Here, now! You're a dirty-minded baggage, ain't you? Just because I'm a highwayman, that don't give you call to accuse me of rapin' helpless women! I got a daughter your age!"

  Dyanna nudged a stone with the toe of her boot. "Well, I do apologize. I didn't mean to insult you. It's only what I've heard."

  "You probably heard talk about Dirty Ned. He used to work this stretch of road." The highwayman shook his head in sour disapproval. "Randy bugger was old Ned, and no mistake. If it'd been him here 'stead of me, you'd have had your skirts tossed over your head afore you knew what hit you."

  "I would?" Dyanna chewed her lower lip. "Would you knowthat is to saydoes this Ned person still work some road in this area?"

  "You got your mind in the sewer, ain't you! Well, just for your information, Mistress Adventure, they hung ole Ned on Tyburn Hill last summer."

  "Do you know any other highwaymen like him?"

  "No, I don't! An' I wouldn't be tellin' you if I did! The only thing I'll do for you is take you home with me for tonight. You can share a bed with my daughters, and in the morning I'll take you home."

  Dyanna took a step backward. "But I don't want to go home! I'm going to London!"

  "London, is it? What're you goin' to be, then? The town tart? Let me tell you somethin'. I been to London plenty of times and they already got more tarts there then they need!"

  "Oh, fiddle! I don't care what you say! I'm going to London and I will find adventure!"

  "You'll find a dose of the French pox more like! But go on if you want. And never say I didn't warn you!"

  The highwayman kicked his horse and rode away. Snatching up her bundle, Dyanna stormed off into the depths of the forest. Night was falling quickly now and she needed a place to sleep.

  Chater Three

  When the hoofbeats of the highwayman's rattleboned horse had faded into the distance, Dyanna returned to the edge of the rutted lane. The awakening night sounds of the forest were making her nervous. She wished she could come upon some cottage or . . .

  As if in answer to her prayers, the lights of an inn appeared, glowing in the gathering darkness. Over the arch that led to the enclosed courtyard, a swinging sign was painted with an angel of blue with gilded wings. Gold letters proclaimed the place to be the "Angel Inn."

  Dyanna crept cautiously through the archway. The courtyard was deserted. The sounds of laughter coming through the open windows of the taproom were muted. The Angel Inn catered primarily to travelers, there being no village close by, and its taproom was not crowded nightly by farmers and shopkeepers as a village inn's might be.

  Slipping silently along the ivy-covered stone wall, she heard the soft whinny of a horse and knew she was near the stable. Relief washed over her. If she could find an empty stall, or a deserted hayloft, she could spend the night in relative comfort and start out at first light for London.

  The stable was filled with shadows. A single lantern showed at the far end near an open door. The air was redolent with the smells of hay and horses and leather, though few of the stalls were occupied.

  Dyanna moved slowly toward the far end of the long stable, hoping to find an empty stall where the hay was clean and fresh. But the sound of a carriage turning into the courtyard brought the inn to life and she ducked swiftly into the nearest stall, fearing the stableboys might appear and discover her.

  There was no sound in the stable. It seemed no one was going to attend the carriage and its matched pair of dappled horses. Dyanna was about to leave her hiding place when a short, round figure appeared in the wide, arched stable door.

  ''Topham!" the woman shouted. "Topham, you lazy wretch! Where are you?"

  From the lighted doorway at the opposite end of the stable, a tall, gangly man appeared. "Here I am, Missus. Is somethin' amiss?"

  "Your head'll be amiss if you don't get out here," the woman threatened. "There's a carriage in the courtyard and horses needin' stablin'. A lord's horses, mind, so take good care of 'em."

  "I will, Missus, never you fear. I ain't never let no"

  The rest of his assurance was drowned by the sound of Dyanna's sneeze. In a flash she was being dragged from the stall. As she went, she kicked straw over her bundle to hide it.

  "What've we got here, then?" the groom, Topham, asked, a leer in his voice to match the one in his small dark eyes.

  Dyanna looked from the groom to the short, plump, grey-haired woman, and back again. "I wasn't hurting anything," she insisted. "I wasn't!"

  "What was you doin' in here then?" Topham demanded.

  The woman pulled Dyanna's arm out of his tight grasp. "I'll deal with her," she told him sharply. "You just get about stablin' them horses."

  After the groom had gone, the woman turned back to Dyanna. "All right, my girl, what are you hidin' in here for?"

  "I was looking for a place to sleep," Dyanna told her. "That's all. I was going to sleep in one of the empty stalls."

  "I ain't runnin' an almshouse, you know.

  This ain't a charity hospital. If you can't pay, you can't stop here."

  Caution sealed Dyanna's lips on the subject of money. The golden guineas tied in a handkerchief in her bundle were her stake in London. She wasn't about to admit she had a penny. Instead, she bit her lip and forced hot, salty tears into her great blue eyes until they glittered like aquamarines.

  "I only wish I could pay you," she said softly. "My father died recently, you see, and I am on my way to London to try and make my way. But a highwayman robbed me. He took everything. I . . . I . . ."

  "Mrs. Cockerell!" A trembling young girl wearing a stained apron and limp mob cap came stumbling across the courtyard. "Mrs. Cockerell!"

  "Oh, what is it now, Ruby?" Mrs. Cockerell snapped impatiently.

  "Mr. Cockerell has shown his lordship and his man up to their rooms. He says the gentlemen want supper right away!"

  "Have Meg see to it. I'm busy just now."

  "Meg can't, ma'am."

  "Can't? Why not?"

  "She's been at the gin again."

  "Crikey! What next! Well, I can't wait on 'em. Somebody's got to do the cookin'."

  "What about me?" the timid gi
rl asked hopefully.

  "You! Wait on a lord! Don't be daft. This is a pretty kettle of fish, I must say!" Her heavy brow wrinkled as she scowled. Her eyes, dark and nearly obscured by heavy lids, slid thoughtfully over Dyanna. "What your name, my girl?"

  "Jenny," Dyanna lied quickly. "Jenny Flynn."

  "Well, Jenny Flynn, if you'll be of some help to me, I'll give you somethin' to eat and a bed for the night. What do you say? Can you serve supper to a gentleman?"

  "Oh, yes, ma'am. I'm sure I could."

  "You talk like one of 'em yourself. What was your name again?"

  "Jenny Flynn, ma'am." Dyanna's mind raced. "My father was estate manager to Lord Killigrew, you see. I was tutored with his lordship's children and"

  "Yes, yes." Mrs. Cockerell cut her off. "That's likely why you talk so fancy. But come along. I haven't time for the story of your life."

  Dyanna followed the woman across the courtyard and into the inn. Bypassing the taproom where Mr. Cockerell was once more holding forth to a small band of cronies, they went through the kitchen and into a storeroom.

  From a chest, Mrs. Cockerell pulled out a wooden box and handed it to Dyanna.

  "Wash your face and hands, then put this on," she instructed. "Don't spill anything onto it, mind. I only let my maids wear it when we get highborn customers. Be quick about it, hear?"

  Quickly as she could, Dyanna did as Mrs. Cockerell had ordered. A basin of water was brought and she washed off the grime of a day on the hot, dusty road. From the box she pulled a round-eared muslin cap. It was made to fit close to her head even after her hair had been tucked up out of sight beneath it. The jacket and skirt, of pale rose taffeta, matched the ribbon threaded through the lace on the cap and the fabric of the shoes. A fichu of white lawn was tucked modestly into the low front of the bodice and an apron of white lawn fastened to the front of the bodice, then flared out to cover the skirt.

  As she emerged into the kitchen, Dyanna was seized by Mrs. Cockerell, who swung her around for an appraising examination.

  "Very nice, indeed," the woman pronounced. "Do a good job, my girl, and I just might hire you on. Now go up to number seven and find out what his lordship and his manservant might be wantin'."

  Dyanna's heart pounded as she climbed the worn stairs and walked along the hallway. The wide, rough-hewn planks beneath the flowered carpet had warped with the passing of the years and the floor undulated, rising and falling along its entire length.

  But Dyanna had little attention to spare for such details. Her lips curved in a pleased little smile. This, at last, was adventure. A runaway heiress passing as a maidservant. It was worthy of her heroine, Jenny Flynn, herself.

  Tucking a stray curl beneath her cap, she knocked lightly on the door marked with a tarnished brass number seven.

  "Yes?" a deep, masculine voice called from within.

  Pressing down the latch, Dyanna opened the door.

  "Beg pardon, milord," she said, stepping into the room. "Mrs. Cockerell sent me up to"

  Her words faded into nothingness as the man across the candlelit chamber turned toward her.

  He was talltaller than any man she'd ever seen. His shoulders were broad, his hips narrow, his long, muscular legs encased in brown breeches and thigh-high leather boots. His russet coat and creamy neckcloth lay over the back of a chair, but his oyster-colored waistcoat was still buttoned over his open-necked, full-sleeved linen shirt. His face, when she found the courage to steal a glance at it, was heart-stoppingly handsome. The candlelight threw shadows into the taut planes of his cheeks and made a shadow in the cleft of his chin. His hair was darkly golden, reflecting the candleglow in a thousand glimmering pinpoints. Its wavy thickness framed his face, then was drawn back into a black grosgrain ribbon at the nape of his neck.

  His eyeshis black-lashed, amber-brown eyesswept over her and Dyanna felt her knees tremble weakly beneath her.

  "Yes, my dear?" he prompted softly, the simple words sending a queer sort of shiver down Dyanna's spine. "Mrs. Cockerell sent you up to?"

  "To ask what you and your man want."

  Deviltry glittered in Justin's eyes. Over Dyanna's head, he glanced toward Bertran, but the valet refused to meet his gaze.

  "Just tell Mrs. Cockerell to sent up whatever she has that's ready. And her best bottle of wine."

  Grasping either side of her skirt, Dyanna bobbed a curtsy. "Aye, milord," she managed, flushing scarlet beneath his amused gaze.

  She turned to leave, but he called out to stop her.

  "What's your name, sweetheart?"

  "Jenny Flynn, milord," she replied without hesitation.

  "All right, Jenny Flynn. Be sure you bring up our meal. Don't let Mrs. Cockerell send anyone else, will you?"

  "I won't, milord," she promised, heart bursting with excitement.

  A half-hour later, Dyanna grimaced under the weight of the laden supper tray. Turning her back to the door, she kicked at it with her heel.

  The door opened and Bertran took the tray from her and carried it to the table. The aroma of roast beef and fresh-baked bread filled the room.

  Pushing himself away from the hearth where he had been examining the smoketinged painting above the mantelpiece, Justin came toward her.

  Dyanna could not help staring. His movements were fluid, feline, captivating, somehow threatening yet entrancing.

  Her eyes met his and she realized he had noticed her fascination. Cheeks pinkening, she averted her gaze. "Will there be anything else, milord?" she heard herself asking.

  "Have you other guests to attend to?" he asked, seating himself in a chair at the table and stretching out his long legs.

  "No, milord."

  "Then why don't you stay? Share my dinner. At least have a little wine. I hate to eat alone."

  "Alone? But milord" Dyanna turned just in time to see Bertran disappearing into his bedchambers on one side of the sitting room the two bedchambers shared. In his hands he carried a plate laden with food and a glass of the sweet red wine.

  As the door closed behind the valet, Dyanna turned back to find Justin watching her. His handsome face wore an expression of amusement and something elsesome indefinable air that touched a place deep inside Dyanna and set it aquiver.

  Gratefully she sank into the chair he offered. Her knees felt rubbery and threatened to betray her. She hid her hands in the taffeta folds of her skirt to conceal their trembling.

  "Hungry?" DeVille asked. When Dyanna nodded, he pushed a plate of beef and a thick slice of bread and butter toward her. There was only one wine glass so he filled it and set in within easy reach of them both.

  Dyanna ate slowly, clumsily, trying to concentrate on the food and ignore the tantalizing heat of the penetrating stare he fixed her with. But her heart was pounding so hard it took her breath away. Her fingers stubbornly refused to cooperate and her throat tightened, making it hard to swallow. The wine, as she sipped it, seemed to go straight to her head, making her feel giddy, almost dizzy, and making the room, though cooled by the night breezes wafting through the open windows, seem close and stifling.

  His eyes never seemed to leave her. She could feel them upon her; there was no need to look up to know he was watching her, studying her. She wanted to look at him, examine him, revel in the sheer masculine beauty of him, but she did not dare.

  Taking a last sip of the rich, heady wine, she passed her napkin across her lips and laid it aside.

  "Finished?" he asked, and she realized, a flush staining her cheeks, that he had stopped eating some time before.

  She nodded and he rose, holding out a hand to her. The hand in which her own was dwarfed was calloused and hard, burnt brown by the sun. It surprised her, for he was obviously a gentleman born and bred, and in her experience, limited though it was, gentlemen seldom performed the kind of manual labor necessary to produce work-toughened hands such as his.

  Wordlessly, he led her across the room to the deep, velvet-cushioned window seat. He sat down, leaning into the cor
ner, and drew her down beside him, cradling her against his chest, his arms about her.

  The warm fragrance from the forest surrounding them spilled through the open window, borne on the gentle night breezes. Justin closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He sighed, content, as his fingers idly caressed Dyanna's neck just below her ear.

  "There's nothing quite like an English spring," he told her softly, then smiled down into her upraised eyes, "unless it's a pretty English girl."

  Dyanna shivered. The simple caress of his fingers on the delicate skin of her neck stirred her senses more than the wine she'd consumed at dinner.

  "You sound as if you've been away," she said, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.

  "I have. I was at sea. And in America."

  "America?" Dyanna knew little of America save that it was far away across the wide and

  perilous ocean and, so her tutors had told her, was populated in the main by a few foolhardy Englishmen and a great many bloodthirsty savages. It sounded forbidding to her, but venturing into such a dangerous place seemed madly adventurous and elevated DeVille even further in her estimation.

  ''Tell me of America, milord," she begged eagerly.

  "Justin," he said.

  "Pardon me?"

  "Justin. My name. You needn't keep calling me 'milord.' "

  "Justin," she repeated obediently. "Tell me, please. Is America truly overrun with wild men who kill white settlers?"

  "It happens, unfortunately. But come, this is hardly the kind of talk for a night like this, is it, my pretty?"

  Dyanna turned in the circle of his arms until she was kneeling on the cushion beside him. Their faces were level and her eyes met his and were imprisoned by his dark, penetrating gaze.The candles that lit the room were burning low, but his face was no less hand-some for the dimness of the light. Her heart fluttered in her breast like the beating wings of an imprisoned bird.

  Reaching up, he drew off her cap and her shimmering curls tumbled free, spilling over her shoulders like rivers of molten silver. Justin hesitated as the sight of it sparked some faint memory, but he forced the thought aside. The girl who knelt before him was far too beautiful, the rising desire he felt for her much too urgent, to be quelled by some flickering shadow of the past.