Summer Darkness, Winter Light

by Sylvia Halliday

  Allegra shivered at the feel of his burning mouth, then stiffened in sudden alarm. Godamercy, she must be mad! To allow herself even a moment’s weakness? Was she such a fool to forget what the rogue wanted from her? And to let him accomplish his lechery through a tender seduction! Sweet heaven. Where was her Baniard pride?

  She pulled away, hastily refastening her shift, and darted around the table. It was scarcely a safe barrier, but at least it would keep him at a distance while she marshaled her scattered wits. Her eyes cast wildly about the room as she searched for an escape, weapons, something. “Devil take you,” she said. “I’m not a meek she-goat, to go to slaughter without a battle!”

  Ridley began to laugh. “So I’ve discovered.” He stuck out his tongue and scraped it with his thumbnail, grunting in discomfort. “Still…” he continued, “you’re a challenge, Allegra Mackworth.” He edged around the table toward her, his eyes gleaming with hungry desire. “And worth the battle.”

  She circled in her turn, backing away to keep the table between them. They watched each other warily, adversaries at a deadly tournament. Allegra was filled with dread. He could rush her, leap across the table, overpower her in an instant. And then what? A moment’s careless triumph for him, soon forgotten. For her, shame and humiliation. As it had been for Mama. Her shoulders sagged in resignation and weariness. She couldn’t endure any more today. “You monster,” she whispered.

  If she didn’t already know that he was a callous and self-interested devil, she might have thought she had touched his conscience. He shrugged, smiled nonchalantly and backed away from her. Then he rubbed his hand across his face, and she saw that his eyes were bright and glassy. It wasn’t conscience that had stopped him; it was the effect of too much gin. “Another day, perhaps,” he muttered. “We both bear too many scars from this day’s battles.” He pulled out a chair, sat down, and slapped a piece of paper onto the table. “To business, then. One hundred pounds.”

  “What?” She stared, shaken by his abrupt shift of mood.

  “It cost me a hundred pounds to buy your life and freedom from Crompton.” He smiled pleasantly. “I expect to be reimbursed, of course.”

  A hundred pounds! She sank into a chair opposite him. “But I don’t…I can’t…” she stammered, almost too stunned to speak.

  “No, of course not. I didn’t think so. Which is why I had Briggs prepare this paper.”

  “What is it?” Her voice was a croak of dismay.

  “An indenture contract. For a year. It will scarcely repay my hundred pounds, you understand. But it will serve.”

  “No!” she shrieked. She leapt to her feet, shaking her head in a frenzy of helpless rage and disbelief. “No, no, no!”

  He seemed unmoved by—or indifferent to—her passion. “I should have thought that you were no stranger to work.” He shrugged. “And it’s only a year, after all…”

  “Work?” She spat the word. “Curse you, villain, I can tell you about work. Look!” She thrust out her hands, palms up, before his face. “Three years. Three years of indenture, to earn my passage to England! Three years of field work and shame and degradation!”

  “Sweet Jesu,” he swore softly. He reached out and stroked the calluses on her hands, and when he looked up at her his eyes were filled with unexpected pity. “Then we shall have to find softer work for you here,” he murmured. “Can you read?”

  “Yes,” she answered sullenly.

  “Good. I’m sure Mrs. Rutledge can find something useful for you to do.” He frowned with a sudden thought. “You’re not a runaway, are you?”

  “No. I served my time to the last bitter day.”

  “We’ll try to make your stay here more pleasant.”

  She glared at him. She’d never hated anyone more in her life, except Wickham. Ridley was stealing a whole year from her. A whole year! And he sat chatting as though they were negotiating a lease on a piece of property. “What if I should refuse to sign?” she challenged.

  “Then I should be forced to take you back to Crompton, with his whip and his thirst for justice and his assizes. And perhaps more. He has other appetites besides his love of the trencher, so I’ve heard.” He paused to let his meaning sink in. “But if you sign you’ll be under my protection. And safe from his predations.”

  She groaned in anguish. Did he leave her any choice? “Why are you doing this? You don’t need the money. Your servants talk of your generosity.”

  His mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. “’Tis the only kind thing they do say about me.”

  “Then why? What can it matter to you…a hundred pounds?”

  He chuckled. “I must have Scottish ancestors. All that thrift. Besides, I thought I might buy Wickham one more year of life.”

  She gasped. “Wickham?” It was all coming clear. “You torment me and make me your unwilling servant to save a friend. Is that it?”

  He shook his head. “I scarce know the man. I met him but once. But I thought to give you time to reconsider your folly.”

  “Reconsider? Never!”

  “Well, then, time to let your passions cool a bit. If you try to kill Wickham in as rash a manner as you came at me this morning, you’ll be caught, tried, and hanged. And there’s an end to it.”

  “Why should I care, so long as Wickham is dead first? And why should you care what happens to me?”

  “No man’s life is worth destroying your own,” he said with a careless shrug.

  “Is that why you refuse to duel?”

  He stiffened at her words, and Allegra was dimly aware that she’d somehow cracked his mask of indifference, if only for a moment. He rose from his chair and went to stand at the mantel, his head bent toward the fire, so that she couldn’t see his eyes. “You’ll find it’s hard to sleep at night, with blood on your hands,” he muttered. “A moment of madness…and you’re damned for all-eternity.”

  She heard the pain in his voice and felt an unexpected rush of sympathy. “Milord…” she began.

  He seemed to recover himself. He turned and grinned; it was an ugly, artificial smile that reminded Allegra she didn’t like him. So why should she care what lay behind the mask?

  “I’ll enjoy killing Wickham,” she said, her words a cold challenge to Ridley’s interference in her life.

  The grin deepened. “But ’twould be a pity to see you hanged for murder. To extinguish that passion and fire. At least not until I’ve warmed myself at your hearth.” The grin had become a satyr’s leer.

  She gasped in dismay. The rogue didn’t deserve her sympathy. Not when he could negotiate so cruelly for her virtue. “Curse your eyes and liver,” she said bitterly. “Is that what you expect, with your evil contract? Well, you may have bought my time. But never my body or my soul.”

  He ran his hand back and forth across the mantelpiece as though he were caressing a lover. The erotic movements of his long, sensuous fingers were spellbinding. Allegra could almost feel them on her flesh—stroking, soothing, stirring her senses with unknown joys. She felt an odd jolt, a quivering in the pit of her stomach. Ridley’s voice dropped to a seductive growl. “Not even if I showed my gratitude by shortening the term of your bondage? I might be persuaded, you know.”

  His words brought her to her senses. Was there ever a man more heartless than this devil? Giving her a choice that was no choice at all. “Must I be an unwilling whore to earn a reprieve?”

  “No. I should want you compliant, or not at all.”

  “Then it will be not at all,” she said firmly. “Unless you have a mind to rape me,” she added, her eyes opening wide with the sudden, dreadful thought.

  He smirked, a wicked smile. “What an unkind notion. You cut me to the quick. But ’tis not in my nature to take a woman against her will.”

  “And this morning, in the woods?” She could scarcely conceal her contempt.

  He threw up his hands in a playful gesture of innocence. “I merely wanted a kiss or two. And you repaid me most cruelly.”

  S
he rubbed her fingers across her eyes and sighed in resignation. “You may be enjoying this game, but not I. Can we not return to the business at hand?”

  “Of course.” He took an inkstand from the mantel and set it on the table. “Are we agreed to the terms?”

  “A year of my life for a hundred pounds?” Her voice cracked as she thought of the postponement of her hopes and dreams. “A whole year?”

  “I feel sure your hatred of Wickham will burn like a beacon through the long year.” He lifted her chin with his fingers and stared into her dark eyes. “Indeed, there’s no danger of that passion burning out.” His mocking tone vanished. His expression was suddenly solemn and filled with bewilderment. “My God,” he muttered, “where does it come from—all that intensity? And what did Wickham do to earn such hatred?”

  She moved away from his hand, his probing eyes, and reached for the quill pen. “A year,” she said crisply, evading his questions. “And I need fear no sudden ambush in the night?”

  He shook his head and laughed, the rakehell once again. “Not from me. Though my offer stands. You give me a willing woman—and I consider amending the contract. I might even buy you a silken gown or two. Something low cut, to display that fine bosom.”

  “Though I’m sorely tempted,” she said with sarcasm, “I shall remain steadfast for the full year.”

  He smiled lazily, reached out and wrapped one of her dark curls around his finger. “I warn you, I shall try to woo you into my bed. You’re a devilish tempting morsel.”

  She shook her head free. “I’ll resist you at every turn.”

  He grinned. “Then it will be a year of sweet battles. That thought alone excites me.” He laughed at the look of disgust on her face. “I trust you won’t be foolish enough to run away. ’Tis a capital offense here in England. For bond servants to flee their masters.”

  “Until Wickham is dead, I’ll guard my own life. I have no wish to hang as a runaway.” She dipped the pen in the ink, bent over the table and signed the accursed contract. Ridley had her trapped, and they both knew it. She sighed. Heigh-ho! She’d waited this long to avenge the family. She could practice Baniard patience for one more year. That is, if she didn’t end up killing this devil Ridley before the time was out!

  He folded the contract and slipped it into the breast of his coat. “One more thing,” he said. “A trifling matter, you understand. But since the rest of the servants at the Hall are hired, only you and I and Briggs need know of this agreement. He will arrange a small salary for you. To prevent gossip.”

  He seemed a bit too offhand. Allegra wondered if he felt a twinge of conscience, after all. “Are you ashamed of this arrangement?” she asked softly. “Or concerned for my shame?”

  He laughed, a hard, mocking sound. “God’s truth, not at all. But I still hope to persuade you into my bed before the year is out. I feel sure you’ll want to…” he laughed again, “…‘negotiate’ for an early release long before next summer comes to these hills. And I shouldn’t want the other servants to think you were coerced by the terms of a foolish contract. Far better that they should think you found me irresistible.”

  Allegra snorted in disgust at his smug arrogance, but said nothing.

  He raised a sharp eyebrow. “You disagree? Very well, then. I give you leave, whenever you wish, to tell them that I bought you, hoping to make you my whore.”

  She flinched at the naked cruelty of his words. She was beginning to understand why everyone at Baniard Hall seemed to hate the master. Well, she thought, steeling herself to ignore his venom, the villain wouldn’t reduce her to tears! Not like poor Margery. “It will remain our secret,” she said. She bobbed a stiff curtsy. “May I go and find Mrs. Rutledge now, milord? I’ll need a bed, if I must stay a year.”

  “Tell her to inform me where she intends to put you. There might come a time when…” He leered wickedly.

  Curse him. She’d be revenged for his cruel words, whatever it cost her. She gave him a cold stare. “I scarce believe that will happen, milord. On my oath, but with your fondness for the bottle I wonder you can find your own bed by the time night falls. Let alone another’s.” She curtsied again and was pleased to see his arrogant smile turn to a frown as she fled the parlor.

  Allegra grunted and sat up in bed, blinking against the night-black room. She grimaced and flexed her shoulders. Perhaps it was her sore back that had awakened her. For surely when Mrs. Rutledge had led her to this little room under the eaves, and she’d stretched out across the soft bed as twilight darkened the dormer window, she had thought she’d sleep for days. At least until morning, when she would be assigned her chores.

  She frowned, peering into the gloom. No, it wasn’t her back that had disturbed her rest. There were sounds, voices, coming from somewhere beyond her door. For just a moment’s panic, she wondered if Ridley had changed his mind about attacking her in her bed. Then she shook her head and laughed softly. Ridley wouldn’t be shouting like that if he intended to creep into her room!

  She stood up and made her way to the door. Her room was at the head of a small staircase that led down to a wide passageway on the floor below. She opened the door and padded down the stairs on bare feet, her shift billowing softly around her legs. Ridley’s voice was louder now—unintelligible but blended with other masculine cries and shouts.

  The passageway was a scene of chaos. There were chairs overturned, mirrors smashed. Candles blazed from one end to the other; even as Allegra watched, another footman rushed in, bearing more lights. A side door opened and Briggs hurried forward, carrying several lengths of rope. Other servants cried out, and ran helplessly back and forth like skittish horses in a thunderstorm. One candlestick had been knocked to the floor, igniting the edge of a carpet; a footman beat frantically at the flames.

  And in the middle of all this tumult was Ridley. His coat and boots were off, and his shirt hung loose from his breeches. His hair ribbon was gone; his long brown locks drooped about his face, damp with sweat. Even as Allegra watched, trembling in terror, he let out a roar, picked up a chair and crashed it against a large painting. Then he turned and lurched in her direction.

  “Godamercy,” whispered Allegra, and pressed herself against the wall.

  Ridley stopped in front of her and stared. His eyes were bloodshot, and he reeked of liquor. His mouth hung slack, oozing with spittle, and his expression was so frightening that Allegra threw her arms in front of her body to ward off the expected attack.

  Then his expression changed, and a slow, sad smile spread across his face. “My Lady of the Sorrows,” he said hoarsely, gazing into Allegra’s eyes with a look of such pain that it nearly broke her heart. “Have you come to weep with me?”

  “M-milord…” she said with a stammer, confused and bewildered.

  “Sir Greyston.” A small, dark-skinned man had stepped forward and put his hand on Ridley’s arm. “Come to bed now. The moon is being full on the Ganges.” His voice was a soothing singsong, sweet and faintly foreign. “Come, Sir Greyston. To bed. And I shall light the incense and fill your dreams with the sweetness of the lotus blossom.”

  Ridley nodded and turned, his steps shaky. Then, in a frightening transformation, he suddenly shook off the other man’s hand, raised his fists in the air and began to bellow, his face contorted in fury.

  “Now!” cried Briggs, motioning to the servants. “Take him now!”

  Several footmen rushed Ridley, clutching at his arms, his twisting body, his legs. He kicked and bucked, cursing them all the while. After a few moments of fierce struggle, he was pinned to the floor, his arms and feet bound with Briggs’s rope. Writhing in fury and still shouting curses at his captors, he was carried down the passageway and into his rooms.

  Allegra sagged against a table, her body shaking uncontrollably. She heard a soft laugh and looked up. The two maids who had served her were coming down the stairs.

  “I remember the first time I saw that,” said the one called Barbara, with an air of superiori
ty.

  “Dear heaven,” said Allegra, wrapping her arms around herself to still her trembling. “How often does it happen?”

  Barbara shrugged. “Once a month or so.” She turned to her companion. “Isn’t it so, Verity?”

  Verity giggled. “Once a month…like the full moon on the Ganges.”

  Allegra was horrified at their lack of concern, their want of compassion. “But that’s dreadful!”

  Barbara tossed her head. “He’ll remember nothing of it in the morning. He’ll be as cruel as ever, finding fault with the housemaids and insulting the grooms.”

  Allegra was still thinking of the frightful scene she’d witnessed. “But why does it happen?”

  “Even he can drink too much, once in a while. And then he needs that ugly little valet of his to put him to bed.”

  “He’s from India, isn’t he?” Allegra remembered once seeing a sailor from Calcutta in the harbor of Charles Town.

  “Aye. His name is Jagat Ram. Strange, dirty little man. I don’t like him. But he’s the only one Lord Ridley wants with him, when he’s like that.”

  “Why does he drink so?” asked Allegra. She remembered the scene with Sir Henry. “Does he run from his own cowardice?”

  “No. ’Tis his dead wife,” said Barbara. “At least I think so. Don’t you, Verity?”

  Allegra felt a twinge of pity. Even Ridley didn’t deserve such torment. “Does he mourn his wife so deeply, that he must rage like that?”

  “Mourn her? It isn’t grief that moves him. ’Tis guilt!”

  “But why?”

  Verity shuddered and turned to go back up the stairs. “I don’t like this place. Good wages or no, if I can get another position, I will. Come, Barbara. To bed.”

  “Wait.” Allegra put her hand on the girl’s arm. The long passageway still seemed to echo with Ridley’s agonized shouts. “Why should he feel guilt over his wife?”

  Verity’s eyes opened wide in superstitious horror, and she glanced nervously about. “Fortune preserve you and me,” she whispered. “They say he killed her.”