by Jo Ann Wendt
"Darling, such a dance!" Marguerite sailed into his arms, all silken grace. Jericho looked at her jealously. "Such vigor! I fear you tramped upon your partner's toes."
"Marguerite! Sweetheart, I'm so happy. You've come down onto the dance field."
"But, of course, darling. I love you."
Dove wrapped sweaty arms around her and they kissed. Jericho looked away and glared into space. When she glanced back, John was looking at her with vexation. She glared at him, too, then turned to go. x
"Grubworm, wait!" Dove said. "Come here." He grabbed her arm. It angered her to look at him. He was so obviously a fool in love.
"Dove, I want to go."
Nestled silkenly in the crook of Dove's arm, Lady Marguerite lifted one perfectly plucked brow. "She calls you 'Dove'? Your bondslave calls you 'Dove' and not 'Lord Dove'? You permit it?"
Jericho flushed. She'd not meant to call him that in public. But Marguerite's sleek perfection had addled her. That, and the ale she'd drunk.
"Of course," Dove boomed with drunken cheer. "She has called me Dove ever since she was knee-high and stuttering like a chittering squirrel on 'Lord'."
Jericho felt the blood rush into her cheeks. To be humiliated like this . . . She didn't know where to look.
"Darling! Surely she can say 'Lord' now, at this age? I think it only proper my future husband be addressed by his title and not by his given name.''
"If you insist," Dove agreed cheerfully. "Grubworm? From now on, you call me Lord Dove."
John snapped, "Dove, don't be mean."
Her cheeks burning with shame, Jericho groped for her last remaining shreds of dignity. "May I go now, 'Lord' Dove?" she asked.
He grinned playfully. "After you have curtsied to your new mistress."
Something flashed inside. Something hot and rebellious. She threw a stormy look at Lady Marguerite and stubbornly stood her ground. John touched her gently. "Jericho," he warned in a whisper. She shook him off.
"Curtsy," Dove requested again.
Her spine filled with steel.
"She is not very obedient, is she," Marguerite said with amusement. It was meant to rile Dove, and it did. The smiling good-humor went out of his eyes.
"Grubworm," Dove warned, his voice losing its drunken affability, temper rising in his eyes. She lifted her chin, defying him. She ought not to have done so. She was embarrassing him in front of his bride-to-be, and she knew it. Furious, he swore at the top of his voice.
' 'Damn you, Jericho, this is not New Amsterdam. Curtsy!''
It was a humiliating insult. His loud bellow drew glances from all over the dance field, sounding like precisely what it was—a scolding for a disobedient servant. Tears of shock sprang to her eyes and burned there.
"Dove, for God's sake!" John said.
Eyes brimming, Jericho lowered a knee in the curtsy she should have offered in the first place. A curtsy was Lady Marguerite's due. She knew that. She'd known it all along. Then, unable to stop the tears a moment longer, she whirled and ran.
Dove felt like dung, watching Jericho rush from the dance field crying, and John rubbed his nose in it.
"You've done some thoughtless things in your time, Dove," he snarled before taking off after her. "But this takes the cake!"
Dove watched her run from him, her heart plainly broken. Why in hell had he done that? He'd stabbed her to the quick, insulting her in public like that.
"Darling! Give me one more small betrothal gift?"
Staring after Jericho, stunned, he responded by rote.
"Anything." Suddenly, he was cold sober. God, how could he make it up to her? Those big, dark blue eyes, huge with shock and betrayal. He'd never insulted her in public before. Not even in New Amsterdam, when she'd been an eleven- year-old pest, driving him out of his skull.
"Will you give me whatever I ask?"
"Yes, yes, anything," he said absently. He felt sick. She was on the hill now, going up the path to the castle, her cheap white bodice reflecting moonlight. He watched John catch up, put a comforting arm around her, slow her down and walk her on.
"You promise?"
"Yes, yes, anything you want. Anything." He would sign her indenture tomorrow. Hell, he would sign it tonight and take it to her. She deserved her freedom, didn't she? She'd been damned loyal. Yet, the thought of releasing her, letting her go, gave him a sting.
"Swear on your father's grave."
"Yes, yes, I swear," he agreed absently. "Anything, Marguerite, anything you want."
Wrenching his gaze from Jericho's distant figure, he turned. He'd scarcely been listening. Buoyed up somewhat by his honorable intentions, his determination to make it up to the grubworm, he took Marguerite into his arms and gave her the attention a beautiful bride-to-be deserved.
"What is it you want, sweetheart? Name it. It is yours."
"Swear on your father's grave that you will give your Marguerite whatever she asks?"
"So be it. I swear on my father's grave. Ask what you will."
She twined her silken arms around his neck. "Darling! I want that bondslave. I want her indenture. I want to own her."
Chapter Fourteen
Dove awoke at noon the next day with a sinking feeling. Had he done what he suspected he'd done? Oh, God. His throbbing * head bore testimony to it. For after pledging his word to Marguerite, he'd felt so low he'd gone tearing into the midst of the revelry and had got himself rip-roaring drunk. He vaguely recalled being carried up to the castle by a jovial group of pig farmers.
"Joseph," he croaked, unable to open his eyes for the pain of it. His own voice boomed in his skull like a cannon.
"On the nightstand, milord," his manservant called cheerily. "At your elbow, milord."
Dove groped blindly. His fingers closed around a goblet. The noxious libation he unsteadily brought to his lips smelled like fish oil that had stood in hot sun for three months. But Joseph's remedies worked. Girding himself to swallow it, he shuddered, then swilled it down in one gulp. Falling back on the pillow, he grabbed a second pillow and pressed it to his eyes.
"Joseph? Get Jericho."
"Ay, milord."
Maybe it wasn't true. Maybe he'd only dreamed it. Hell, what had the grubworm ever asked of him? Money, jewels, silk gowns, privileges? No. Only to have one measly year knocked off her indenture. Only freedom. Guilt washed in like dead fish in the tide.
By and by, Joseph returned. "Mr. Pennington will not allow Jericho to come up, milord. Jericho is assigned to new duties, milord. In Lady Marguerite's apartment."
"Oh, hell." It was true. Rolling over, he buried his face in the pillow and breathed feathers. "Get John Phipps," he mumbled.
"Mr. John Phipps was here earlier, milord. You do not recall, milord? He stood over your bed, shouting at you, milord. Quite loudly."
Vaguely, Dove remembered it. "Ask him to come in again."
"Mr. John Phipps had his business to tend in London, milord. He left two hours ago, milord. And if I do say so— left in a vile temper."
"Oh, hell." Dove breathed goosefeathers.
"Will there be anything else, milord?"
"Yes," Dove muttered. "Shoot me."
Sleeping fitfully that night on a pallet bed in the servant's hall amidst two-dozen snoring servants, Jericho awoke to the sounds of a disturbance.
"Sorry—sorry—hell, did I step on you too, Harry? Sorry. Percy, old boy—stepped on your hand, did I? Hell, I'm sorry. Go back to sleep, go back to sleep."
She rose on one elbow and blinked. Dove was groping his way through the large dark hall, bumping into cots. Flouncing onto her stomach, she punched her pillow and settled into it like a stone. Talk to him? Never.
"Jericho?" he whispered loudly, trying to find her, "Jericho?" She ignored him. But he found her anyway, after several minutes of popping about in the dark like a ridiculous rooster. Finding her, he squatted.
"Jericho?" he whispered. "What in hell are you doing here? Why aren't you in your room? You gave me a sc
are. I thought you'd run away."
She remained mute as stone, then changed her mind and threw him an angry hiss.
"Ask Mr. Pennington. Go ask! Ask!"
"He withdrew your room privilege?"
"Yes!"
"But why?" he said in astonishment. "Why would he do
a thing like that?" With a lithe movement, he commandeered the small space between her cot and Janie's, lowering himself to the floor to sit Indian style. He looked so handsome in the darkness with his golden hair, his white shirt glowing, that she wanted to weep.
"Why, why, why!" she snapped. "How should I know? Go ask him. Go—" She started to fire more at him, but her throat closed. She'd loved her little sleeping closet. It was the first room she'd ever had all to herself. In New Amsterdam she'd shared with Daisy and later with Cook. She'd enjoyed keeping the room scrubbed and polished, keeping it Dutch clean. She swallowed hard.
Waking on her pallet, bright as a bird, Janie raised up on one elbow and put in her penny's worth. "Lor' Dove?" Janie whispered. "Maybe Mr. Pennington took away Jericho's room priv'lege because he saw you sneak down to visit Jericho sometimes in the middle of the night."
Dove glared at the child. "I do not sneak. God's soup, Janie, this is my house, and if I want to visit my bondslave in the middle of the night, I do not have to sneak."
"Well, you tiptoe then."
"Tiptoeing is not sneaking, damn it. I tiptoe because— well, out of consideration to other servants who are sleeping."
"Oh."
Now the tears truly threatened. For she'd loved Dove's middle-of-the-night visits. They'd been such innocent visits, with him chattery and full of wine and high spirits, or perhaps, on other nights, sober and feeling low, touched by his peculiar midnight melancholy and wanting to talk of half-remembered tragedies—of snarling dogs and spurting blood and of seeing a beloved father's throat torn out before his very eyes. And she! Hunched on one end of the cot, arms wrapped around her knees, sympathetically listening in the darkness, talking with him, gladly sharing the high or the low. And if they'd parted with a sweet kiss at the end of it? Well, why not! She swallowed hard.
"Janie, stay out of this," she whispered.
"Yes, brat, stay out of this," Dove demanded in a whisper.
"Roll over and go to sleep. Jericho, I'm guilty as hell. I feel—"
"I canna Lor' Dove."
"Why not!"
"You be sittin' on the hem of my petticoat."
"Oh, for God's sake." He wrenched the petticoat free, and obediently Janie rolled over. But Jericho knew she was all ears. Janie and everyone else.
"Dove, go away," she whispered. "Just go away. Haven't you done enough? You've betrayed me, and you've betrayed Black Bartimaeus. Just go away. You're waking everyone."
Sleepers stirred throughout the room. On the pallet to her left, Birgit mumbled, her dreams disturbed.
"Jericho, damn it, we can't talk here."
"Good! Go away."
"Jericho, come into the corridor. I want to talk to you."
He stroked her hair, a loving stroke, but she yanked her head away. "No. I'm not required to talk to you anymore, Dove. I don't belong to you anymore. I belong to someone else now. My indenture belongs to someone else."
"Oh, hell! Sweeting, I feel so bad about your indenture."
On the men's side of the room, a burly form reared up in the darkness. "Pipe down over there!"
"Pipe down yourself," Dove snapped back. "This is Lord Dove, and I will pipe down when I'm damn good and ready.''
The rough voice sweetened to a whisper. "Yessir, yessir, milord. 'Twon't bother nobody a tad. Make all the noise ye want, Lor' Dove."
"I intend to!" Dove said, then turned and resumed his whispering. "Jericho? Beauty? Come out in the hall with me."
"No."
"Jericho, I've come to apologize."
"Fine. Then you've done it. Now you can go before you wake every single person in this whole stupid castle. An apology is fair exchange for a year of a person's life."
"Jericho, I'm sorry."
"Sorry! Go tell that to Black Bartimaeus," she hissed. "He was more than sorry. He was heartsick. We had won- derful plans, Dove. Plans for my dame school. Go tell him you're sorry. Tell Black Bartimaeus."
She punched her pillow and settled into it like a rock.
"Jericho, listen to me."
"No."
"Jericho, I've asked Marguerite to set you free. She is considering it."
If he'd thought to make her jump for joy, he'd missed by a mile. She reared up off her pillow and hissed like a snake poked by a sharp stick. "You asked her? You asked her? Why don't you put a ring through your nose, the better she can lead you about with!"
His clothes rustled and he sprang up like a shot. She saw with dismay that she'd wounded him in a way no woman should wound a man. For a moment, his face looked as hurt and vulnerable as a little boy's. Instantly, she sat up.
"Dove? I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"Hellcat," he snapped aloud, forgetful of the sleeping, snoring lumps around him. "Rot in bondage or take your indenture and leave tomorrow. I care not."
With that, he left, leaving a trail of startled sleepers behind him, sleepers who rose up on their elbows, confused, gawking, blinking. As the grumbling hall-settled down once more, Jericho lay wide-eyed on her pillow and absorbed the pain of it. She ached. She ought not to have spoken so to Dove. She'd hurt him. But neither should he have wounded her, giving her indenture to Marguerite. They'd hurt each other. She dabbed at moisture in her eyes.
There was a slight, birdlike rustling, and Janie reached over and put a small comforting arm around her.
"Jericho? Does this mean you and Lor' Dove don't like each other no more?"
She wiped her eyes. "No," she whispered when her clotted throat allowed her to speak again. "We like each other, Janie." God help us, she thought, we like each other too much.
"The king is coming, the king is coming!" Chattering a mile a minute, Janie dashed into the scullery like a whirlwind and danced on her toes, too excited to stand still. "Jericho! You can see the king coming plain as day from the castle wall. He's not riding in the royal coach with his mistresses —he's astride his own mount. Oh, Jericho, he's galloping, racing all the court gen'lmen!"
Jericho could muster up little enthusiasm. In the two heart- sore weeks that Dove had ignored her, cutting her dead whenever their paths crossed, she'd felt no enthusiasm for anything. But she couldn't daunt a child. She gave Janie a smile and a hug.
"Run up to the castle wall, then. Watch the king arrive. I'll cover your post. You too, Harry," she added, turning to the young turnspit. "But only for a minute," she warned. "Lest Mr. Pennington come in and find you gone."
It was nasty work, tending a turnspit. Puffs of smoke flew up, hitting the eye like fine sand. Dripping fat popped in the fire, making sparks fly like red-hot grapeshot. At other fireplaces in the kitchen, turnspit dogs trotted in their cylinder cages. Patient little souls. But as nasty as the turnspit could be on a sweltering hot July day, Jericho preferred it to serving Marguerite, who had made her life a misery. Jericho had jumped at the chance to volunteer for kitchen work during the king's visit.
When the venison was pronounced done and the cooks had removed it to the warming oven, Jericho went up to the castle wall to see the king's arrival for herself. She joined the claque of servants who'd gathered on the wall above the gatehouse. Slipping an arm around Mrs. Phipps, she stood with the excited, trembling woman, watching.
Down below, the castleyard boiled with activity, and off in the distance, on the road from London, a dozen coaches trundled toward Arleigh Castle, followed by a vanguard of mounted Swiss mercenaries who wore the House of Stuart scarlet. Their pole-ax pikes sparkled in the sun, scarlet flags fluttering. Janie and Harry were right, Jericho admitted to herself. It was exciting.
Overwhelmed, growing excited, she scarcely knew where to look first. Her gaze swept the castleyard and found Dove a
t once. But that was only natural. She could find Dove in a dark closet. Her soul was tuned to him the way a homing pigeon is tuned to the pigeon cot.
How wonderful he looked in a suit of rich black silk, the sleeves puffed and banded tightly with black velvet bands. She chose not to notice the woman on his arm. She didn't care to notice that Marguerite had never looked lovelier, a vision in diamonds and pearls and royal blue silk. She looked down at her own grease-spattered skirt.
Having raced and arrived ahead of his entourage, King Charles II stood in the courtyard conversing with the de Monts. He was easy to spot. Except for Black Bartimaeus, the king was easily the tallest man in all England, topping six feet by six inches. Truly a "black prince," he lacked the Stuart fairness. He was swarthy, his complexion dark.
His manner, however, was charming. Famous for winning the love of his subjects—highborn or low—he now proved it. Glancing up at the gatehouse and seeing the large throng of servants, he lifted his lacy wrist and waved. Mrs. Phipps nearly swooned. A sensual man, the king's gaze roved languidly from servant girl to servant girl. When his eyes stopped on Jericho, he doffed his plumed hat and smiled. She was utterly stunned.
"My stars, child, curtsy!" Mrs. Phipps whispered, all agog. "You've gained the king's notice."
Quickly, Jericho curtsied, but she couldn't help but respond to the king's charming smile with a grin of utter delight. Dear life, to be noticed by the king of England!
Mrs. Phipps tugged at her skirt. "Child, take care. The king has an appetite for pretty women."
Rising from her curtsy, Jericho knew a moment of uneasiness. But the king's attention was fleeting, and he'd already turned to converse with Lady de Mont, Lord Aubrey, Lord Lark, and with Lord Raven, who'd come to Arleigh Castle for this special event. Only Dove continued to scowl up at the gatehouse until Lady Marguerite tugged his arm, drawing him into the conversation.
With a clatter as loud as thunder, coaches rumbled into the courtyard, and the castleyard became a beehive of activity.
When the first splendid coach came to a swaying halt and a footman jumped down to unfold the step and open the door, the king himself strode forward to help two passengers debark.
"That's Castlemayne," Mrs. Phipps murmured excitedly as the king took the gloved hand of a tall, aloof lady who wore pearls and silk, and who stepped down onto the red carpet as if it were her due. "Lady Castlemayne is the king's favorite."