by Cindy Anstey
Nothing happened. Not for some time.
Juliana’s ragged breathing slowed, and then it took on a more natural rhythm. Her heart, which had threatened to burst moments earlier, calmed, and the buzzing in her head and ears cleared. The abject fear subsided.
With her freedom secured, Juliana could now concentrate on breaking her bonds. The edge of the chair was of no use; it bruised her wrists and made no headway on the strings. The windowsill proved to be the same. However, a rusty nail protruding from the ill-fashioned bed was more than up to the job. It made short shrift of her purse strings, leaving them in tatters and her wrists free.
And just as they snapped, Juliana heard the jangle of the doorknob. It was followed by a sickening voice, calling from the other side of the wood. A wheedling sound.
“Juliana, dear. Our little disagreement is causing these good people discomfort. If you open the door, we could discuss it, and I will make arrangements for you to go home. We will not continue if the journey is distressing you, dear.”
Juliana couldn’t believe his audacity. He was playing to the crowd. How could he possibly think that she would open the door?
Then she heard it.
Footsteps. On the roof. Getting closer.
Juliana looked to the one window in the room. It wasn’t large, but a man could still fit through the casement. The weasel wasn’t expecting her to open the door; someone was going to come through the window.
Juliana glanced desperately around the room.
She was all out of furniture.
* * *
SPENCER WAS WEARY, but his seething anger kept him upright on his horse, and his imagining Juliana’s frightened face kept his eyes on the road. He had left Mr. Telford far behind in his landau, as they had planned. Being on horseback meant that Spencer could travel faster and harder. And at last he was gaining.
Locating the stable Pyebald had used to hire a coach had been relatively easy. It was barely outside the fringe of their neighborhood. The man hadn’t even tried to be clever, though he wasn’t foolish enough to use the highly recognizable family coach. Once the stable was found, it took little persuading and only a few coins to learn the man’s intent. Pyebald’s lofty attitude and weak purse had piqued the stable master, but he had been downright put out by the driver. The coachman was not one of his own, a rough sort of fellow with dark looks and a mumbling mouth, reported the stable master. The bounder grumbled about every detail of the carriage and even more about heading north at this time of year. Gretna Green was not mentioned but implied.
By the time Spencer had returned to Grays Hill Park, Mr. Telford had the landau ready and waiting. He would follow the most direct road north, stopping at the post inns on the way. If Spencer had doubts and diverted to another road, a message would be waiting.
As much as Miss Reeves wanted to be part of the rescue, it was firmly decided by Mr. Reeves that Juliana would be better served with a warm welcome on her return. Two anxious faces waved them away; Mrs. Reeves was indisposed.
The first post inn eased any fears that he might have had in regard to the direction in which they were headed. A few innocent questions verified that Juliana was, indeed, on the road north. The denizens were still snickering and making snide remarks about the young missy who claimed to have been kidnapped earlier that day. By her brother no less.
Spencer’s anger saw him through the next two posts, where she was not sighted at all. He was beginning to fear that he had lost the trail when the next inn brought a smile to his lips.
Juliana had run. His brave, sweet pea-goose had run. She had gotten away. Unfortunately, the innkeeper was sure that the crazy girl had been retaken. The man actually thanked the lucky stars that such a violent girl was not running about murdering people in their beds.
Spencer did not punch him. But it was close.
He rode without regard to the rough condition of the road or his own discomfort. He was possessed; all he could think of was Juliana and what she must be going through. He kept alert by devising one nasty punishment after another. It helped him deal with the terror eating at his gut and the dread that engulfed him.
It was early evening when Spencer sighted The Prancing Unicorn. There was a small crowd of stable hands, postboys, and kitchen wenches with large stained aprons gathered just inside the yard. They stood in the dirt among the chickens and coaches. They were pointing to a small first-floor window of the Tudor black-and-white inn; some smiled, some frowned, and some looked only mildly interested.
Two men hung upside down from the roof; one was forcefully knocking on the casement.
Spencer alit, stretched his legs painfully, and arched his back. As he rubbed at the tense muscles in his neck, he turned to the stable boy who had run over to take his reins.
“Is something amiss?”
“No, sir, not really. Just a lady locked in her room. Don’t know how she done it. They’z”— the boy pointed to the antics on the roof —“tryin’ to get in, but she won’t open da winda. They’z just tryin’ ta ’elp, but the daft cow doesn’t know it.”
Spencer glanced up as the crowd gasped. One of the men had pried the window open a fraction, but the lady had jerked the window from him and slammed it shut. The man was left dangling while his fellow on the roof grabbed at him to prevent a spill.
Intrigued by the high drama, Spencer watched the lady at the window step closer and look down into the yard. She was a slender miss of moderate stature. The sun caught the red highlights in her auburn hair, wavy tendrils had fallen around her pretty oval face, and Spencer knew she had hazel eyes.
It was Juliana. And she had seen him.
The window was immediately flung open—jarring the hanging man’s precarious position.
“Spencer!”
There was such joy in her voice that Spencer’s feet were in motion before he realized. His heart pumped faster than his legs, and a flood of relief washed over him. He ran into the inn, spied the stairs at the end of the common room, and raced to the back.
But he didn’t make it to the stairs. The presence of a man sitting near the bottom brought him to a sudden and resounding halt.
Pyebald was sitting within a crowd of anxious and sympathetic women. He was oblivious to Spencer’s entrance, so involved in his own concerns. One woman nodded and patted his shoulder with a large red hand. “There, there,” she tutted.
“It is such a trial,” the cad moaned, closing his eyes and gingerly fingering the goose egg on his temple. “I try so hard.”
Spencer circled the group. “Do you, indeed?”
Pyebald’s eyes flew open. “Northam.”
“Pyebald.” Spencer said calmly just before he slammed his fist into Pyebald’s nose. Pyebald flew backward and landed with a thump on the rough wooden floor. He sucked at the air, gasping for breath, but lay still. His eyes were wide and fixed on Spencer’s. Blood poured from one nostril.
There was an eerie silence in the room as those nearest slowly backed away.
Pyebald continued to stare up at his attacker. The fool was likely hoping that Spencer was satisfied with one facer. He was destined for disappointment.
Spencer reached over, grabbed Pyebald’s neckcloth, and hauled the coward off the floor; then he hit him again. Spencer’s fist stung like the devil, but he was too angry to rein in his emotions. Finally roused from his stupor, the blackguard reacted—or he at least tried. Pyebald’s defense stood weak and wilted against Spencer’s fury.
Dodging a right fist, Spencer planted another facer—though this one was closer to the rat’s ear—he followed it with two more punches. A sharp thrust to his gut sent Spencer reeling backward, but only for a moment. Advancing again, Spencer crossed his arms against a body punch, and then he, too, offered a gut jab, with his elbow.
Raising his knee in the most ungentlemanly of assaults, Pyebald aimed for Spencer’s nether region. Spencer saw the purpose and, instead, stepped back, grabbing the man’s leg. He lifted up—knocking Pyebald’s
feet out from under him.
The rat crashed hard to the floor, sending chairs flying in all directions, and lay gasping once again. When he rolled over and tried to crawl away, Spencer gave him a swift kick in the rump. Since they were now close to the doorway, he grabbed Pyebald by the collar and trousers and threw him outside into the dirt.
Spencer had just hauled Pyebald up, balled his bleeding fist into another battering ram, and pulled back his arm when a hand touched his elbow. Spencer dropped Pyebald and turned.
Instantly, Juliana was in his arms, her head tucked neatly beneath his chin, and she clung to him as if she would never let go. He could feel her warmth and smell her hair. He kissed the top of her head and said sweet endearments, not one of them making any sense. He rocked her and crooned until she stopped shaking and the world stopped spinning. Spencer thought his heart would burst. She was safe, she was well, and she could still be his.
Slowly, Spencer disentangled Juliana. He could hear Pyebald behind him getting to his feet and spitting, blood, no doubt.
“See, there, all is well.” The villain even attempted a laugh—albeit a shaky one. “No harm done. Tempest in a teapot.”
Spencer felt Juliana’s body stiffen in his arms and looked down into her gentle eyes, surprised to see fiery anger … no, an explosion of rage … rise up in them. Immediately, his temper flared to boiling, and he turned, ready to plant another fist in Pyebald’s face. But he was not fast enough.
Juliana stepped in front of him, and rather than prevent another blow, she swung her fist with such speed and force that she knocked Pyebald backward. It was one hit too many. He dropped like a rock into oblivion.
* * *
BY THE TIME FATHER STEPPED OVER THE THRESHOLD OF The Prancing Unicorn’s private parlor, a sense of bustling normalcy had once again settled about the inn. The local surgeon had been called in to tend to bruised, swollen, but, thankfully, unbroken hands, and Juliana’s wrists had been bandaged. Father was able to organize and smooth the ruffled feathers of the establishment.
Pyebald received next to no attention. Once it was determined that he had lived, he was scraped from the middle of the yard—where he impeded the comings and goings of the coaches—and dumped unceremoniously onto the hay pile next to the chicken coop.
There was some discussion about notifying the magistrate, but once Pyebald’s identity and position in the peerage had been established, the good folk of Hankerly allowed that the kerfuffle might have been a bit of a misunderstanding.
Juliana cared not a whit. She knew that retribution would be meted out by the gullgropers when they came for their money and Pyebald’s pockets were still to let. Fear of that alone might force the villain to flee—escape to Spain or the Americas. It really did not matter; the man was out of her life.
Spencer dropped a coin here and there, as it seemed to be the best remedy. Soon, everyone was extolling the entertainment value of the common-room brawl. The cost of the broken chairs had been covered, and it was established that the lady was exactly that, and not a demented soul of whom they need fear.
Juliana was aghast to see the extra lines on her father’s face, as well as the gray tinge to his skin. She insisted that he eat and then lie down before they returned to the road. It left Juliana and Spencer with time on their hands, and a quiet stroll on the woodland path behind the inn—well away from the road and prying eyes—seemed like an excellent plan.
Juliana sighed happily; she was both weary and energized at the same time. A strange combination. She lifted her eyes to the sky and closed them briefly. The sun was warm, and the air was flitting about on the wings of a fragrant breeze. She inhaled. Bluebells: the sweet smell was an acknowledgment of spring. Then she heard the call of the wood warbler and the redstart, and she felt all remaining tension drain from her body. She took another deep breath and glanced back at Spencer.
“Miss Telford, do you recall your words…” Spencer started to say, then he tensed and his neck flushed.
Juliana tilted her head and frowned. When she realized that she had done so, she made a concerted effort to smooth her brows. She waited for him to continue, but they walked on in silence.
The pathway narrowed slightly as it wended between two large willows. Juliana stepped ahead and down into the greening dale just beyond. It was a pretty little clearing with an ornate wrought-iron bench waiting near a brook; it sat under the umbrella of another drooping willow. Ducks swam in and around the rocks, quacking in great concentration as they searched for food.
Spencer gestured to the bench.
Juliana sat down, but Spencer walked behind the bench and then turned. He paced behind her for some moments without either one of them making a comment.
As much as Juliana enjoyed the vista, the fresh breeze, and the calmness of the atmosphere, she was very aware that Spencer was oblivious to the day’s charms.
“Mr. Northam, is something amiss?” Juliana pulled at the strings of her bonnet. She lifted the hat from her head and wound the ribbons around the arm on the bench, letting it dangle. She couldn’t see beyond the wretched brim with it on, certainly not behind her.
“No, not really. I am considering my words. One has to get them right on such occasions, you know.”
“Oh dear, one shouldn’t have to deal with so many kidnappings that it bears the label of an occasion.”
Spencer laughed, as had been Juliana’s intent. However, his underlying tension was still very much present. “I am not referencing your latest adventure, Miss Telford.”
“So you are not going to ring a peal over me for stupidly falling into Pyebald’s clutches.”
“Of course not, the villain used our … our interest in each other to lure you. To know that you thought nothing of meeting someone you supposed to be me on a deserted lane is very telling.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. You trust me.”
“Of course. You have proved time and time again that you have my best interests at heart. A lady will always trust her knight in shining armor.”
“Is that what I am?”
“Yes. Oh most definitely.”
“I quite like that. Knight in shining armor. Yes. Chivalry and all that.” Then Spencer took an audible breath. “I am getting sidetracked.” He came around to the front of the bench and eased onto the seat beside her. Their knees touched, filling Juliana with a tingling sensation of excitement and warmth.
Taking Juliana’s right hand, he turned it and raised it to his lips. Juliana stopped breathing as she watched him press a gentle kiss into her palm. It was warm and soft, and the kiss felt intimate. Blood rushed to her head.
“Miss Telford, when I suggested a false courtship, I did not realize what I was getting into.”
“Oh dear. That sounds painful.”
“No, no. Just the opposite. The more time I spent with you, the more I got to know you, the more I could revel and wonder and appreciate how truly marvelous you are.”
Juliana blinked. If ever there was a time for clever words this was it. “Oh.”
“I would like to ask you a question.”
“Oh.”
“Has your opinion about marriage changed?”
Juliana swallowed, suddenly deaf. The leaves no longer rattled in the trees, the ducks opened their beaks to silence, and her bonnet no longer thumped softly against the wrought-iron leg. Only the loud buzzing of her thoughts penetrated her mist of confusion.
This was not the question she had anticipated. But there was no doubt that it had to be addressed. She had been rather emphatic in her dismissal of the institution of marriage not two months ago. But she had not known Spencer then … she had not experienced the strange combination of excitement and peace, yearning and contentment as she basked in his presence. She had not known abject loss, when, for a moment, she had thought him gone—falling onto the rocks at the base of a cliff.
Yes, remembering the tender looks shared between Lord and Lady Strath, the boisterous laughter of the Fare
dells, and the intimation of closeness at the Maynards’ town house had taken her closer to the idea that mutual devotion was possible. Still, it was Spencer, and he alone, who had made her mindful of the joys of love.
“Most definitely.”
But it was not Juliana alone who had disparaged marriage.
“But you do not believe in the institution, Mr. Northam. You told me so, if you recall, on St. Ives Head.”
“I think you were changing my opinion even as it was stated.” With those words, he kissed her palm, again and again and, oh-so-gently, again.
She tried to speak, but it came out as a squeak.
“And your father.”
“Father?”
“Yes, he was a consideration as well, if I recall correctly. You thought him not amenable to change—thought it might send him into a decline.”
Juliana laughed. “Indeed. A classic example of underestimation. I shall have to revise my summation of his character—for I did notice that he quite relies on you already … a Telford trait, I’m afraid.” Twisting her mouth about as she paused, Juliana frowned. “Where was I?”
“Revising.”
“Oh yes. I will now say that interfering with his research—our research—would cause great discontent … and leave it at that.”
“Though marriage would not necessarily bring about an end to your research.”
“Not if I marry the right gentleman.”
“Such as a gentleman who lived in a bug-infested county in sad need of investigation.”
Juliana nodded with a solemn expression, trying to keep her lips from curling into a grin. “Yes, a gentleman such as that. But they are in short supply.”
“I know of one.”
“Do you? Might I trouble you for an introduction?”
Spencer smiled, but even as she watched—closely—the humor disappeared from his eyes. “Miss Juliana Telford, I would be greatly honored if you would consent to be my wife.”
Juliana had never experienced such a flood of relief, joy, and, most important, love. It coursed through her entire body and left her speechless.