by Mary Nichols
Six feet from the building, she stopped suddenly. It had a new door which was securely bolted; the welcome was no longer there. She was a trespasser on his land, and the friendly games were all in the past and should never, never be recalled. She turned to leave and then gasped in shock. He was standing not ten feet away, his feet wide apart, his long riding coat thrown carelessly from his shoulders, his head bare, not even covered by a wig. And for once, he was not smiling. He looked like thunder.
‘I believe you are trespassing,’ he said coldly, walking towards her.
‘If I am trespassing, then so are you.’
‘That is beside the point. This is a dangerous place to be.’
‘Dangerous—why?’
He jerked his head towards the cottage. ‘This place has been used by smugglers.’
‘Smugglers?’ She was intrigued. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. The evidence is plain to see.’
‘And why should that make it dangerous? A handful of free-traders would have no interest in me.’
‘If it is only a handful. Some of these gangs are vicious and will stop at nothing to carry on their nefarious trade. You would be well advised to avoid these woods.’
‘In daylight? O, come, sir, you jest, surely.’
‘No, it is not a matter for jest. If you know anything, you would be wise to tell me of it. Who they are, when they might come again…?’
Why was he so angry? Every time they had met before, it had been a light-hearted exchange, smiles and talk of water nymphs and riding into the sunset, stars and umbrellas, not this lowering look of pure venom. She forced herself to laugh. ‘Do I look like a smuggler?’
‘They come in all guises.’ He didn’t know why he had said it, except that some of the free-traders would almost certainly be local men with local knowledge, for few people knew of the tumbledown cottage in his wood. His gamekeeper, Freddie and Lydia sprang readily to mind. His gamekeeper would equate smuggling with poaching and in any case would not do anything to jeopardise his position; Freddie was in exile and that left Lydia. As a child she had been up to all the mischief he and Freddie could devise, a real tomboy, but did that mean she had grown up still behaving in the same way?
‘And so, I suppose, do revenue men,’ she retorted promptly. ‘If you are a revenue man, you will be sadly disappointed in me, for I know nothing of smuggling or smugglers.’
She did not know who he was! But he knew her. Realisation had dawned when he had seen her run towards that hovel, her head flung back and a smile on her lips. Why had he not recognised her before? In the wrong place, he supposed, and time had changed her from a child to a woman. Chelmsford was far enough away for him to be forgiven for not knowing who she was then and even at the lecture in Malden it had not occurred to him that they had met before. But Colston? His own village. Should he not have begun to wonder then?
He had done so for one fleeting moment, but then dismissed the idea on the grounds that he would know an enemy when he saw one, that some inner voice would warn him to beware. But the inner voice had remained silent and here, in this clearing, before this door, time stood still. He was a boy again, with all the guilt and sorrow and hate still to come. And she was a child, whom he tolerated because she was the sister of his friend and it amused them to tease her. He could hardly look at her without flinching.
But he did look and the image of the child faded to be replaced by the woman, the woman who had captivated him in the rain. She was breathing heavily and her beautiful oval face was flushed, her bronze hair falling about her shoulders in a cloud. An angel or a witch?
‘Then why come here?’ he demanded, his voice so husky it was almost a croak.
‘I have said I know nothing,’ she said, defiantly, still bemused by the change in him. ‘My presence here is pure chance.’
‘Chance.’ He laughed harshly. ‘Chance is it, to come upon a place so well hidden and which leads nowhere except to the marshes where smugglers might find it easy to land their contraband?’
‘I was making for a track on the other side of the woods but then, as a stranger, I suppose you would not know it was there.’ She should walk away from him, she realised, should excuse herself and leave, but she could not. It was as if he had put a spell on her, depriving her of her will to move. ‘But I think it only fair to warn you that if the Earl of Blackwater were to find you here, it would be the worse for you he is not a forgiving man.’
‘Is he not?’
‘No.’
‘You know him well, do you?’
‘Well enough.’
‘Do you think he knows that smugglers use his woods?’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps he would not care; it is well known that the gentry shut their eyes to such things in return for a barrel or two of French brandy, a case of wine, or a few pounds of tea. And I know he is not averse to breaking the law.’
He was so angry he felt like shaking her, shouting that it was because of her he had spent ten years in exile. Yes, her, Miss Lydia Fostyn. She had alerted her father to the duel, that much he had discovered in the confusion afterwards; if she had not, his shot would have found nothing but the empty air and no harm would have been done. He and Freddie would have made up their quarrel, deciding no woman was worth the destruction of a friendship and that would have been the end of it. Instead…
Almost without realising what he was doing, he had reached out and taken her shoulders in his hands, intending to tell her so. He just had time to register the astonishment on her face, before he bent his head to find her mouth with his.
It was a harsh and cruel kiss, meant to hurt. And it did. Bewildered and not a little frightened, she struggled in his arms, kicking out with her feet. He held her fast, determined to punish her in the only way he knew how. At last, too breathless to continue, he flung her from him.
She sank to the wet ground, sobbing. Nothing had prepared her for that, not after their previous encounters, which had been sweet and gently amusing. He had flattered her and touched her lips with his very, very gently. He had lent her his umbrella and said they would meet again because it was written in the stars. How could a man say such things and then behave so cruelly? He was as bad as that fiend up at the Hall.
And then she gasped. He was that fiend! He was the Earl of Blackwater! Why, oh, why had she not recognised him? Why had she allowed herself to dream pleasant dreams about a man she hated?
She struggled to stand and he reached down to help her up, more sorry than he could ever have believed possible for what he had just done. It was unforgivable. ‘Lydia…’
‘Oh, so you do know me,’ she raged, shrugging him off and scrambling to her feet. ‘Not content with killing my father and ruining my family, you must add salt to the wound and try to humiliate me. What did you intend? That I should fall in love with you and then you could spurn me, laughing as you did so? I hate you, Ralph Latimer, hate you with every sinew of my body and if I could find a way of punishing you, I would. May you rot in hell.’
‘No doubt I will,’ he said softly, but she did not hear him, for she had fled, blundering into the thick undergrowth, trying to find the path by which she had come, blinded by tears.
Afraid she would injure herself, he strode after her. ‘Not that way, you little fool, the path is this way.’
Desperate to get away from him, she tore at the branches of an alder tree, scratching her hands and face, her feet sinking into the wet earth and dead leaves. He grabbed her arm. She fought him, she fought him for all she was worth, until they both slipped on the mud and fell to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. She lay still, like a terrified rabbit, holding her breath, her eyes closed, waiting for him to make a move, to complete the ravishment he had started. She had no strength left to continue the fight.
He sat up and looked down at her. She was covered in mud and scratches, her cloak was spread about her and her green taffeta gown was almost in tatters, revealing a pure white shoulder and the rounded top of one breast. He felt an a
lmost irresistible urge to reach out and touch it, to pull away the rest of her bodice and cup that silky flesh in the palm of his hand, to roll the nipple between finger and thumb and feel it harden. To make her want him. It would be a way of punishing her, wouldn’t it? Of taking away the pain that was always there, the pain he had never been quite able to subdue, the pain of guilt and exile, of not being there when his mother needed him, of being too late to see either her or his father before they both died. Violent deaths, just as the Reverend Fostyn’s had been a violent death.
He reached out, his hand poised above her breast, which rose and fell with her ragged breathing. His glance moved to her face. She had one arm over her eyes as if to shut out the sight of him and what he might do to her and the tension in her slight, but lovely, body was almost tangible. He could not do it. He could not despoil such beauty simply for revenge. He took the torn edge of her dress and pulled it up to cover her breast, feeling her flinch, even from that. ‘Lydia, I am sorry,’ he said.
Her hand came away from her face and her eyes flew open and the golden lights in them flashed with pure hatred. It was enough to unnerve him.
‘Sorry, sir?’ she queried, sitting up and drawing her muddied cloak about her, trying to regain her dignity and with it the upper hand. ‘Sorry is not enough. You will pay for this, you will pay for all you have done to our family—’
‘I have already paid, Lydia, over and over again.’
She did not want to hear his gentle voice, so full of sadness that it was almost enough to soften her anger. She did not want to soften. She scrambled to her feet, hopping on one foot because she had lost a shoe in the mud. ‘Oh, no, my lord, your punishment has only just begun.’
He picked her shoe up, intending to return it to her, but it was full of mud and he took a handful of leaves and attempted to clean it.
‘Give me that,’ she demanded, holding out her hand for it.
Silently he handed it to her and watched as she crammed her foot into it before setting off again. He should have stayed where he was and let her go, but he could not. He rose and went after her. ‘At least, let me see you safely home.’
‘I do not need an escort, sir, I know my way.’
‘Do you? You are not going in the direction of the dower house.’
‘I am going to see Mistress Grey.’
He remembered the old lady with affection. She had been a nursery maid at the Hall when he was in leading strings. When he became too old to need a nursery maid, she had gone to live in the village and taught the Fostyn children until they were old enough to go to school. All except Freddie, who had shared his lessons at the Hall. ‘Mistress Grey? Is she still about?’
‘Yes. Now, if you do not mind, I find your presence distasteful. In fact, nothing would please me more than never to see you again. Go back to India.’
She had found the path now and marched purposefully forward, head held high, though she looked like nothing so much as a gypsy, mud-spattered and ragged, hobbling because her shoe had split and would not stay on her foot. No doubt she would tell the world he had attacked her and the world would have no difficulty in believing her, the state she was in. It would be one more accusation he would have to live down, unable to vindicate himself. He stopped and watched her back with that lovely hair cascading over her shoulders until she disappeared, then he turned and walked in the opposite direction. Perhaps he should go back to India after all…
Chapter Four
Lydia limped on, wondering if he would come after her again. Was there no end to his perfidy? How had she allowed herself to be taken in by him, believing him to be the stuff of dreams? Because he was handsome and smiled a great deal? Had she assumed that his guilt, carried for ten long years, would have etched deep lines in his face, turned his hair white? Had she expected the returning Ralph Latimer, the new Earl of Blackwater, to look haggard and drawn, years and years older than he was?
He did not look a day over his twenty-nine years, tall and straight and firmly muscular. His eyes were clear and had, until today, been full of gentle humour when he looked at her, his mouth clean cut and… Oh, she had been kissed by those lips, had felt them on her mouth, fierce and burning. And passionate. Even in his cruelty she had recognised that, had felt an answering fire. Love and hate had become so inextricably part of the same passion, she could not separate them.
She found the old Roman track and, a few minutes later, stumbled up to the door of Mistress Grey’s cottage and banged on it with her fists, not knowing what she was going to say, how she was going to explain her appearance.
‘Lydia!’ The old lady who answered the door was almost as round as she was tall; her head barely reached Lydia’s shoulders. She wore a black taffeta gown whose voluminous skirts added to the impression. Her plump, rosy-cheeked face owed nothing to paint and her white hair was the colour nature had intended it to be. Her welcoming smile turned to consternation at the sight of the girl. ‘What in the name of heaven has happened to you?’
Lydia almost fell into her arms, sobbing and unable to speak for the tumult in her breast. Mistress Grey led her to a sofa and sat down, pulling the distraught girl down beside her and putting her arms round her. ‘My poor darling, you are safe now. I won’t let anyone hurt you.’
‘It was awful,’ she mumbled, her head in the comforting warmth of the old lady’s ample bosom. ‘I thought he—’
‘He? A man did this to you? Come, child, tell your old Harriet all about it and he will be punished.’
Punished! Hadn’t she told him he would be punished? Was this her chance for revenge? Oh, how sweet it would be! How satisfying! But could she? Could she accuse him of attempting to rape her? It would destroy him. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? She had only to say his name, conjecture would do the rest.
But she knew she could not. Her mother was right, vengeance should be left to God, but she hoped, oh, how she hoped He would not be long in bringing it down. She lifted her head and smiled wanly. ‘It is a long story…’
‘Then I will make a herbal tea to soothe you while you tell it. And, Lydia,’ she added, lifting an admonishing finger, ‘it must be the whole story, nothing left out.’
And so Lydia sat by the fireside in her petticoat, gazing into its flames, sipping herbal tea, and unburdened her heart while the old lady did her best to clean and mend her clothes while she listened. She did not comment until the tale was told and then she did not presume to offer advice, except to say, ‘Lydia, dearest, you know right from wrong. Do what is right—you do not need me to tell you that.’
‘No.’ She rose, took the mended gown and slipped it on. Though it was cleaner and no longer torn, nothing could disguise the fact that she had met with a mishap. ‘What shall I tell Mama?’
‘A fall in a puddle, perhaps. It is not an untruth, is it? I think it would distress her to know the whole story and she has worries enough, don’t you think?’
Lydia bade her goodbye and set off home, half wondering if she might encounter his lordship again, but she arrived back at the dower house without meeting anyone and slipped up the back stairs to her room unseen. The damaged dress she bundled into the back of a closet, before washing and changing into a blue muslin with long sleeves and a high neck which hid the worst of her scratches.
She was calm as she went down to the drawing room, her insides frozen into acceptance of a fate she could not change. Sir Arthur had left and her mother, with a pair of spectacles perched on the end of her nose, was sewing pink ribbon bows on the skirt of Annabelle’s ball gown. She set it aside when her daughter came into the room.
‘Lydia, where have you been? Sir Arthur wanted to take his leave of you, but you were nowhere to be found. I had to tell him you had the headache.’ She paused, noticing the scratches on Lydia’s face. ‘What has happened to you?’
Lydia sat in a chair near the fire and held her cold hands towards the blaze. ‘I went for a walk through the woods to call on Mistress Grey. The ground was muddy afte
r the rain and I slipped in a puddle…’
‘But your face is scratched and there is a bruise above your eye.’
‘I fell into a bush.’
‘Really, Lydia, I cannot think why you should take it into your head to go visiting today of all days. I asked you to wait in your room, not disappear altogether. Now what are we to say to everyone? I doubt patches will cover those scratches. And that eye! What are we to do about it? Thank goodness the ball is to be masked.’
‘I need not go. You can say I am unwell and that is the truth, for I feel considerably shaken.’
‘But I believe Sir Arthur is wishful to make his offer.’
‘You have reached an agreement, then?’ Lydia spoke flatly, as if she were discussing a new gown with the mantilla maker. It was the only way she could hold her emotions in check.
‘Yes. It will be as I said. All you have to do is listen to his proposal and give your consent. The wedding can be in June—so much nicer in the summer, don’t you think?’
‘But that is less than three months away! Oh, Mama, must it be so soon?’
‘Why delay? Sir Arthur is a widower; his home is already set up and waiting for you. And I believe he has business in foreign parts which must be transacted before the year is out. He wants to combine it with a wedding tour.’
‘Oh, Mama, it is such a big step to take and I am not at all ready for it.’
‘Nonsense. Once you have become used to the idea, you will begin to look forward to it, as every young bride does, making plans, buying clothes and fripperies, being showered with gifts from your husband-to-be, arranging your new home…’
With the right man, she might have agreed with her mother, but she was only too aware that Sir Arthur was not the right man. She was almost repulsed by him and if she said yes when he proposed, she had to spend the rest of her life with him! She shuddered, imagining him kissing her, taking her to bed, his naked body against hers. It was abhorrent! She would rather be kissed by the Earl, and heaven knew how much she hated him! Suddenly she found herself reliving the feel of that powerful mouth on hers, the strength of his arms, the hint of laughter in his eyes, and was overwhelmed by such a feeling of desolation that she could hardly breathe and was in danger of bursting into tears again.