"Why?" Moll whispered. "Why could you not let well enough alone?"
Gawain drew himself up. The thought of what went on in that little house filled him with heat—and a need to stake his own claim. "It is not proper that a man uses you basely, then leaves you alone to deal with the consequences. It is not proper that he squanders your future and your soul."
Moll's mouth twisted. "And you would not use me basely?"
Gawain fought down the heat that rose to his face. He could not deny the fantasies he had about her. "This is not the time to discuss my higher aims," he claimed stiffly.
Moll laughed.
The sound hit Gawain like a whip. "That time," he snarled, "will come after I speak with your paramour."
"You will not!"
But Gawain had already pushed past her, ignoring the raised knife. After watching Lucy for years, he knew a bluff when he saw one.
His blood sang high as he stepped into the clearing. He was under no illusions. There would be a fight with Moll's lover, brutal and possibly deadly. He was ready.
Even though he was ready, his breath hitched when the door of the farmhouse suddenly flew open. Jaw set, Gawain continued toward the opening, hands loose, muscles ready.
A tangle of voice and limb exploded in the open frame of door. Gawain frowned and slowed, then came to a complete stop as a small figure shot forth from the tangle. Very small. He had a thatch of brown hair and loose brown trousers that windmilled through the barnyard, scattering hens and ducks. "Mama!" the small figure cried. "Mama!"
A swallow stopped in the middle of Gawain's throat as a second figure raced after the first, taller but just as excited. "Mama!"
Toddling up the rear was a veritable doll of blond and petticoats. "Mama!" she gurgled happily.
Gawain stood rooted in the meadow. Children. No lover. She had children.
"Mama?" Catching sight of Gawain, the lead boy stuttered to a stop. His eyes went wide and surprised.
The older boy halted behind his brother and laid a hand on his shoulder. His gaze was just as surprised but knowing...and openly defiant.
Bumping into them both, the little girl stuck her thumb in her mouth.
If he could have dropped through the ground at that moment, Gawain gladly would have done so. If he could have disappeared in a puff of air, he would have. Staring into three pairs of innocent eyes, Gawain knew that Moll had been right. He had had no business coming. No business at all. There was no base lover here, only Moll's legitimate privacy.
"Timothy," Moll scolded, "where is your cap? And John, didn't I tell you to see that Lilah got her hair combed?" Clucking and tsking, Moll bustled forward to meet her children. The knife, Gawain noted, was no longer in evidence. She pushed back one boy's hair, lifted the other one's chin. "Did you eat your breakfast yet? And feed the chickens?"
Watching her back, Gawain knew she was doing her best to create a wall, to pretend that he was not there. It was no use. They had seen him. He was there.
The oldest boy shook his mother's hand from his hair. He glared at Gawain with bitter knowledge. "Go away." He made his voice artificially deep. "We don't want your kind, not around here."
Moll froze.
Gawain saw the slope of her back, the angle of defeat. She had tried so hard, perhaps too hard, to hide the truth from them. But like Gawain himself, the truth was impossible to hide. Especially from an intelligent boy who loved his mother.
Gawain shifted his gaze from Moll to the boy. He thought quickly, furiously, determined to discover a way out of this morass. He would justify his presence in the clearing to these children and, if possible, to himself. "Not my kind?" Gawain raised a supercilious brow. "And what kind is that?"
The youth flared his nostrils. "You know."
He had the spirit of his mother, Gawain thought, sighing inwardly. But Gawain drew about himself a familiar mantle of righteousness. He had not, after all, laid a hand on Moll. And that's when inspiration struck.
"You have an objection," Gawain queried, "to the word of the Lord?"
The young man blinked.
Moll's head came up.
Gawain himself felt rather surprised, but he went on in a dry tone. "You know your catechisms, of course, and can recite from the Psalms." He tilted his head. "So you have no need of my instruction?"
The boy blushed while Gawain felt a wave of triumph. He used the opportunity to take a decisive step past the family unit and toward the house. "I will hear your recital presently," Gawain announced, "once we have broken our fast."
"But—" The boy ran after him. "But—I do not know how to read."
Gawain stopped and turned.
The boy came to a stop, too, red to the roots. Clearly, he had accepted Gawain's new identity. The two other children also stared at Gawain, round-eyed.
And Moll— Moll looked as though, absent her children, she gladly would have retrieved her knife and run Gawain through with it.
Gawain smiled. "Well, then," he said and met Moll's furious eyes. He was not deluded. She did not want him in the house. She did not want him anywhere near her children. That might just put him in her life. Gawain's smile broadened. "Well, then, we will have to teach you how to read, won't we?"
Turning back and striding for the house, Gawain felt the strangest surge of power. The morning had not been a complete disaster, after all. In fact, it had proven no kind of disaster at all.
Quite the contrary.
~~~
Emile woke up remembering Crockett. He jerked to a sitting position, scattering leaves. His chest and armpits were damp, the breath tight in his lungs. Staring into the pitch-black forest, Emile once again saw Crockett throwing his food into the snow.
"Rotten!" the old man had spat. "The gain of a whoreson thief. We do not steal here!"
Emile's youthful mouth had curled. No, they did not steal, even if they had been thieved themselves of their pay by the rich nobleman who had enjoyed their entertainments for a week. Even if the food had come from the nobleman's very own cheating kitchen.
"Whatever you say," Emile had spat back. Removing the loaf of bread he still hoarded in his shirt, he had thrown it out into the snow after the rest. "Eat your pride, then." Furious, trembling with it, he had stomped off, leaving the old man to fend for himself.
In the dark under the trees, Emile puffed a breath and pushed a shaking hand through his hair. All right, all right. Point taken. It had been a stupid thing to walk away from Lucy the previous afternoon, almost as stupid as when he had walked away from Crockett. To make matters worse, he had not returned home all evening but had instead sulked out here like a child.
Emile pushed his other hand into his hair and tried to stop shaking. With the first glimmer of dawn, he would hie himself home again. Just as soon as he could be sure he would not take a tumble into the whirlpool downstream.
The steady roar of the deadly vortex was oddly soothing as Emile laid his cheek upon his knees. Not unlike the sound Lucy would probably meet him with when he did come traipsing home.
In the dark, Emile shook his head. He wondered if simply showing up would appease Lucy or if he would have to crawl a mile or two on hands and knees to make up for his sin.
She had been right, of course, not to trust him, to hold back her acceptance. Why accept a husband who, at the time of their dispute, had been strolling home giddy with relief that the local magistrate knew of no felonies attached to his name?
Emile chuckled. He was a whoreson bastard. A prigging, worthless juggler. Had he truly expected he might be looked upon as if he were anything more?
From now on he would be content with whatever scraps of affection Lucy could spare him. He would never again ask for more. The relationship was one-sided and should stay that way.
Emile's smile suddenly froze. Something had cracked out there in the night. A twig broken by a heavy weight. He had heard it, even above the steady roar of the whirlpool.
Emile did not move. The noise had been caused by an
animal, he told himself. Something big, like a deer. All the same, he kept perfectly still. Surely any predator would be wise enough to steer clear of the whirlpool. Emile had watched the water one day after he'd tossed in an apple. The apple had been snapped up as if by a hungry leviathan who lived under the swirling depths.
Another crack. Emile frowned, then sprang to his right.
A figure crashed down from the tree above him and landed with a curse. "Carver!" the figure shouted. "Over here!"
Carver. Emile did not pause to reconsider the danger of the whirlpool. Nothing was more dangerous than a human named Carver. The cutthroat had nearly killed Emile back at the village fair all those weeks ago. Only jumping into Lucy's bath had saved him. Now, silently, Emile plunged into the darkest corner of the night.
"He went that way!"
"I'll cut him off from the stream."
"Ho, there!"
Four of them, at least. Running low, Emile ducked beneath grasping branches. He stuck close to the covering roar of the whirlpool. Who knew? One of them might stumble in. Stone's cutthroats were city bred.
Crawling now, Emile stopped abruptly when a booted foot landed within an inch of his hand. He held his breath.
The booted foot strode on.
But Emile crouched where he was, uncertain whether to keep his position or move on. Would they scour the area or figure he had eluded them?
"He's gone!" someone shouted.
"Keep looking." Carver returned.
Emile ground his teeth. He would have to move, then, or they would be back to find him. Staying on hands and knees, he crept forward. His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that it was hard to hear if the ruffians were moving closer or away.
It was years of experience in similar chases that kept Emile from yelping out loud when his right hand met open air. He scrambled back in reflex, knowing he had hit the ridge above the whirlpool.
"Not so fast," a lazy voice spoke, amused.
Emile ducked, but a hand grasped the back of his collar. Emile twisted out of that, rolled, and sprang to his feet.
But they had closed in. A heavy figure rose on one side of him, just after Emile had decided to dive in that direction. They collided while another fumbled for control of Emile's right arm. A fierce struggle failed to dislodge the man's grip. Emile found himself jerked upright, his right arm caught behind his back.
He grimaced as the brigand pulled his arm high.
"So we meet again." The lazy drawl swirled out of the gloom. But there was enough of the approaching dawn for Emile to make out the long black locks falling to Carver's shoulders, the darkening of stubble on his cheek where he smiled. The cutthroat strolled forward. "Careless of you to put up that sign. It let us catch up to you."
What sign? Emile winced as his captor managed to pull his arm yet higher. "Who would have guessed you were still after me? Is Stone crazy?"
Carver drew his knife in a long, hissing sweep. "Not crazy," he replied, conversational. He laid the point of his dagger at the base of Emile's neck. "Just very, very angry."
Emile did his best not to swallow. The slightest movement would put the point of the knife through his windpipe. As it was, he could feel a thin line of blood trickling down his breastbone.
Unable to speak, then, Emile simply stared at Carver.
The brigand grinned, and Emile could see anger gleam in his face. The knife moved upward.
Emile closed his eyes. Not yet. Panic gripped his bowels. He'd left things undone. Big things. Terrible things.
Carver released an excited, rasping breath.
Not yet. Emile locked his knees to keep the terror from letting him fall onto Carver's knife. He could not die yet! He had to go home. He had to tell Lucy he loved her, no matter what she thought of him.
"Are you ready?" Carver whispered.
Emile's terror dissipated as he realized he was not going to get a chance to do that. Fate, justice—whatever you wanted to call it—had finally caught up with him.
Behind his closed eyes, Emile saw Crockett again, the way he'd looked after Emile's temper had cooled, and he'd returned to aid his old mentor. The old magician had been laid out on a woodcutter's table, white as a sheet. "Froze to death," the woodcutter had pronounced. "Fell asleep and let his fire go out."
Crockett's expression had been sour even in death.
"Are you ready?" Carver asked again.
Emile lifted his chin. He was not ready. But at least this time it would be the guilty party did the dying.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The funeral was dignified, as befitted a clown. In a black gown, black hood, and black silk gloves, Lucy quietly perspired under the warm sun that beamed upon the scene.
The entire town had turned out for the memorial, held on the grassy churchyard slope. The vicar, unused to such an audience, stammered over the service. Or perhaps what made him nervous, Lucy reflected, was the absence of a body over which to speak.
"Found 'is clothes by the side of the river, they did," Susan Toody whispered behind Lucy's back. "Neatly folded, like 'e was goin' in for a swim."
"But what would possess a man to take a swim above that whirlpool?" Betty Baker whispered back. "One slip and you're in."
There was silence from Susan Toody's direction. Lucy could imagine, however, the goodwife shaking her head in doleful disbelief. But there was the fact: Emile's clothes, neatly folded by the river and carefully placed above the dangerous whirlpool. The conclusion seemed self-evident. He had gone into the water, forgetting or unaware of the whirlpool. Drifting downstream, he had been sucked under and drowned.
Lucy kept her gaze stonily fixed upon the vicar. Forget that a thorough search had failed to produce a body—or a purse. Forget that it was highly unlikely Emile would have been so careless as to enter the stream above the whirlpool. Forget that he would hardly have taken his purse with him into the water, naked as he had apparently been.
Lowering her lashes, Lucy took a surreptitious look around the churchyard. Pip stood with his hat in his hands, his hair sticking all over the place and his eyes rimmed with red. A few of the other regular customers also looked close to tears. For the rest, there was the stolid recognition that human life was short.
But all of them, to the last child, believed Emile was dead.
With a motion too slight to be noticed, Lucy lifted her shoulders. Who was she to gainsay them?
The vicar closed his book. Looking mightily relieved, he stretched forth one hand. "Will the mourners please fill the grave?"
Silence greeted this request, made with unfortunate volume. The vicar blinked and stared at the unbroken ground before him. Lucy hoped her own face did not grow as pink as the clergyman's when he remembered that there was no grave.
"Ah, yes. Well, then." Pressing his palms together, he gave a sage bow. "Ahem. That is all."
There was a moment of indecision among the crowd. With the lack of a grave, there was uncertainty over what to do next.
Lucy shrank as several faces turned in her direction. She was actually glad when Orville pushed through from the outskirts of the crowd, scattering would-be greeters. She did not think she could bear to hear condolences.
"Mistress Fox." Orville stomped up the hill. "Mistress Fox, a word, if you please." There was no pity at all in the other tavernkeeper's demeanor. He looked, in fact, quite gleeful. "I would speak with you—" Orville huffed from the exertion of climbing up the hill. "I would speak with you first."
"So I see," Lucy drawled.
Orville held up his hands. "There is no great affection between us. We both understand that. Still, I will give you a fair price on the tavern."
"The tavern," Lucy repeated.
Orville nodded. "I realize you have cleaned it a mite, fixed it a little from what it had been before you and Emile took over the place. I realize there must be a coin or two thrown in for your little bit of work."
Lucy thought of the backbreaking labor she had put into ridding the place
of a decade of grime. She thought of the capital she had sunk into new linens, curtains, and furnishings.
Not to mention the freshly painted sign out front.
Hastily, Lucy closed her eyes against the image of that sign, the careless, grinning fox.
To feel pain would be to admit foolishness, for she'd known from the beginning what was going to happen. Emile had stated his plan as far back as their wedding night. He was leaving.
If Lucy had hurt him the other day with her ill-considered words, she had only hastened a previously determined course of action.
When Lucy opened her eyes again, Orville still stood before her, smiling expectantly.
Lucy blinked rapidly. "Why, Orville, whatever led you to believe I was selling the tavern?"
The wide smile on Orville's face froze. "You aren't selling?"
Lucy shook her head with certainty, as though she had made a single plan for her future before that moment. "Why should I sell? The tavern is profitable, and I own it in my own name now." Her mouth twisted. Yes, that Emile had given her. Perhaps even a chance at her dowry if her father believed the same story all the rest of them did, that he was dead.
"A woman owning a tavern?" The last of Orville's smile crumbled. "That is not right. That cannot be. It is absurd."
Lucy raised her brows. "Absurd? I do not know why."
By now their conversation had attracted the attention of the other mourners. Nobody moved to intervene, but everybody stopped to listen.
"I have proven I have the head to run the place," Lucy went on. "And if I no longer have my husband to entertain the crowd—" Lucy lifted one shoulder. "Neither have you."
It was a clear challenge heard all over the sun-warmed hillside. Everyone in town stood as witness.
Orville turned red. "You will fail. A woman alone...unprotected. And presumptuous. You will fail within a month."
Lucy hooded her eyes. A halfwit could hear the threat beneath his words. An intelligent woman could predict midnight salt in her garden or a fire in the barn.
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