Wordlessly conveying her anger at this desecration, she tugged on the captain’s coat until he shouted a command. The soldiers watched with impatience as Eileen waved them away as if they were useless ornaments.
Their irritation fell away as she pressed her fingers on the door and it opened. Their faces fell as Eileen darted into the room and snatched up her basket of leaves and sketching utensils and displayed them to her uncle. She then settled herself in the chair beside the grate and motioned for the soldier with the torch to light the kindling. Propping her injured ankle upon the cot, she began unlacing the shoe. At the realization that the whole pack of soldiers stared at her ankle, she sat up and waved them away.
Sir John guffawed at the bemused expressions around him. “You have uncovered the little cat’s nest, captain. I suggest you continue your search while someone sends for her maid. She has shown you the darkest secret she knows. She will not appreciate it if you trespass long.”
Angry at being deprived of his victim, the captain stalked from the empty room without a second look back.
As soon as all sound of the soldiers disappeared overhead, Eileen dived for the trapdoor and pried it up. The space beneath was empty.
Chapter 14
Reading the understanding on her uncle’s face, Eileen turned to him without a word. He held her awkwardly, patting the thick, auburn hair trailing down her back.
“There is a tunnel at the bottom of the stairs, little one. It comes out on the road to the coast. I have sent Quigley with a horse to meet him. With any luck, he will reach the coast before these idiots finish searching the Hall.”
He was gone. Without her. She had thought he’d understood. The depths of Drake’s betrayal brought tears to her eyes. After all they had done together. . . Eileen set herself free from her uncle’s grasp, not daring to think such thoughts in his presence, fearful he would read her mind.
“Let me take you back to your room. At least give some credence to your playacting by limping on the proper foot when we go upstairs. I will be back to talk with you when the men are gone.”
Eileen obediently entered her room under her uncle’s escort, but her thoughts circled rebelliously. How much of a head start could Drake have? Would she have time to catch up with him if she cut across country? How would she get away with troops swarming all over the house and lawns?
And Michael. Her heart sank. Michael guarded the stables. How had Uncle John got a horse past all those people?
After her uncle left, she instinctively gathered those things she needed most while she thought it out. Quigley must have slipped away on foot. The troops could not be patrolling all the hedges and gardens. She produced Drake’s freshly laundered clothes from their hiding place and shoved them and her simplest gowns into a canvas sack she used to carry her painting gear. Petticoats took too much room; she discarded all but one.
The back paddock. Quigley’s father kept a few of the older animals in the old stables. That’s where he had found horses. Even if the soldiers patrolled the roads, they would have no reason to halt a liveried footman of Quigley’s slight stature. If Quigley could do it, so could she.
Excitement chased the tears from her eyes. She would follow. No one could stop her. Drake would have to take her with him. She would make him understand. She didn’t need security, didn’t need titles and land and wealth. He offered all she needed—someone to love. And he needed the same. She knew it. It would work. She would make it work.
Eileen stopped to calculate what else would be needed. Coins would be helpful. Drake could not have many left by now. She had jewelry, but she could not sell Sir John’s heirlooms or the brooch Michael had given her as a betrothal gift. They would stay behind. She would have to borrow some of the gold in Sir John’s dressing room. Someday she would pay it back.
Once inside her uncle’s chambers, she had no compunction about appropriating one or two more items. Drake would need clean shirts and cravats. These would be a little large but better than none at all. All fit neatly into her bag, along with the small pouch of coins. Sir John would understand what she had done.
She supposed she ought to write a note, but she had no words for what needed to be said. Besides, time was growing short. Drake would be far ahead of her. She had to reach the coast before the ship sailed.
Eileen changed into a drab dress of rough cotton, bound up her hair, and covered herself in a hooded cloak. The day was chilly, and concealment might be necessary.
Returning to the cellars was a major concern. And she wished there were some way to say farewell to her aunt. Eileen hesitated in her doorway, knowing her aunt was the one person she would hurt most with her departure. Emma had been more than kind in her quiet, unassuming manner. She could have made life difficult by forcing her niece into the mold her daughter had left behind, but she had given Eileen freedom to be herself. Unaccustomed to displaying affection, Eileen had difficulty in showing her aunt how much she appreciated what had been done for her. This might be her last opportunity.
Knowing each moment took Drake that much farther away, Eileen was torn with indecision, but her better self won this battle. She slipped down the hallway to her aunt’s sitting room. She knew the habits of her aunt and uncle well. Sir John would never allow the crude world to intrude upon Lady Summerville’s peace. She would be sitting in the wide window of her sitting room, sipping her morning tea as usual, while all the world went mad outside her door.
Emma looked up with surprise as Eileen entered garbed for a day of pastoral painting. Regretting that she had never allowed her aunt to know her secret, Eileen stood awkwardly in the pretty room. How could she say what must be said without words?
“Come in, my love. Have some tea before you go out. Cook has given you a good meal, I trust?”
In truth, she had eaten nothing since the prior night, but Eileen nodded obediently. Food could be found for the looking, but what Lady Summerville offered could not be had for the asking. Here was the family and love and security she had craved all her life. Every time she found a haven of safety, she threw it away to chase after still another dream. When would she ever find a place she called home?
With tears in her eyes, Eileen bent and kissed her aunt’s white brow, much to that lady’s surprise. Then, without another word or gesture, she picked up her bag and fled the room.
Eileen found the backstairs unguarded and hurried down them into the kitchens. The search party had apparently broken up into several groups. She could hear men clattering about the pantry while Cook scolded. Two of the scullery maids stared wide-eyed at the handsome, uniformed soldiers invading this sacred territory, and scarcely paid any heed as Eileen helped herself to fresh rolls and bacon. From this point in the enormous kitchen, the soldiers couldn’t see her, and Eileen hurried down the corridor to the cellars.
She feared someone would be guarding the door, but once searched, the men had no further interest in it. Fools, she concluded, reaching for the hidden key.
It wasn’t there. Heart tearing loose from its mooring, Eileen ran her fingers over the frame and shook the door with stealthy rage. Locked. Sir John had been smarter than the idiot soldiers.
Frantically Eileen retraced her steps to the kitchen. She had no idea how much time had elapsed since she had left Drake at dawn. He could have left anytime. The ship could be on the sea by now. She had not even been given the chance to say farewell. She couldn’t let him slip so easily from her grasp.
With swift decision, Eileen strode out into the courtyard, canvas bag in hand. Let them try to stop her.
Two soldiers leaned against the wall of the timbered stable. Michael stood with hands in pockets, conversing with them. He might once have shared camps or battles with these men. That thought caused trepidation, but she proceeded onward.
The men glanced up with interest as she arrived dragging a heavy canvas bag. Garbed as she was, the soldiers could not discern her status in the household, but Michael recognized her.
“Ei
leen, what in heaven’s name are you about?” He strode toward her.
In the presence of others, she would not talk. Instead, she smiled, indicated her painting gear, and kept heading toward the stable.
“For heaven’s sake, Eileen, you cannot go out alone. The place is swarming with soldiers. Where is Quigley?”
Eileen waved benignly in the direction of the sloping lawns and the trees beyond. Michael watched with suspicion as she nodded to the two soldiers and proceeded into the stables as if she were the queen and they were her footmen.
When she signaled for one of the stable boys to saddle a horse for her, however, the two soldiers stirred uneasily.
“I say, miss, we can’t have nobody taking them horses out without the captain’s permission,” one ventured, nervously glancing at Michael.
Eileen smiled at him, gestured to Michael, as if he were to make her reply, and turned back to help the stable boy steady her mount.
Both soldiers turned to Michael, whom they recognized as a superior officer even if no longer in uniform.
With frustration on his face, Michael explained. “She cannot speak. She carries her sketching pad and paints in that bag and is accustomed to coming and going as she pleases. She never goes beyond the boundaries of the estate. I can see no harm in letting her go. She certainly cannot hide your prey in that bag.”
As if sensing their doubt, Eileen eagerly opened her bag and produced the sketchpad on top. She exhibited the sketch of a primrose-lined brook she had drawn the day before. The soldiers crowded around her, eager to see more as she flipped through the small portfolio. A poor attempt at a likeness of Lady Diane made her frown, and she made as if to crumple it, but Michael snatched it from her hands.
“Diane would like that. You should draw people more often. It is quite good.”
So many words from the taciturn Michael in one day! Eileen stared at him with astonishment, then smiled. Standing on her toes, she kissed his cheek. Then she returned her sketches to the bag and imperiously gestured for a hand into the saddle.
No one tried to stop her.
With a gay wave Eileen rode off toward the trees, her skirts blowing behind her as the horse broke into a canter.
The rush of excitement brought on by outwitting the soldiers soon gave way to panic as Eileen drove her mare down forest paths. She knew shortcuts that Quigley and Drake did not, but too much time had elapsed. She knew it instinctively. Drake had almost certainly reached the coast by now, if he had not been caught by troops patrolling the road. The thought of either possibility made her urge the mare to go faster. The picture of the ship sailing without her, its huge sails filled with wind, taking Drake a world away, bloomed vividly in her mind. She could not let him go.
But go he would. He had told her he did not want her with him. He had made it clear he wished only the one night with her. His sense of honor, if nothing else, would force him to board that ship and leave her behind. If he loved her, truly loved her, he would damn honor and wait, but how could he know she would follow? He could hang if he waited.
Tears streaming down her face, hair whipping in the wind, Eileen began to pray he had reached the ship and sailed safely. There could be troops all over the coast by now. She would follow as she could, just let him be safe.
Praying insensibly for conflicting desires, Eileen galloped from greenwood to flat land, over scrub fields to coastal lowlands, avoiding the highway. For almost as long as she could remember, she had lived on her own, done as she pleased, without regard to anyone. In some mysterious way Drake had changed all that, and now he was disappearing from her life without giving her a chance to explore the new horizons she had glimpsed in his arms. For all she knew, his world might be a worse one, but how would she know if she didn’t explore it? How could she turn back now?
She couldn’t. Coming to the top of a rise that would take her down into the coastal village where the Drews lived, Eileen spied the small ship sailing off toward the morning sun, its brave sails whipping in the April wind. All around it, the waters sparkled blue and silver, and gulls screeched in its wake. He was gone. He was safe. But she could not turn back.
Tears dry and cold, Eileen guided the winded horse down the rocky path. Her heart weighed in her chest like one of the boulders littering the field, but she had to know. Perhaps he had left some word for her, some place that she might reach him. Surely he had not sailed without leaving some farewell.
A patrol of red-coated soldiers watched as she crept down the side of the hill to the village.
Unmindful of their regard, Eileen rode into the village and down to the pier. She led her horse into the crude shanty beside the tavern, protecting it from the brisk sea breezes. A boy appeared from the shadows and with the promise of a coin began to remove the saddle and rub down the mare. No other horse was in sight. Quigley must already be returning to the Hall. They would be searching for her shortly.
The Drews would have seen him last. They could tell her how he looked, what he said. Just the prospect of this small shred of news lifted her hopes, and she stepped through the open door.
The sun didn’t reach into this windowless cavern, and she hesitated in the entryway with its litter of mops and brooms and discarded pans and bottles. Figures moved in the shadowy interior, and she gave herself time to adjust to the light. The smell of fresh bread mixed with the stench of sour ale. The murmur of voices drew her closer to the kitchen.
“We can’t be waiting much longer. The tide will turn,” a man’s voice protested, but not loudly.
Eileen heard no reply and hesitated. The bulk of Mr. Drew blocked her vision of the long trestle table on the far side of the room. In the dim light of the kitchen’s one lantern, Mrs. Drew efficiently pounded dough on the board at the dry sink. The older woman glanced up as Eileen moved in the doorway. She broke into a broad grin but kept silent.
As Mr. Drew walked away from his visitor, Eileen could see the silhouette of a man staring out the kitchen’s one window. Hands in pockets, broad shoulders squared tensely, he appeared to be fighting a desperate battle within himself while the older man looked on. Even in this dim light the golden light of his hair gleamed, tied now in a knot at his nape. Sir John’s old coat hung shapelessly on him, but the lace gleaming from the sleeves was snowy white. Biting her lip, Eileen entered the room as if in a trance.
At an exclamation from the innkeeper, Drake swung around. The new lines above his brow deepened as he noted the bulging satchel in her hand, but hope flashed in his eyes as he advanced toward her.
“Eileen, I cannot let you do this,” he warned.
In front of the Drews, she could not speak, but she lifted her chin defiantly, her eyes challenging him.
She knew that Drake did not need the words; he could read them in her eyes. He could not stop her. If he sailed on this ship, she would follow on the next.
“Them soldiers are looking this way. We have to move,” Mortimer Drew warned. “The lass will be blamed if we leave her here. Come on with you, now.”
Drake grabbed the heavy satchel from Eileen’s hands and propelled her toward the door.
Chapter 15
England-France, April-May, 1746
The swift sloop glided onto the sparkling waters, distancing itself from shore. A small patrol of soldiers ran down the hill, blasting their muskets at the sails and cursing, but without a ship of their own they were helpless.
Drake would have laughed had he not worries of his own.
Closing the door of the cabin behind him, he caught Eileen’s slender waist in his arms and held her close, content to let her slight body assuage a hundred assorted wounds, easing the pain to bearable.
“I knew you would come if I waited long enough,” he whispered against her hair.
“Fool.” Eileen wrapped her arms around his back. “What if they had searched the tavern as they did the Hall? I could have taken another ship.”
Drake allowed himself a smile. He had known that, too, but she had no kn
owledge of the world’s dangers. He would protect her where he could. Not from knowledge perhaps. That was beyond his capacity with one of her eager curiosity, but from the dangers. He kissed her forehead and wished fervently that things could have been different.
“The crew is short and I have promised to help them. Will you promise to stay below so I need not worry about you being blown overboard?” Drake asked jestingly, but his eyes no longer laughed. He should never have brought her to this. Eileen was willful, but not strong. Even now he could see smudges beneath the delicate skin of her eyes, and he caressed the rose of her cheek. She had saved his life. He must take care of hers.
At his tender touch and concerned look, Eileen traced the line of his lips. “Your shoulder?” she inquired.
“Aches like hell, but I’ll survive. Get some rest, princess. I should not have been so hard on you last night.”
A mischievous light leapt to her eyes, but she refrained from speaking her thought. Instead she answered demurely, “You were just as you should be, my lord.”
Drake grinned, reading the thought behind the words. “And you are a saucy wench. Do I have your promise to behave?”
“Just as I should do, of course, my lord,” Eileen replied with just the right amount of sauce to indicate the behavior she had in mind.
For answer, Drake caught his fingers in the thick hair at her nape and tilted her head to meet his kiss. Her heated response nearly delayed his departure, but with a strength of will as great as her own, he tore away.
“There will be nothing left of us by the time we reach France,” he muttered before departing to his duties.
When he came to her at last, however, Drake was too exhausted to do more than fall into a heavy slumber. The strain of days and nights without sleep or proper food coupled with the physical energy required of a healthy sailor, let alone one who sported a wounded shoulder, had taken its toll.
Silver Enchantress Page 15