The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga)

by Thorne, Nicola

  But the small outnumbered garrison had no hope of holding out, as everyone knew. The big cannon from Whitehaven were rolled up to Carlisle and the Duke of Cumberland himself directed the bombardment of the city. Beside the massed ranks of the enemy without the walls, the garrison knew that not only was the populace not on their side but the government forces outnumbered them by about five to one. When the guns did arrive they knew they had no chance and on 30 December the governor, Mr Hamilton, hung out the white flag.

  There was some pretence at bargaining for the lives of the garrison and the Duke of Cumberland concurred, only because he was anxious to go back to the south where he had been urgently sent for to command an anti-invasion force on the coast. But he agreed to the terms to save unnecessary expenditure of lives of his own soldiers and in the sure knowledge that his father the King would mete out justice ‘as they have no sort of claim to the King’s mercy and I sincerely hope will meet with none.’

  The townspeople went wild with joy as the disciplined Hanoverian army reoccupied the town and the ragged remnant of the Jacobite army, some having gone without sleep for nights on end, were herded into the dungeons of Carlisle Castle – Stewart Allonby, bleeding from a wound in the head, among them.

  Colonel Lord Falconer was well pleased with the swift capitulation of Carlisle, although to his mind ten days in taking the town had been ten days too long. It was not really until the 18-pounders arrived under his escort from Whitehaven that he knew the end was near.

  The Marquess had campaigned hard all year and he was anxious for a rest. He had scarcely left the side of the Duke of Cumberland, a man with whom he had little in common though he admired his qualities as a commander and a soldier. Many times had he personally witnessed the King’s younger son’s bravery on the field of battle in the Continental wars.

  Although the Duke was exactly the same age as his adversary Prince Charles he was very different to look at, being grossly overweight and having the Hanoverian proclivity for self-indulgence. However he was popular with the men who served under him and had given him the name ‘Bluff Bill’ for his easy-going ways. The Falcon sought an audience with the Duke before he returned to London and asked if he might have leave to visit his estates. The Duke had just enjoyed an excellent meal of fish, five kinds of meat and several bottles of wine provided by the grateful citizenry, and was sitting with his jacket undone over his corpulent stomach picking his teeth when Lord Falconer stood before him with his request. The Duke eyed one of his best commanders indulgently.

  ‘Why, I see no reason not to grant your request, my dear Marquess,’ the Duke said in his guttural German-accented voice. Though he had indeed been born in England, German was still widely spoken at the court. ‘But hurry south won’t you, soon? For I shall need you to keep the French away from our shores. You know how they fear Le Faucon!’ The Duke grinned.

  ‘Surely they will not attempt this now, your Royal Highness?’

  Cumberland shrugged his podgy shoulders and screwed up his small pig-like eyes.

  ‘The brother of the Young Pretender, Henry, is active in France on behalf of his father. Let us hope now they will not consider such wastage of men worthwhile.’

  The Duke belched and summoned a servant. ‘A glass of wine for his lordship!’

  The servant hurried over and poured some claret into a crystal glass. The Duke raised his glass and bowed to his colonel.

  ‘You will be well rewarded for your help to me in this campaign, Angus. After I have reported to the King my father, I hope he will consent to have you gazetted a lieutenant-general!’

  The Falcon bowed very low. He was not a soldier for the honours it brought, but to have his qualities so well regarded was very rewarding. It had never occurred to him for a moment that the Hanoverians might be defeated nor the Prince victorious. But now the thought did cross his mind that, had things gone a different way, he would be languishing in the dungeons below this very room where the Duke and himself, glasses raised, were drinking a toast to his Majesty King George II.

  The Marquess of Falconer stretched his long legs before a roaring fire and reflected that it was good to be home. It had not taken long to send the Jacobites packing, but the weather had been wretched and his quarters uncomfortable. He was a soldier and used to any amount of hardship, but there was a lot to be said for a warm fire, a comfortable bed, and ... He thoughtfully got up and pulled the bell rope by the fire.

  The gypsy had served him at table, the tall good-looking gypsy, that is: he neither knew nor cared what happened to the smaller, plain one. And what a woman she was, this gypsy as, clad only in her simple skirt and bodice with nothing on her feet, she had plied silently between table and kitchen under the direction of the major-domo.

  He had tried to engage her eyes, but to no avail. Her long lids were lowered over her eyes so that he could not see their expression. No matter. To look at her was good enough; he had no need to see her eyes or hear her speak. Her breasts thrust hard against her bodice which was but carelessly laced, and the sight of them swelling above her neat décolletage almost put him off his food. But not quite. Food was just as important as dallying with a woman, or nearly as so. For instance it gave one the strength to employ one’s amorous powers to good effect. McNeath entered silently, bowing to his master.

  ‘Your wish, my lord?’

  ‘Fetch me some brandy, McNeath, and you can ask that gypsy girl to come here ... you know, the tall one. The one who served me at table.’

  McNeath raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He understood quite well to which girl his master was referring. Knowing his master’s inclinations, he himself had made sure she had waited at dinner. He had seen how his master had observed her when he’d first seen Analee, kneeling beside her dead husband.

  ‘Yes, tell her to fetch me the brandy,’ Angus winked and settled in his chair. He leaned his head back and half closed his eyes, remembering her dark, almost savage beauty. He wondered where she came from. And then he heard a movement and, opening his eyes, saw her before him carrying a tray on which there was a decanter and a heavy crystal glass.

  ‘Pour for me will you? What is your name, did you say?’

  ‘Analee, my lord.’

  ‘And have you settled down here Analee?’

  Analee didn’t reply and his lordship turned to glance at her. ‘Well?’

  ‘I do not wish to stay here, sir. I am a gypsy girl, not happy in a house.’

  ‘Well if you want to go into the cold with marauding bands about it is up to you,’ Lord Falconer turned and, with pretended indifference, settled in the chair.

  ‘The Highlanders have returned to Scotland, sir.’

  ‘Only for a short time, they hope. Come here girl.’

  Analee placed the tray on a nearby table and stood for some time looking at it without moving. She had lain with worse men than Lord Falconer, far worse; but there was something about his easygoing assurance that she objected to.

  ‘You feel you have “bought” me, my lord?’ she said pointedly, remaining where she was.

  ‘Bought you?’ Lord Falconer wondered whether he could believe his aristocratic ears.

  ‘With the warmth and food, the shelter from marauding soldiers.’ Analee dwelt heavily on the word ‘marauding’ for the benefit of his lordship. ‘So unlike yourself, my lord. They will pillage and rape regardless, whereas you,’ she turned and stared at him derisively, ‘wish only to rape in the comfort of your own home.’

  His lordship jerked back his head. He was annoyed, indeed dumbfounded. Who did this creature imagine she was?

  ‘I wish no such thing. Leave immediately, if you so desire.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord. I will.’

  Analee was about to take the tray and leave the room when his lordship sprang from the chair and within two bounds stood before her.

  ‘Here wait. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Analee, my lord, as I have said.’

  ‘I thought it was ma
ybe Lady Analee such is the haughty tone of your speech. How dare you talk to me like that?’

  ‘I apologize, my lord, if I misunderstood your intention.’

  The Falcon felt himself flush, while the commotion in his loins engendered by his previously lewd thoughts grew more persistent. The girl, the gypsy brat was looking at him with the most tantalizing, provocative air, her eyes blazing with scorn and her lips half parted. Curse her!

  He gave a deep breath but, unable to maintain control, seized hold of her shoulders and crushed his mouth down on hers. At the same time he got a knee between her legs and pushed her against the broad sofa that stood alongside the window. She put out her arms to prevent herself from falling and thus lost all means of protecting herself and all the time, relentlessly, unyieldingly his lordship’s mouth bore harshly down on hers thrusting her head backwards.

  The Marquess began to straddle her on the sofa, and Analee was aware of the enormous strength and power of the man. But although she was angry she was not frightened. There was something so deft, so expert about his lordship’s actions, that she realized she was in the grip of a practised seducer and marvelled at the skill with which he had manoeuvred her into this position. Glancing up at him, Analee was reminded of some great untamed savage with his dark looks and thick black hair falling over his face.

  Looking down at her, completely in his power, Angus saw a face not contorted with fear, but one in command of itself, angry, but not as angry as he would have expected almost ... could one possibly say, half amused?

  The expression, totally unexpected in one about to be raped, stopped his lordship in his tracks and though he still straddled her he put his hand on his hip, gazing at her with astonishment. Analee smiled.

  ‘Must you rape, my lord, when you can take me to my pleasure as well as your own?’

  The dignity, the charm with which she spoke, reminded Angus of a London courtesan of his acquaintance who had begun life as the daughter of a French nobleman, but who had taken to whoring when her family were faced with destitution.

  She was still a gracious lady, but had completely abandoned herself to carnal delights and her conversation was as witty as her style elegant. She was, it was said, making a fortune so much were her talents appreciated by those gentlemen who liked their love to be amusing and sophisticated, if ephemeral.

  ‘Your pleasure?’ His lordship said. ‘You mean you will not resist?’

  ‘Does it please you more if I do?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  The Marquess of Falconer began to feel rather foolish and backed away from the half recumbent form of Analee putting out a hand to help her to her feet, tantalized by the sight of the mocking curve of her mouth.

  Still clasping her hand he pulled her gently over towards him. Her eyes were wide and, as she offered her half parted mouth to him, he could see in them a desire similar to his own. The thought excited him beyond reason and he crushed her body in his arms.

  Slowly they sank to the floor and lay there on the thick Persian rug that his late father had bought in the east many years ago.

  As he made love to her he could see she enjoyed it too, just as the courtesan in London did, the excellent Marie-Claire. She expressed great satisfaction with love-making and always declared how much it pleasured her, unlike some of his mistresses who never ever admitted to anything other than that they were rendering him a supreme favour.

  He saw Analee’s dark eyes looking into his. ‘Better than rape, my lord?’

  ‘Much,’ he gasped. ‘How did you learn this art?’

  ‘I am a sorceress.’

  ‘I can believe you.’

  The Falcon rose and, going to the table poured more brandy. Then he brought two glasses over to where Analee lay still on the rug, and sat down beside her.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ She sat up and took the glass, sipping delicately from it. He saw that her body, though, thin, was without blemish and her skin shone with health despite the vicissitudes she must have endured. Her dark hair hung about her face as she drank and the long elegant curve of her breasts reached towards the fire.

  ‘You are a mystery,’ he said. ‘You have just lost a husband and yet ...’

  Analee shook her head.

  ‘It is not as you think. He was my husband but I deserted him many months ago. That is why I was not in the Buckland camp. I had wandered from it and when the war began I decided to return.’

  ‘And Nelly?’

  ‘A companion, a poor woman like myself.’

  ‘Why did you desert your husband?’

  ‘It is too long a story now, my lord,’ Analee looked at him and he could see her eyes were sad. ‘One I might tell you some day.’

  ‘Some would despise you for what you did just now,’ Angus said harshly, ‘lying so easily with a man.’

  ‘Do you despise me?’

  ‘I ...’ His lordship was again surprised by Analee. ‘No ... but I am a man of the world. I have known many women; but you, Analee, you remind me of a very remarkable woman of my acquaintance in London whom some would call a whore; but ...’ Angus shook his head, ‘in some curious way she transcends whoring. I never think of her as a whore though I pay her well for her services.’

  ‘She likes love,’ Analee said simply. ‘I am like that. I understand it. I need men as much as any man needs a woman. That is why I wanted to turn rape to love, because I knew you needed me and would have me and I ...’ she looked solemnly at him, ‘I did not want to have to hate you. I cannot forget the dead gypsy women in the camp with their skirts above their buttocks.’

  ‘No,’ Angus drained his glass. ‘I can see that. It was vile. Unfortunately I see it often in war. Violence excites men’s passions. The same thing can be both horrible and beautiful.’

  Analee smiled and moved closer to the black giant.

  ‘Your manservant told us that some said you could be gentle, but he scarcely ever saw it. I think those people who do are mostly women.’

  ‘Aye,’ Angus laughed, conscious of her warm body pressed up against his. ‘I am a soldier used to war and giving commands. Certainly few of my men consider me gentle. I am glad you do Analee. I am glad I did not take you by force.’ He leaned over to her and kissed her shoulder, aware that she turned towards him and nestled her cheek against his. ‘Can I take you to my bed and we can do this again in comfort?’

  ‘I think it comfortable here by the fire, but I will do as you say, my lord.’

  She smiled at him with mock humility, but Angus Falconer, great lord that he was, was already too besotted by the gypsy to notice.

  17

  Analee sat in her clean attic room looking out at the snow which fell on the Cheviot Hills surrounding Falcon’s Keep. The lair of the Falcon ... She shivered. Although Lord Falconer’s lovemaking was breathtaking, there was something menacing about him as well. She had no objection to the fact that he used her as an object, as a servant she expected nothing more, but his overpowering strength had at times frightened even her, a woman used to the ways of men.

  ‘He is a violent man,’ Analee had gasped wincing with pain as Nelly rubbed some ointment on the sore places, ‘he admits it. He is a soldier used to war and has never really known a gentle home life. His Mother died when he was a boy and he went for the army as an ensign aged only eighteen.’

  ‘I see he tells you everything to gain your pity,’ Nelly had said sarcastically.

  ‘But he can be so tender and loving ...’ I think I am more than intrigued by Lord Falconer.’

  Her eyes sparkled and Nelly marvelled that one so hostile at first could now appear so enamoured.

  Analee seldom had the chance to sit down, and she crouched by her bed looking out of the narrow window. After a night in the Falcon’s bed she had crawled upstairs to try and snatch half an hour’s sleep before the bustle of the castle began again.

  Mrs Ardoine, the housekeeper, had disliked Analee on sight and delighted in giving her th
e most menial of tasks; grate blacking, floor scrubbing, anything that involved hard dirty work. Even some of the tasks that were normally done by boys Mrs Ardoine gave to Analee, and that morning she had cleaned and laid the fires in the grates of all the main rooms, staggering along by herself with great piles of logs.

  Nelly spent almost all of her time at the sink, her arms in water to the elbows. In a great house such as Falcon’s Keep there were many mouths to feed, and different hours for the many classes of people who lived there – the family, guests, then the servant hierarchy beginning with the housekeeper, the majordomo, the head butler and so on right down to the meanest skivvy like Nelly and herself who were not even allowed to sit at a table but grovelled on the floor for what they could get.

  It was a mean existence and Analee looking out longed for the open spaces again where she was her own mistress, alone and free. And now that the master of the house had taken her to his bed? What could she expect once his lordship had tired of her?

  Her eyes searched the bare, harsh mountains for a path that would lead her away from the house, out of sight of the narrow road that approached it. Maybe when the thaw came and there was no snow to betray her tracks?

  ‘Analee! Analee!’

  Nelly came rushing in nearly tripping herself up in her haste. ‘Oh, Analee, you are there! Mrs Ardoine says she will whip the hide off you when she finds you. What ails you, Analee?’

  Nelly knelt down looking anxiously into the eyes of her beloved friend. She knew what hour Analee had come to bed; how she had scarcely eased her aching body on to her pallet or closed her eyes when they were harshly awakened. Nelly was fearful for Analee now that the dreaded Falcon, the master of the house, had chosen her as his prey. Why, he was such a terrifying man he would surely treat her even more cruelly and once he had had his way cast her aside, maybe with child, uncaring as to what would become of her. Nelly had been unable to believe that Analee had spent all night with Lord Falconer until, recovering her humour, she had described to Nelly the vastness of the master’s bed and how at times she thought she would lose herself in it, but his lordship always seemed to be able to find her again!