It did not matter. His concern for Franklin had not prevented him from making lewd suggestions to his bride. Even if Nate were able to forgive her Franklin's death, her position at Beau Repose would not be a safe one. If her father-in-law expected to enjoy the favors of his son's new wife, how much more would he not insist on intimacies with his widow?
He could not force her, could he?
She lowered her hands, clenching them before her. Her gray eyes wide, she considered the question. It was not inconceivable, given his idea of her lack of virtue. He might well use the thing she had just done as a hold upon her, forcing her compliance to prevent her being accused and prosecuted as a wanton killer. Why should it not be so? Had he not used much the same tactic to ensure her marriage to Franklin in the first place? Even if he did not try that method, his importunings, his sly glances, and excuses to touch her would make life unbearable.
She could not endure it. She would not. That being the case, she could not stay at Beau Repose. She would have to leave, at once, before Franklin's death was discovered. She would have to go tonight, this moment.
She took three quick steps toward the bedchamber, then stopped. Where would she go? Her aunt had warned her that, if she brought more disgrace to the Forrester name, she would not be welcome in her home. What did that leave? She had no money, nothing of value to sell to gain funds to travel with or with which to keep herself until she could decide what to do.
Her head suddenly rose and her gray eyes widened. Wait. That wasn't true. There was the betrothal bracelet. Did she dare? Did she?
She must; there was no other way. The decision taken, she moved with quick steps into the bedchamber. Being careful not to glance at the body in the sitting room, she caught the door and pulled it to behind her. Turning then, she took a deep breath and moved to the armoire where she flung open the door.
Her gowns, for all their fullness, took up little space in that commodious wardrobe. They were few in number, and most of the space was given over to her petticoats, with the collapsed hoop of her crinoline standing in a great circle behind them. To think of making an escape in so unwieldily a costume would be foolhardy. She reached at once for her riding habit, freshly cleaned and pressed that morning, which hung on its brass hook.
She threw the garment on the bed and stripped off her torn nightgown with feverish haste. Searching out pantaloons and a camisole, she drew them on, then reached for the long poplin skirt. It was only as she was hooking the waistband that she remembered.
Ramon Cazenave. She could not leave him behind at the mercy of Nate Bacon's revenge. As a prisoner, he was too vulnerable, too near, when Nate's terrible rage over the death of his son would be loosed. She would have to do something. But what?
She worried over the problem as she finished dressing, and put up her hair. Franklin had gone to see Ramon at some time during the day; he had been at pains to tell her that. She did not think, from the way he had spoken, that his father had been aware of the visit. Did that mean that the key to the plantation jail was not kept by Nate himself?
Where, then, could it be? That the guards set to watch the prisoner might have it she rejected at once. The only servant trusted with keys was usually the butler, or majordomo, and then only the keys to the wine closet, smokehouse, storerooms, and the cabinets where the silver was kept. Her own aunt had carried those same keys herself on a silver chatelaine at her waist, along with the keys to the spice chest, the tea caddy, and the knife boxes. It had been her uncle who had retained the key to the jail. The padlock it opened being a heavy one, and the key, therefore, of some size, he had not liked carrying it on his person. It had hung on a peg inside a cabinet in his study. No one had dared disturb it.
There was still music coming from the front lawn when she opened the bedchamber door. The strains of "Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair" echoed up the stairwell and along the softly lighted hallway. It did not seem possible that so much had taken place with no change in that peaceful gathering in the encroaching darkness on the gallery.
There was no one in sight. She stepped out into the hall and, with the utmost care, closed the door behind her. Keeping close to one wall, she eased toward the stairs. Descending a single slow step at a time, she paused often to listen. The house rang with a myriad of muffled noises-the far-off clink of dishes, the low hum of conversation among the guests outside, the music. She felt exposed there on the staircase with no where to run, no place to hide if anyone decided to step into the front hall. It required an effort of will to force herself to go lower, and lower still. Then, near the foot, she caught the sound of voices in the dining room; it was the servants clearing away the remains of dinner. Losing her nerve suddenly, she took the last treads with quick steps and slipped into the study. She stood for a moment with her back against the door and her heart pounding, then flung herself with nervous haste into the search.
The key was not in the book cabinet with its glass doors; nor was it in the shallow drawer of the desk. She found it finally by chance. Turning from the desk, she had stumbled against the chair behind it. The man's coat that hung over the back had fallen to the floor with a dull, clanking sound. She had pounced on it with a smothered cry. Pushing her hand into a pocket, she brought out the key on its iron ring.
The dining room across the hall was quiet when she emerged. The door stood ajar. Through the opening, she could see the cleared table, denuded on its cloth. Beyond it stood a sideboard still laden with cakes and pies on tall silver and crystal footed stands. The smell of food lingered on the air, a ripe and rich fruitiness that was nauseating. It reminded her, however, of what Franklin had said; that Ramon had been given nothing to eat since he had been taken. The ghost of an idea flitted across her mind. Before she could grasp it fully, she had slid into the room. She moved lightly to the sideboard and snatched up a silver stand holding three-quarters of a dewberry pie.
"Why, Mis' Lorna, what are you doing there?"
She whirled at the sound of the question voiced behind her, and came face to face with a manservant in a white jacket. She remembered him as one of the men who attended to guests, bringing in their trunks and boxes, and who sometimes served at the table. His face, she saw at once, was creased with concern, not accusation.
When she did not speak, he went on. "You should have rung for somebody to bring that pie to you."
She glanced from the juicy dessert she held back to his liquid brown eyes, then tilted her head toward the side door that opened from the house onto a covered ramp leading to the outdoor kitchen behind the house. "I…did ring. I suppose you were all out there."
He gave her a puzzled look. "The bells are on the back gallery; somebody should have heard. Anyway, shall I carry that up for you now, and maybe bring some fresh coffee to go with it?"
"No! No, you…might wake Franklin. Don't worry, I'll just take it along myself."
It was a moment before he answered, a moment in which his brown gaze rested on the side of her face where the shadow of a bruise lay. In it was a flicker of something that might have been understanding, even conspiracy. He lowered his lashes. His voice was a shade softer as he spoke. "As you like, Mis' Lorna."
Had the servants overheard something of her struggle with Franklin? It did not matter, so long as they did not guess the outcome. And how could they? Just because she felt as if the brand of a murderess must be imprinted on her forehead in letters of fire did not mean that anyone else could see it.
"Good night," she said and, giving a small nod, walked away.
"Good night," came the reply.
Still, the manservant stood looking after her, and it was necessary to turn toward the stairs once she was through the door, and even to ascend them for a short distance. As soon as she heard his retreating footsteps, she tiptoed down again. Swinging around the newel post, she hurried toward the back of the house and the French doors surrounded by glass-paned transom and side-lights that stood open to the night.
Her relief at being out
of the house, safe in the covering of the velvet-black night, was so great that she paused to draw air into her lungs, not even aware until she felt its sweet rush that she had been holding her breath. She could smell the heady drenched scent of roses and the sharper perfume of honeysuckle. It was a cool spring night, so gentle and filled with growing things after the rain, too gentle for the cruel things that could happen under its benign darkness. There was no sign of the moon or stars, for the sky was still overcast. For that, she was grateful.
A small shiver ran over her as had happened on and off at odd moments throughout the past half hour, but now she made a determined effort at control. Holding her head high, with the skirt of her habit caught up above the wet grass and puddles of rainwater in one hand, and the pie clutched firmly in the other, she started toward the path that led to the stables, the cooperage, and the plantation jail.
The guards, a pair of them, were squatting on their haunches near the door of the small building, leaning against the trunk of the great oak that sheltered it. They came erect, one picking up a musket as she approached, the other reaching for a stout hickory staff. There was a lantern hanging on a crosspiece tacked to the tree. Its light revealed an overseer and one of the field hands, both of their faces blank as they tried to hide their amazement at seeing her there at that hour.
She had not met either of them, but their bobbing nods as she wished them good evening indicated they were aware of her identity. The overseer held his gun loosely, seeing no threat in her presence. His gaze, as he studied her in the flickering light, held a shading of insolence that made her think briefly of Franklin's mention of gossip among the slaves. The overseer, living in close contact with them, must have heard it. A thin man with close-set eyes, he was one of a breed she had seen since childhood and accepted for what they were; men who preferred to take another's wages than endure the hard work of carving out their own acreage. Why this one was not in the army, she did not know. Most had gone, marching off as though on a hunting trip.
"It has come to my attention," she said in as calm a tone as she could muster, "that the man inside has not been given food or water. I have brought him something to eat."
The two glanced at each other, then back at her. The overseer asked, "Did Mister Bacon say it was all right?"
"Would I be here otherwise?" She stepped forward, letting fall her skirts and drawing out the key from where she had slipped it into the pocket of her habit.
They could step aside or bar her way; the choice was theirs. The overseer took a quick step toward her, reaching for her hand even as she tried to push the key into the padlock. She jerked back from him, but he only took the key and fitted it into the lock, saying, "Allow me."
As the door swung wide, she hesitated, then stepped inside. It was dark in that single cell. The gleam of the lantern light, falling in through the opening, cast her elongated shadow across the dirt floor, but did not reach into the black corners. It showed faintly the outline of a wooden bunk without sheeting or mattress, and the square of a barred window. That was all.
"M'sieur Cazenave?"
There came a whisper of sound, the quiet rustle of clothing from close by. He spoke at her left ear, so near she felt the warm fan of his breath. "Isn't that a little formal, considering the closeness of our acquaintance?"
She controlled a start, conscious of the fact that the silhouettes of the two guards, plainly showing the long barrel of the overseer's musket, had joined hers on the floor as they closed in behind her. "I have brought you something to eat."
"Have you? It's early for you to be playing lady of the manor."
Stung by the sarcasm that weighted his words, irritated by the strains of the night and a sudden reluctance to have him think her actions stemmed from any personal feeling, she snapped at him. "I would think your position too hazardous for it to matter!"
"Now that," he drawled as though it had not, heretofore, occurred to him, "is very true."
She moved farther into the cramped cell. Her voice was no more than a thread of sound as she spoke. "You won't quibble then, I hope, if I have come to set you free?"
There was complete silence for the time it took the overseer to take a scuffling step across the threshold. "Mrs. Bacon-"
Ramon sprang with the coiled strength of a panther, grabbing the barrel of the musket, dragging the overseer into the cell. At the same time, he swung a hard fist with iron muscle behind it, catching the man behind the ear. Lorna stepped hastily aside as the man plunged full-length, his musket clattering to the earthen floor. The second guard yelled, charging in with his staff raised. Ramon whirled to meet him, catching the hickory rod with both hands, wrenching it free, bringing the lower end around in a solid blow that sent the man careening into the wall. He fell limply and lay still.
Behind Ramon, Lorna saw the overseer shake his head and reach for his musket, coming to his knees. There was no time to sound a warning. As he brought the weapon to his shoulder, she half-threw, half-shoved the pie on its heavy silver stand at the man. It struck the side of his face, smearing his features with dewberry syrup, which ran into his eyes as he pulled the trigger.
Orange fire belched toward the ceiling. The concussion of the shot exploded in the small room, filling it with the blue-gray and acrid smoke of burning gunpowder. The ball struck with a solid thud, and splinters like tiny stinging arrows filled the air.
Cursing, the overseer staggered to his feet, swiping with his arm at the juice running down his face. Ramon swung to wrench the useless musket from his hands. He brought the weapon around in a swing that connected with the man's jaw, sending him sprawling.
Ramon did not wait to see if he would stay down. He reached to clamp fingers of steel around Lorna's wrist, then dived for the door, dragging her with him. Outside, he skidded to a halt long enough to douse the lantern. In that brief moment, there could be heard the sound of men, alerted by the shot, calling; of dogs barking and women chattering. Then, they were running, plunging headlong into the darkness.
Where they were going Lorna did not know. She had no time to look, no time to think. It was all she could do to keep her skirt from under her feet, to try to match the pace Ramon set. The ground was soggy, splashing water up as they ran, but was also fairly level and smooth. She thought they were skirting the lawn, keeping well away from the main house, but she could not be sure.
The hem of her habit grew wet, dragging at her feet. She felt as if she were running blind into danger, pulled by a force she could not withstand, unable to control her own movements because of the hard grip on her arm that hindered her balance even as it aided her flying steps. She tried to match his long stride, but it was impossible for any length of time. Her breathing came in gasps. The blood pounded in her head. She strained her eyes, but could see nothing ahead and was only dimly aware of the bulk of the great house behind and to their right as they continued.
"Wait," she gasped, pulling back her hand. "I can't keep up."
"We can't wait." He did not release her, nor did he slow his pace.
"You go on."
"And leave you to Franklin? Is that what you want?"
"No. No, he's dead," she panted. "I…I killed him."
"Mon Dieu," he breathed, "then you can't be left behind, not at any cost."
The grim certainty of the words sent a flutter of terror through her, such as she had not felt before. She redoubled her efforts. Through the pounding in her ears and the thudding of their footsteps, she could hear the shouts as Ramon's escape was discovered, the first yells of organized pursuit.
"They…they'll have horses," she said, "and dogs."
"It doesn't matter."
She was glad he thought so, she told herself in a flash of anger. She thought it was going to matter a great deal in a few short minutes.
Abruptly, he jerked to a halt and stood staring back the way they had come. Following his glance, she saw the big house with light flooding from the hanging lantern over the front doorway and stream
ing from the windows. The gallery was deserted now. Every door of the mansion was closed and window shut, however, as if the guests who had crowded inside feared the escaped man might try to break in.
On the drive before the house stood a carriage, apparently ordered by someone who had decided to make a late departure. The horses were restive, disturbed by the noise around them, flinging up their heads, and jostling in the traces. A stout woman was being helped into the vehicle by a man presumably her husband, while the driver on the box held the team. Almost before the woman had dropped into the seat, her husband leaped in after her and yelled up the order to start. The driver loosened the reins and the horses lunged down the drive. The lighted lanterns on either side of the carriage body sent shafts of light splaying into the darkness.
Ramon whirled Lorna around, like a child swinging another in a game of flying statues. She needed no urging to seek the cover of an arching row of damask roses. She went to her knees behind them, choking on their rich scent, feeling the sting of their thorns, and the wetness of the ground under her knees as she burrowed under the overhanging canes.
The carriage bore down upon them, sounding as if it must grind them beneath its wheels. She half expected Ramon to try and stop it for use in helping them get away, but he let it pass. Lithe, heedless of the thorns, he swung immediately from their
hiding place and held back drooping roses as she scrambled to her feet. He took her hand then, and once more they fled.
There had been a time when, as a child, she had been able to run without stopping for long distances, rejoicing in the effortless ease of it, enjoying a sense of boundless endurance. When had it ended? When had she become so stifled and housebound that she had lost that ability, that capacity for hardiness? She could not go much farther. Every breath was a knife in her chest. Hearing the distant sound of the dogs being turned loose on their trail, she thought it possible she would not have to continue the footrace much longer. It would not take long for the dogs to catch up to them, not long at all.
Surrender in Moonlight Page 8