by Toombs, Jane
Adrien, retreating, stumbled over Sir Thomas's body. Burnet lunged at him as he staggered to regain his balance. Adrien sidestepped the rush and broke away, coming back to feint, always changing ground. The swords clanged together as each man parried the other's thrusts.
Romell inched along the wall, creeping as close as she could to the combatants. She heard the heavy rasp of Burnet's breathing, but he was unmarked except for the tear at his shoulder. The right sleeve of Adrien's doublet had been so badly slashed that ribbons of cloth fluttered as he suddenly lunged forward. Burnet stepped back until he was less than a foot away from Romell. Seeing her chance, she thrust her uncle's sword between Burnet's legs. He stumbled, falling forward, to spit himself on Adrien's sword.
Burnet cried out and pitched sideways onto the floor, his weapon clattering to the stone. "Damn you, Montgomery!" he gasped. "My blood signs your death warrant."
Adrien went down on one knee beside Burnet, who lay curled on his side, Adrien's sword embedded in his chest. Bloody froth bubbled from his lips. He glared up at Adrien, then slid onto his back, face slack, eyes blank.
Adrien rose, yanking his blood-slick sword free. His eyes met Romell’s over Burnet's body, and she recoiled at the anger in them.
"You've landed me in a fine pickle," he snapped. "Why did you interfere?"
"He—I thought he'd kill you," she stammered.
His blue eyes blazed. "He was losing his wind. I'd have had him disarmed in a few more minutes. Now, thanks to you, the man is dead. Do you realize that Sir John Burnet was one of King Charles's personal favorites?"
Romell raised her chin. "Then I'd say His Majesty has execrable taste. I'm not sorry John Burnet is dead."
Adrien Montgomery stroked his neck as he stared at her.
"I presume you're afraid for your head, like the servants," she remarked scornfully.
"I'd admire your courage if I didn't know it stems from ignorance," he said. "If the King's Men hadn't seen Burnet kill Sir Thomas, I could say they mortally wounded each other. But as it is, neither you nor I will long survive this debacle."
"Why am I in danger?" Romell demanded.
Adrien gestured toward Sir Thomas's body. "There lies your protector, a man in such disfavor with the king that His Majesty sent Burnet to murder him, A pity I didn't know that ahead of time, I might have—" He broke off and they both whirled around as the outside door opened. One of the soldiers stood there, peering into the dimness of the hall.
"Sir John?" he called.
Adrien grasped Romell's arm and yanked her with him into the west corridor. "We must get away from the house," he told her as they ran down the hallway. "We'll need horses. We can't risk the soldiers seeing us—is there any safe way out?"
"The priest's door," Romell said, and led him to a cupboard concealing a spiral staircase. They climbed to the second floor, hurried through the lantern room and down narrow stairs to the east corridor. He followed her until they came to a small door almost hidden in the oak paneling.
"The stable is around the back," Romell whispered, easing open the door. Adrien paused to pluck a servant's cloak from a peg. He threw it over her shoulders, took her hand and led her outside, moving between the shrubbery and the wall of the house toward the back.
When the raw, dank wind hit her, Romell drew the cloak close and put up the hood. The rough wool garment reeked of grease and sweat, but her satin gown was not intended for outdoors any more than her matching satin slippers were. As she followed Adrien toward the stables, the mud quickly soaked through the slippers to dampen her silk stockings and chill her feet. She slowed, and Adrien dropped her hand to hurry ahead of her when he sighted the stables.
If only she had her boots and a homespun gown from Virginia, but Sir Thomas had forbidden her to wear such clothes. Romell's throat tightened as she realized that her uncle would never tell her anything again. He'd died bravely. She'd been wrong in thinking him unlike her father.
Ahead of her, she heard Adrien gentling a horse, then the creak of leather as he lifted a saddle. She could barely see him in the evening dusk. Adrien Montgomery was another brave man. She started toward him, but had only gone a few steps when a gruff challenge from behind stopped her in her tracks.
"Ho there, sir—what do you intend?"
Adrien whirled around, his hand grasping his sword hilt. Furtively, Romell peeped back over her shoulder, keeping the hood of the cloak in place. To her dismay, the soldier behind her carried a torch. She ran toward Adrien, but before she could reach him, the soldier caught up with her, grabbed her and turned her toward him, pushing back her hood to see her face. She recognized him then as the man her uncle had knocked to the floor. Quite obviously he recognized her too.
"Take your hands off the lady," Adrien ordered, drawing his sword.
"I have them!" the soldier shouted. "To me, men—to the stables!"
Voices answered, then Romell heard running footsteps. She twisted in the soldier's grasp, ramming her elbow into his stomach as hard as she could. He grunted and dropped the torch; at once, flames licked along the straw-strewn dirt. Adrien sprang forward. As he did, the soldier shoved Romell at him. She caromed into Adrien, staggering him so he couldn't keep her from falling.
Her head struck a stall post and she continued to fall, down and down, into a blackness that had no end.
Chapter 2
"’Tis likely she'll come around after a rest," a woman's voice said.
Romell heard the words as if from a distance, and though she understood them, they meant nothing to her.
"I can't leave her. We must get on," a man's voice replied.
Romell frowned. She knew the man, though not the woman. She knew his voice. If only she could remember. . . .
"I've naught but the cart for vegetables and the like," the woman said. Romell tried to gather her wits. With great effort she opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was dancing flames. She lay on a straw pallet pushed up to the hearth of a small fireplace, but though she thought she knew every fireplace in Virginia, she didn't recognize this one, "Papa?" she tried to say, but the sound that emerged was more like a croak.
"She's awake," the woman said.
A man knelt beside Romell, and she stared up into eyes as blue as her father's. A familiar face, as the voice had been familiar. A handsome man -- every bit as good-looking as Papa.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"I don't—" she began, then paused. It was too much effort to explain how her aching, whirling head kept her mind from clearing.
"Tell me your name," the man said urgently, keeping his voice low.
"Romell." Strange, if she knew him, why didn't he know her name? "Where is Papa?" she asked.
"Who's she asking for then?" the woman's voice said.
"I'm taking you to the docks," the man said to Romell. "We must leave the country."
Leave Virginia? No, that wasn't right . . . she'd already left Virginia. With a pang, Romell remembered that her father was dead. She wasn't in Virginia at all, but in England. Leave England? Her uncle—what had Sir Thomas said?
"My cousins," Romell managed to say. "My cousins in Holland. Roosevelt. Halva and Greta."
Surely that was where they were going? But where was Sir Thomas? Romell tried to lift herself up on an elbow to look behind her, but as she raised up, her head spun. Golden dots danced at the edge of her vision until blackness gathered to blot them out. She tried to hang on to consciousness, but the darkness surrounded her.
The last thing she heard was the woman's voice: "... let you take the cart ..."
Some time later, Romell was jarred into awareness. She opened her eyes, but all was dark. Where was she? Not in a bed, for she could feel wood beneath her and the pungent smell of onions filled her nostrils. Hadn't something been said about a vegetable cart? If only her head didn't pound so, she could think why she was here.
The cart jolted over cobblestones, and Romell heard the clop of horses and the rattle of carriages
. Hoarse voices cried out wares for sale. So much commotion—was she in London? Being pulled in a vegetable cart through the streets of London? Whatever for?
She eased herself up slowly, but her head pushed against cloth before she could sit straight. The cart was covered. The mound of onions beside her made her eyes water, and her head whirled dizzily as she tried to make sense of her predicament. At last she could stand it no longer and clawed at the coarse cloth until she'd pulled it aside. She sat up.
The sky showed the grey of early morning, but of what day she had no notion. Turning her head, she was astonished to find a man pulling the cart, the shafts resting on his shoulders. She knew the set of his head, in a minute, she would recall his name.
"Here, I'll have that one, be she for sale!" a man called from in front of an alehouse.
"I smell onions, but them ain't onions the bawd shows us!" another said.
The cart halted and the man pulling it looked back at Romell. She saw the fury in his eyes, but before he could speak there came a great clatter of hooves behind them. The man yanked the cart so abruptly to the side of the road that Romell fell backwards among the onions. Six soldiers rode by, so close she could see that the nearest horse had a galled shank.
After the riders were well gone, the man came around to the side of the cart. "Stay under cover," he ordered, starting to pull the cloth over her again.
"Please ... I can't breathe," she protested, sitting up.
He paused, glancing about at the loungers.
She seemed to remember him as always angry.
He reached into the cart and pulled a leather pouch from under the onions. He opened it and took out a narrow-necked green bottle. Removing the cork, he offered the bottle to her.
"Drink," he commanded. "The brandy will calm you." When she hesitated, he forced the bottle into her fingers. "Drink, I tell you!"
Romell put the bottle to her lips and swallowed a fiery mouthful. He took back the bottle, thrust her down and hauled the cloth over her. In a moment, she felt the cart lurch as he started off again.
Well! What right did he have to tell her what she must do? She'd get out of the cart this very minute and—what? The brandy warmed her now, but she'd felt a chill when she saw the soldiers--The King's Men. Suddenly, all that had happened at Three Oaks burst into her mind, and she moaned in protest.
Sir Thomas dead, struck down from behind by John Burnet. Murdered by King Charles's command. Then, Adrien—yes, that was the man's name—Adrien Montgomery had killed Burnet. With her help. They'd run from the soldiers to the stables. After that, she didn't know what had happened. How did Adrien get away? Where were they headed?
Damn the wench! Adrien thought as he hauled the heavy cart over the uneven cobblestones of the narrow street leading to the harbor. If he hadn't interfered, John Burnet would have taken her, soon lost his taste for her. She'd have been none the worse, and he wouldn't have been in this mess--a fugitive in danger of losing his head.
But, no, he couldn't have stood aside. The girl—what had she called herself?—Romell, that was it. Once she bit Burnet's ear half off, the damage was done. After he had satisfied his lust, Burnet would have carried out his threat to let the executioner crop her ears.
Adrien grimaced. Plague take such acts! It turned his stomach to think of the executioner mutilating those who displeased the king. Beheading was different, though he wanted none of it--death, at least, had a certain dignity.
I hope the brandy quiets her, Adrien thought. If I can get us to the docks without attracting too much notice, there'll be a ship to board and we'll be safe. Not that I relish the thought of our destination. France, now, there's the place to wait out the king's displeasure in friendly comfort, whereas Holland— He shook his head. The Dutch made dull company.
If Romell hadn't cracked her skull at the stables, he would have put her aboard a ship for Amsterdam and taken himself off to France. But she needed him to guide her to the relatives she'd spoken of. What would those Dutch relations make of such a wanton? Adrien grinned. Likely regret the blood tie, he decided. Certainly Romell couldn't be considered dull, whatever else he might think of her.
He didn't blame Burnet for lusting after her, with that glorious red-brown hair setting off her fair skin, those hot brown eyes that promised an enticing abandonment, the rounded breasts that made a man hunger to put his mouth to them. . .
Damn, he was likely to lose his head over her, one way or another. Get the wench to Holland and leave her, Montgomery, he warned himself. Don't get involved.
When had Sir Thomas begun to bed her? The man was said to have become a recluse after his wife died a year ago, when he'd incurred King Charles's displeasure by openly calling in a Roman priest for the funeral service. Sir Thomas had fooled them all, holed up at Three Oaks with this young beauty.
Romell must be gently bred, for although she had an accent, it was not an ill-educated one. He would never have expected to see a girl lift a sword to defend her man as she had in the great hall at Three Oaks. She'd showed spirit and courage, and yet she was so deliciously feminine.
Enough of this, Adrien told himself. Think of your own skin. What's to do while you're in exile from England? Where's the money to come from? William, his half brother, wouldn't send a shilling once he knew Adrien was in disfavor at court. Expenses in France would run high. He had no taste for hiring out as a mercenary. What, then?
Sometimes he regretted that he hadn't sailed for the East Indies with Lawrence Hughes three years ago. Word had come back that Larry was doing well in Sumatra, despite the Dutch stranglehold on the Indies.
But when Hughes sailed in 1637, King Charles had seemed to be pulling the country together. Everyone was piling up riches, and even Adrien and William were getting along passably well.
Adrien didn't begrudge his half brother the title—never had—but the feeling between them had changed when William married Cecelia. Or, more to the point, when she had decided she preferred William to Adrien. Women, ladies or wenches, all kept an eye on the main chance.
The lowering clouds began to spit a misty rain. Adrien tried to hurry, but the refuse in the road was so thick he was hard pressed to pick his way without wading in filth. The foul stench even blotted out the smell of the onions. Adrien never thought to be a cart horse in the meanest of London streets.
Still, he was lucky to have found Callie—-luckier still that she remembered him from earlier days when he'd been a boy and she one of his father's dairymaids. If Callie had told him true, he should be nearing the Stringham warehouse. God knew he was near exhaustion. Could that be the building he sought? Yes, there was the sign.
"Ask for Jacob," she'd said. "Say 'twas Callie sent you."
Adrien pulled the cart close to the wooden building and woke the sleeping Romell, not daring to leave her alone. He made her swallow another mouthful of brandy to turn away the damp and chill, then took a draught himself.
"Pull your cloak close and say nothing," he warned before leading her into the warehouse.
Romell leaned heavily on Adrien's arm. Her head throbbed so painfully that she could hardly put one foot before the other. She concentrated all her attention on staying erect, so that when Adrien finally stopped to speak to a swarthy man with lively dark eyes, she scarcely took in the conversation.
"... boat to Holland," Adrien said.
". . . stink of onions," the dark man said, laughing.
The words floated in and out of her mind. Finally, she saw Adrien hand the man a coin, and then they were following him between bales of goods into the rain again. She heard the lap of water, saw a thicket of masts, and smelled the dock stench she remembered from her arrival in England. An interminable walk, then up a gangplank and onto the deck of a ship. More conversation with other men—sailors—until at last she was led off to a cabin with Adrien now half carrying her.
". . . you know how it is with women," she heard him say to someone.
"The sea may bring your wife around,"
a gruff voice replied. "We sail within the hour."
Wife? She wondered vaguely, whose wife? Then Adrien ushered her through a small door and, blessed relief, helped her onto a ship's bunk. Romell stretched out and closed her eyes.
She woke in semidarkness with the ship rolling and pitching beneath her. But it wasn't the motion of the ship that had roused her. A door closing, is that what she'd heard? Romell sat up, clutching at her head as she did.
"Still painful?" Adrien's voice asked, so near her that she started. He set the shielded candle he carried into the wall holder.
"I—I believe the pain is less," she answered, trying to sort out her confusion. They were on a ship bound for Holland, weren't they? But Adrien shouldn't be in her cabin. . . .
She gasped as he sat on the bunk.
"Have some more of the brandy," he said, offering her the bottle. "I do believe it's helped you." His voice sounded different, the words slightly slurred. "I had a glass or two of the captain's good Holland gin," he added. "I feel fine."
Romell held the brandy bottle in both hands, staring at him.
"Go on, drink," he ordered. "You'll sleep the better for it. A nasty crack you took back at the stables."
"I don't quite recall what happened there."
"We escaped in the confusion of the fire," he told her, yawning, "and here we are. Come now, take the brandy."
Romell raised the bottle to her lips and swallowed. How had Adrien managed to get her to London? Before she could ask him, she heard the unmistakable thunk of first one boot, then the other hitting the decking.
"Never been so tired," he said, lying down on the bed beside her.
She was shocked into speechlessness. He raised up to take the bottle from her, stored it in the carrier bin next to the bunk, then grasped her shoulder, pushing her backward onto the bed and pulling the cover over them both.