by Robyn Carr
He had put one hand on the saddle when he seemed to sense a presence behind him and whirled to look at her. His plumed hat was low on his forehead and almost covered one eye. He peered at her from under it, his black eyes burning. She could barely see distinguishable space between his brows, thick lashes, and dark eyes. It was only out of the comer of her eye that she saw the long, deadly whip he held coiled in one gloved hand. For an instant she thought it might unwrap itself and lash her.
He dwarfed his servant and stable boy. His swarthy figure, all clothed in black velvet and leather, was devilishly grim and powerful. He looked only at her face and only for an instant before jerking his head to his steward. “How long has she been here?” he asked impatiently.
“She? Milord?”
Wescott chuckled slightly and looked back toward Jocelyn with some humor. He let his eyes go over her leisurely, from the snagged stockings to the linen shirt that was tied over her small breasts. His gaze lingered for a long time on her face, her cheek still boasting a mark from Stephen Kerr’s riding crop, and on the few dark curls that fell around her face from under her brother’s hat.
“You old fool,” Wescott chided, his voice gruff and deep, but with amusement lying beneath his words. He took two long strides toward her. Jocelyn believed she hadn’t blinked since he had come out of the manor. Her wide, startled eyes were filled with him. She thought he was larger somehow than on the night she had seen him whip Stephen Kerr. He grabbed the hat from her head with a swift motion and her long, dark hair fell in ringlets around her shoulders and down her back.
The steward gasped at the trick that had been played on him.
Sir Trent laughed deep in his throat, while behind him the servant babbled and stammered and made excuses. There was a half-smile on Trent’s lips, but his eyes were dark and menacing. Jocelyn felt herself grow warm and uncomfortable from the way he looked at her. If she could fairly judge what she saw in a man’s eyes, he seemed pleased with the sight of her. His dark-gloved hand came slowly toward her and he took her chin, tilting her face so that he had a clearer view of the mark on her cheek.
“So,” he finally said, “you are the boy who comes here every day seeking a favor from me in return for service?”
“Aye, milord,” she said quietly.
“And that favor?”
“My brother is still held at Dearborn by Stephen Kerr. They promise to hang him.”
“Ah. And his crime?”
“None, save his sorry temper. Kerr punished my father in Bowens Ash for failing to meet the lord’s toll with more property. When Peter feared our father dead, he flew at Stephen Kerr in a temper, but he could not have hurt Kerr, milord. He is only a boy—and he is not very strong.”
“Bowens Ash is not a rich place. What toll is this?”
“A price to have the manor guard in our village to protect us against those who would usurp the Kerr lands.”
Wescott began to laugh again, a deep gurgling sound.
The difference in this rolling thunder and his earlier laughter was instantly clear. There was no amusement now. “The damn fools—the toll is useless. Don’t any of your people know that the worst that could befall you would be better than Kerr? I am one of only a few to hate the bastard, and I have not threatened the little sty called Bowens Ash. There is no threat. You pay a toll for nothing at all. Go home and tell the people there to give up the guard and cease to pay the toll. Tell them on my word, if that matters to anyone.”
He turned sharply away from her as if to leave. Jocelyn straightened her back and sought a stronger voice to stop him. “The people in Bowens Ash want no guard. We’ve been offered no choice.” Wescott stopped and turned back to her. “Kerr’s bailiff and guards will take animals or the maidenhead of a young girl when coin is lacking.” His eyes glistened slightly. “We are not fools, milord. We are only poor.”
“And what have they taken of yours?” he asked, his voice rather quiet.
“My father is weakened from his punishment and my brother is chained near the Dearborn stable. And ‘twas your whip that saved my virtue. But it will be shortlived, I am certain.”
There was a sharp drawing in of his features in a kind of pain. Jocelyn was confused by it, but tried not to let it show. It was as if she’d given him bad news about his own family and not some farmer’s brats who were abused. With an impatient flourish of his arm, he gestured toward his servant. “Did Avery tell you that I have given my word to the king to exempt myself from problems with Lord Kerr and his family and holdings?”
“He said you were troubled with the Kerrs as little as possible, milord.”
“ ‘Tis far more than that. Far more. I don’t know that I could help your family even if it pleased me to do so.”
“But you do fight them, milord. I’ve seen you.”
“What you saw may cost me dearly, and I am already poor.” He turned away from her and mounted his horse, taking up the reins. He looked down at her from astride. “What will you trade for any favor from me?”
“Whatever I have,” she said.
“You might make the same offer to Stephen Kerr and do as well.”
“When a beast from the wood first tastes the meat of a man, he begins to kill to satisfy his hunger. When a man of quality tastes a roasted beast, he is not driven only to slaughter, but still tends his garden faithfully. No, I don’t think Stephen Kerr can help me.”
Sir Trent looked at her suspiciously, weighing her words and then responding with a sly smile on his lips. “Whose simple wisdom is this? You do not appear worldly enough for such logic.”
“My father, milord. He knows much of men’s hungers.”
“Knowing this much, he lets you come here? He is either a fool or a besotted priest.”
Jocelyn looked down at the ground in front of her, hoping a deep and uncomfortable flush would not mark her cheeks.
“Ah, now I see. This was not your father’s plan for you. Did you tell him of your plight with Stephen Kerr?”
Jocelyn looked up and nodded rather weakly.
“And what was your father’s choice for you?”
She swallowed hard and blinked back threatening tears, hoping to keep her chin strong and her voice clear. “He would have me either hide carefully or marry a farmer near our town, and pray for Peter’s deliverance.”
“Does he know you chose this instead?”
Again, she nodded.
“He is wiser than you. You should listen to your elders.”
“But milord, prayers will not help my brother, and my father needs him more than me. No matter he is displeased, if in the end he has Peter home, and strong enough to work. Please, milord. I know of no other who would dare try to free him.”
Wescott raised a dark brow. “What of this farmer you would marry? Why doesn’t he help you?”
“I don’t know,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “Mayhaps he lacks courage. Mayhaps he cares not. His reason is of no matter—he does not help us.”
He looked at her for a long time, his steed prancing in place and churning up the dust in the road. But Wescott managed the reins and his stare was level even though the great beast seemed eager to go. Wescott appeared to be deep in thought and heavily considering her. Finally, after long moments, the horse stilled slightly just as Wescott began to speak.
“None of the men sworn to protect you come to your colors, and you brave the dangers of the roads and my wrath to see your brother freed? Methinks you have decided you deserve a stronger, more courageous knight. Is that why you come here?”
“I swear, milord, I think not of what I might deserve, but know of no one, save you, who might help Peter. My father needs him home more than me.”
He seemed impatient to be done with it. He looked briefly away and then back to her. Whatever errand brought his horse, his urgency and temperament suggested it was vital. “You may wait within while I consider it, if it is your choice. But I warn you, it may not suit me to trouble myself with you. An
d if I do, you may be heartily disappointed. I do not count myself a docile or fair master.”
She drew in her breath as if to bolster herself, for although this was what she had hoped for, her gratitude was certainly tarnished with fear. He could snap her up for a morsel without much warning. Still, she could not think of any alternative plan that would meet her needs. She straightened and looked at him bravely. “My thanks, milord. I will wait.”
He turned to Avery. “If she is to be within my house, clean her up and see that she is decently dressed. And feed her. She is too thin.”
He reared the powerful horse in the direction of the road and, without any further hesitation or a backward glance, disappeared in a cloud of dust.
THREE
Peter Cutler was kept in a small stable room and held there, fed little, and beaten regularly. Conflict over his sentence permeated the Kerr household. Stephen Kerr, now nine-and-twenty years, was eager to usurp his father in all dealings with the lands and peoples surrounding the manor. And while Lord Kerr lacked any delicacy in the politics of managing the simple folk, Stephen was worse.
It was said that Lord Kerr never beat a good horse beyond its potential to give a good ride. Thus, the elder Kerr could not see the benefit of breaking John Cutler, who at least farmed well. Nor could he find logical reasoning behind murdering another decent farmer in the person of Peter Cutler. The lad, he argued, might yet yield fair crops and more children to the shire. Nothing could be gained by senselessly killing him.
While the conflict raged in the manor house, Peter lay weak and docile in his makeshift cell. He was hardly a dangerous youth at fourteen years. His height was generous, his weight inferior. His arms dangled clumsily to his lower thighs and his blond hair had the appearance of a thatched roof. His wide blue eyes gawked despairingly in any direction he looked. His teeth, large and crooked, could not decide between flashing a genuine smile or protruding in simple confusion. And his feet, grown three sizes in one summer, did not carry him swiftly, but rather unsurely. The essential fact was that when he attacked Stephen Kerr, he tripped at least once in his effort.
He bore a certain mystique for at least one member of the Kerr household. Another youth of fourteen was Adrienne. Named for her father, a knight of some past renown, Sir Adrian, she was the orphaned niece of Lord Kerr. Adrienne’s mother was Lord Kerr’s dead wife’s sister. They had lived, mother and daughter, in France in a decent sort of poverty since the death of Sir Adrian, holding onto a glimmer of nobility that knew no income. Highly born peasants during the exile of Charles II were not unusual. Then Adrienne’s mother had died when she was eleven. She was shipped with only one trunk of goods to Lord Kerr. For three years she had been the ward of that baron.
Her attraction to Peter lay partially in his hatred of her cousin, Stephen, and partially in her addiction to spying, sneaking, and generally playing dangerous games about the manor.
Adrienne met her fourteenth year with considerably more grace than the farm boy who was held prisoner. She was slender but endowed with fresh young breasts, thick auburn hair, and wild green eyes. Her teeth were small and even and flashed wicked smiles of contentment that resembled that of a cat who sprouted a mouse’s tail from its teeth. There was an untamed sensuality in her youthful body that frightened old men, teased young bucks, and only prompted women to hate her. She was fast approaching marriageable age and would be already wed if not for the fact that a marriage arranged by her mother when she was barely five years old never came to fruition. She was promised to a Scottish lord who might have provided well, but he died suddenly when thrown from his horse. Consequently, Adrienne had become the good bridal stock of Lord Kerr.
It was perhaps because she was well aware that she was being bartered as a bride that Adrienne paid close attention to all the surreptitious dealings within the lord’s house. She spied, eavesdropped, and crept around the halls of Dearborn with ears turned eagerly to conversation and eyes darting in every direction as if there were a plot against her life. And since Peter’s imprisonment, she had carried tales of the argument between father and son to the prisoner.
Adrienne spied a visitor from the sitting room window and raced downstairs to get a better look. It could have been a sailor or merchant, or someone being considered as her husband. Her clothing and appearance were always well tended for that purpose; should some acquaintance of her uncle’s visit with the prospect of gaining a good, healthy and attractive young virgin for a wife, she should be both well mannered and well dressed.
When she saw the tall, dark stranger approach, a groom quickly attending his horse, her heart raced with some excitement. It would be a rare gift to have a decent man consider her after all the gangling old knights that had shown interest. She was no more intrigued by the prospect of marriage than before but found herself hoping this visitor had either purse or property. If so, she decided, she would act civilly.
From the closet beneath the stairs she heard his name given to the steward. “Sir Trent,” the servant repeated. “Shall I tell Lord Kerr you would see him personally?”
“If it is of no major inconvenience,” the man replied. “I did not request an appointment.”
“Certainly, sir. I shall explain that to Lord Kerr.”
Adrienne immediately knew the name, for Trent Wescott’s return to his lands was a matter of interest to the Kerrs. He was discussed at dinner and parties frequently. He was a blackguard and thief accused, in some social circles, of many heinous crimes. Uncle Julian feared him but sought to override him in title and influence. Adrienne smiled to herself after having seen his handsomeness. The men of the Kerr household had not described him accurately; he did not resemble a beast so closely as they maintained. She supposed that to Stephen and Julian it seemed that way. Trent was as tall as the king, broad-shouldered, and mysterious—a magnificent man who carried himself as if he was without fear.
She quickly developed a dream that he would seek to join the Kerr lands to those of the Wescott name by marriage to her. Stephen, she hoped, would be amenable to such a transaction. Or, perhaps if he waged war and had the Kerrs killed, he would take pity on her and grant her a pension and...
“My lord Kerr is honored by your visit and will see you in his study,” the servant reported. “This way, sir.”
Adrienne examined the front of her day gown of pale green silk. It was cut low to expose her youthful figure in a seductive way. She had her hair piled high on her head, ringlets falling down to her shoulders, and wore a necklace that had belonged to a now deceased member of the Kerr household. She supposed it was a fit appearance in which to show herself to the gentleman calling. She dashed quickly from the closet to the hall and around the manor to a place where she would pass him as he made his way to Lord Kerr’s study.
Holding her gown back with her hands and with her feet moving swiftly around the halls, she paused to catch her breath in just the instant that Sir Trent would be rounding the corner. She filled her chest abundantly with air and stopped there, looking straight past the servant to the visitor. The servant did not pause but kept walking with one mission in mind. Adrienne did not notice that there was any tension in this action.
Sir Trent stopped and looked at her, accommodating her obvious intention to be seen. It was not such a terrible demand. He allowed a slow and suspicious smile. There was little question of Adrienne’s beauty. It was her disposition that caused problems; she was spoiled by her mother and considered herself greatly born. Her sly manipulations of all those around her could be seen by an expert in her coy smile and sparkling eyes. It was the mischief all over her face that caused Trent to smile. He felt pity and envy for the man whose task it would be to live with her.
He bowed slightly. “Lady,” he murmured.
Her curtsy was deep and well rehearsed. “Milord,” she whispered with practiced and blatant sensuality.
The servant stopped, turned, and gave a look that said he expected as much from the troublesome child. Adrienne had
wriggled her way into many treacherous situations with her flirtations and tenacity.
“Ahem, Sir Trent, Milady Adrienne—Lord Kerr’s niece, late of Orleans.”
Trent’s narrowed eyes took in the whole of her. “I had no idea one so lovely resided here. A pleasure, milady,” he said, taking her hand and pressing a kiss on its back. “How long have you been in residence?”
Adrienne’s hopes that he had come seeking her hand were dashed, but she was experienced in managing minor setbacks. “Upon three years, milord,” she cooed. “Yet this is the first I’ve encountered your presence.”
Adrienne detected laughter in his eyes, yet his mouth was stiff and formal. “‘Tis well known I do not frequent these halls, lady. Good afternoon.” He bowed slightly again and continued past her toward the study. She turned to see the doors closed stoutly once he was within and the servant waiting, glaring at her, daring her to press her ear to that guarded portal.
With a huff and a wide swing of her skirts, Adrienne turned and stomped down the hall, a plot to win Sir Trent already growing in her mind.
Trent Wescott took great pleasure in seeing that Julian Kerr had aged and appeared to be in a weakened condition. They had not seen each other for over ten years. Julian had encased himself within the padded walls of palaces and manors, and Trent had only cautiously begun to make his way into the social circles that were enjoyed many years ago by his parents and brothers.
When still a youth running from Parliamentarian armies, Trent had seen the slight and fair Lord Kerr in their company. Julian was in his late thirties and beginning to gray when Cromwell had exercised command and beheaded the king, Charles I. From that time hence, Trent had run with either royal exiles, thieves, or pirates. Of those who lived in exile for their loyalty to the monarchy, few survived on trumped-up titles once their personal wealth was gone. Aside from the tight group surrounding the young Charles II, Royalists did whatever was necessary to stay alive.