The Marsh Hawk

by Dawn MacTavish

“Leave it to you, eh?” Simon thundered, ripping his arm free. “What in hell’s been going on between you two behind my back?”

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” the vicar said.

  Simon stared. Pent-up anger and hurt and the bitter taste of betrayal roiled in him, launching a white-knuckled fist that hesitated just short of connecting with the vicar’s rigid jaw.

  “Go ahead, plant me a facer if it will make you feel better,” the vicar said. Unflinching, he squared his posture in obvious anticipation.

  Simon raked his hair back from a moist brow and balled his hand into a fist again, this time at his side.

  “Talk!” he seethed. “And you had better make it good.”

  “What?” the vicar said. He popped a strangled grunt. “You heard all that just now. I was just as taken aback as you were.”

  “But you knew there was . . . something.”

  “Yes, I did,” he said, giving a deep nod. “I knew she suspected the Marsh Hawk of her father’s murder, and I knew she was mistaken. I tried to convince her of that without overstepping my bounds with either one of you, and I told her repeatedly to speak with you about what was troubling her. I can see now why she didn’t. Simon, she thinks you murdered her father!”

  “You know that’s absurd.”

  “I do, yes, but I don’t matter. You’ve got to make her see it, or your marriage is over before it’s begun.”

  Simon clouded. All at once the pure ecstasy of Jenna’s soft, naked body, molded to the contours of his own, visited him. The heady scent of rosemary and lavender threaded through his memory—her scent; it overpowered him. He relived the eager abandon with which she let him approach her innocence, with which she let him take it. In spite of himself, his loins tightened.

  “You should have let me go after her,” he snapped.

  “No, Simon, not like this. Not till you’ve calmed down. You’re a headstrong, bungling fool in a passion, and enough harm’s been done as it is.”

  “You haven’t let me finish,” Simon returned. “You should have let me go after her while I was still of a mind to do so; it’s too late for that now.”

  “Simon, you’ve got to.”

  Simon shook his head.

  “But . . . why? You two have got to talk this out. She knows who you are. Are you mad? You never even made an effort to defend yourself—not one word!”

  “I shouldn’t have to. Not to her,” he flashed. “She should know better. Do I come off as the sort to bludgeon old men to death—military men, at that? You know why the Marsh Hawk rides, and you know who he targets.”

  “But she doesn’t! That’s why you’ve got to set her straight—and quickly. You should have made a clean breast of it long before now. Do you want to swing at Tyburn? Hah! I’ll likely swing right alongside you, for complicity, just as I’ve said all along. If you don’t give a tinker’s curse for your own neck, you might have a care about mine. She knows I’m involved now as well.”

  “If you’re so worried over your neck, then you talk to her,” Simon ground out through a deep, throaty chuckle. “I’m off to London.”

  “To lick your wounds?” the vicar snapped.

  “Don’t preach to me, Rob, I’m at the end of my tether. I warn you!”

  “You never should have gotten into this Marsh Hawk madness. I warned that you would rue the day you took to highway robbery, no matter how noble the cause.”

  “Yes, well, don’t worry. I absolve you of your complicity.”

  “That isn’t funny, Simon.”

  “Maybe not, but you have to admit it’s in keeping with the ‘sacrosanct’ flavor of the morning.”

  “Simon, put yourself in Jenna’s place.”

  A mad laugh replied.

  “Be reasonable here. It wasn’t personal. She didn’t know it was you she gunned down on that road.”

  “I’m not leaving because of that. I can almost forgive that she bloody near killed me. She was trying to avenge her father, and she evidently didn’t set out to do murder.” He breathed a ragged sigh. “You know, I almost envy her resolve . . . and that she had a father worth avenging. No, I can’t fault her for that.”

  “What, then, for God’s sake?”

  “This here today wounds me far more deeply than that bullet ever did, Rob. She should have come to me with that confession, not you. That’s what’s stuck in my craw. That’s what’s ripping a hole in my heart, and that is what I don’t believe I can ever forgive.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jenna had no idea where she was going, only that she must leave Kevernwood Hall posthaste, and she packed as though her very life depended upon it. She would not take any of the lovely things Simon had given her, only her own frocks and garments; those which her mother had delivered in the portmanteau she had left behind at Moorhaven Manor while fleeing with Simon after the duel.

  She stared down at her mud-soaked, sprigged muslin frock. It was one of the lovely creations that Simon had commissioned the dressmaker, Olive Reynolds, to make for her. It took only seconds to wriggle out of it. She rummaged through the pile of rumpled clothing she had heaped on the bed and snaked out her riding habit. For a moment she crushed it close to her breast. She remembered Simon’s strong arms holding her in that habit in the conservatory when he proposed to her, remembered the gentle strength in his hands caressing her through the thin Merino wool, arousing her, leading her to the brink of ecstasy. But it was only a brief reverie. Reliving those steamy memories stirred something awake inside that caused the habit to jump from her hands and join the sprigged muslin at her feet as though it had caught fire and burned her.

  She never wanted to see it again.

  Choosing instead a dove gray traveling costume that held no memories and invoked no passions, she struggled into it and continued packing.

  Her heart was numb. The awful look in Simon’s eyes haunted her—the hurt and the anger in his blue-fire stare. That look had run her through. She would take it to her grave. He hadn’t even tried to defend himself. He hadn’t even made an attempt to deny his guilt. His silence damned him. It had broken her heart, and her grief was so overwhelming that she couldn’t even rejoice in the fact that she hadn’t done murder after all on that dark night which seemed a lifetime ago.

  She had never felt so alone. In the space of a few short hours, she had lost both her husband and her confidant. All at once the dimity frock she’d been folding slipped from her hands. She sank down on the edge of the bed beside the overflowing portmanteau and stared through the tall mullioned panes toward the light streaming in through the window. It was golden and warm pressed up against the glass. How dare it shine upon her sorrows? The rampant thoughts banging around in her brain were so hopelessly bizarre a jumble that she groaned aloud under the weight of them—not the least of which were: Where would she go? What was she to do? Though she loved Simon more than life itself, how could she ever live with him now? More poignantly, how could she ever live without him?

  When the knock came, she vaulted off the bed as though she’d been launched from a catapult, and stood trembling head to toe, her eyes riveted to the barred door of her chamber.

  “Are you in there, my lady? ’Tis Molly. Horton says you’ve had the coupe brought ‘round. He says you’re leavin’! It’s that upset, he is! Will you be taking me with you, my lady, and should I pack?” The knock came again. “Are you all right, my lady? Why is the door locked? You’re scaring me now. Horton says you were that overset, and Barstow won’t hear of any of the other grooms taking you. He’s sitting out there in that coupe himself, yes ma’am, he is!”

  Jenna crammed the rest of her things into the portmanteau, slammed it shut, and shrugged on the spencer that matched her costume. Molly knocked again, more urgently, and Jenna snatched up the portmanteau, unbolted the tall, gilded door, and swept past the nonplussed maid teetering on the threshold.

  “My lady! Am I not to go with you?” the girl shrilled.

  “No, Molly, you
shall not,” Jenna said with conviction, starting toward the staircase. “I’ve no right to take you from Kevernwood Hall. Your place is here.”

  “But, my lady, surely you aren’t going for good?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Jenna over her shoulder as she struggled down the stairs with the portmanteau.

  “But you can’t just run off all on your own, my lady. ’Tisn’t proper—’tisn’t safe!” the maid pleaded. Having relieved her of the portmanteau, the girl struggled along with it close on her heels. “Where will you go? Who’ll care for you?”

  “I assure you I’m well able to take care of myself. I’m going . . . home,” Jenna decided, choking back tears. Thistle Hollow was the last place she wanted to go, but she had no other options.

  “You are home!” said a booming voice that stopped her in her tracks halfway down the staircase.

  It belonged to Robert Nast, who stood, arms akimbo, blocking the landing at the bottom of the stairs.

  Jenna hesitated only briefly before she continued to descend.

  “Don’t try to stop me, Robert,” she warned. “Please stand aside.”

  “We have unfinished business, Jenna,” he returned. Taking her arm in one hand, meanwhile relieving Molly of the portmanteau with the other, he dismissed the maid with a nod and said to Jenna, “After I’ve had my say, you can go with my blessing . . . if you’re still so inclined. But hear me out, you will—now come.”

  With no more said, he steered her along the corridor to the conservatory despite her protests, and planted her squarely on the selfsame wicker love seat where Simon had proposed to her. How cruel was the man? Did he not know what she was suffering? Why didn’t he just let her go? He knew it was hopeless. He knew Simon was the Marsh Hawk. He’d known it all along.

  “Robert, please,” she murmured, blinking back tears. She would be red with blotches in a minute if he didn’t let her go. “I trusted you and you deceived me—betrayed me,” she cried. “We have nothing to say to one another.”

  “I haven’t betrayed you, Jenna,” the vicar said wearily, sinking down beside her on the love seat. “I’ve bungled badly trying my best to serve you both separately. That was wrong of me—terribly wrong. I’ve hurt you both instead, and I shall never forgive myself for that.”

  “None of that matters any longer, Robert. It’s over.”

  “Only if you let it be.”

  She stared into the vicar’s soulful amber eyes. They seemed so sincere. No matter how he saw it, he had betrayed her. She could give no other name to it. He knew. All the while he pretended to be her friend, he knew. He knew exactly what she was suffering, what she was wrestling with, and he had let her go right on suffering. He’d married them knowing. She was the complete want-wit for allowing those traitorous soulful eyes to flummox her so thoroughly.

  “I told you from our first meeting that the Marsh Hawk did not murder those he robbed, Jenna,” he said, as though he read her thoughts. “Nor did he ever manhandle or abuse them. I told you that his mission was a benevolent one. I call that not deception.”

  “What . . .’benevolence’ could possibly come from highway robbery, pray?”

  “I told you how passionately Simon championed those with pockets to let, especially those among them that have been cashiered-out by the military. Simon took the issue to the proper authorities, but nothing to speak of was done. Whether it be the poor king’s madness, or the Prince Regent’s indifference—in that his attention seems to be centered . . . elsewhere, to put it delicately—and since the aristocracy will not take a step but that the Regent lead them, Simon took matters into his own hands. What he steals from the aristocracy benefits those down-at-the-heels souls that have been disenfranchised and forgotten. These include the unfortunate conscriptees—men taken by force from public houses, gambling hells, and, yes, brothels—who have meanwhile had their lands seized for nonpayment of taxes while they were in His Majesty’s service on other shores.

  “Many of the wives of such men have been transported, Jenna, and their children incarcerated in workhouses, for their having sunk to stealing and prostitution to feed their families. Many of the mustered-out men who served this country well—many maimed and wearing the medals they’ve earned—are begging in the streets of London and other cities in this land as we speak. Some of those men fought alongside Simon at Copenhagen. Many fought beside Nelson at Trafalgar, and God alone knows how many fought beside Wellington—still fight beside him and soon will join their number. These are Simon’s cause.”

  “And you condone his methods?”

  “No, I do not. I never have, but Simon is my friend, Jenna, and I will stand beside him in whatever madness he employs, because I know his heart, and I know that he would do the same for me. And, yes, I will protect that bond however I have to. I know what he’s sprung from—what he’s risen above, if you will. He has lived his life thus far for others. What he has done for Evelyn and Crispin doesn’t even scratch the surface of the man. Did you know that he has funded two veterans’ hospitals—sold plantations in the Indies, and holdings in the Highland to do it, and invested half of his fortune besides in these unfortunates and their families? No. And you never will from Simon’s lips. You have no inkling of the measure of the man you’ve married.”

  “Still . . .” Jenna responded, shaking her head.

  “Jenna, Simon had a dreadful childhood. His father was a mean-spirited, unfeeling tyrant, as stingy with his affections as he was with his wealth, who hung all his hopes on Simon’s elder brother, Edgar—his heir. When Edgar disappointed him, he didn’t turn to Simon, whom he’d kicked aside; he turned in on himself and died a miserable, embittered old man. I conducted his funeral ceremony. Simon was the only soul in attendance.”

  “And you’ve come here now to plead his case, is that it?” Jenna said icily. “He has no case, Robert. Simon is the Marsh Hawk. He didn’t even try to deny it!”

  “Yes, he is the one they call the Marsh Hawk,” the vicar returned, “but the Marsh Hawk is not responsible for your father’s death, Jenna. And, no, I haven’t come to plead his case. Speaking with you is entirely my idea. Simon doesn’t know. I’ve come with a message for Phelps, actually.”

  “Then you’d best deliver it. I have to go. I want to leave before Simon returns.”

  “Simon isn’t returning,” the vicar said, getting to his feet. “He’s on his way to London. I have come to instruct Phelps to join him en route.”

  Jenna’s face fell. Something wrenched her stomach as though a fist had clenched around it, and her lower lip began to tremble. Why should she care? She was running from him, after all, wasn’t she? Why did this news seize her heart in such an icy grip?

  “Jenna, you and Simon love each other,” the vicar said, interrupting her thoughts. “You need to talk this through. Running away is never the answer.”

  “Tell that to Simon!” she retorted. “He has a head start on me, so it seems.”

  “I just did.”

  “Well then, there it is!” Jenna snapped, throwing up her hands.

  “He isn’t angry that you shot him, you know. He’s hurt that you could actually believe him capable of murder, and that you didn’t trust his love for you enough to make your confession to him instead of to me.”

  Jenna rose from the love seat as steadily as her trembling knees would allow. “I have to go,” she said. “The coupe is in the drive, and I don’t want to keep Barstow waiting.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Home . . . to Thistle Hollow. I shall hire a coach in Newquay, and Barstow will return with the coupe straightaway.”

  “You’re taking Molly, of course.”

  “Molly is part of Simon’s household,” she said, her voice frosty. “I want nothing of his, Robert.”

  “But . . . it isn’t safe, a woman alone . . . unchaperoned! There are dangers . . . there are . . . there are—”

  “Highwaymen?” Jenna said. She flashed a cold smile. “Nothing I could possibly s
uffer at their hands could compare to that which I have suffered at the hands of my ‘friends.’ Now, if you will excuse me? I don’t want to keep Barstow waiting.”

  “Jenna, are you going to . . . Will you expose him?”

  She had been expecting that question, but it didn’t make it any easier to hear, especially from Robert. That she held his words in contempt was evident; she made no effort to hide it. For a long moment, she stared at him through angry tears.

  “Will you?” he urged during her silence.

  “Good bye, Robert,” she murmured with disdain, and fled.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was dark in the taproom at the Heatherwood Arms, where Simon waited out of patience in a shadowy corner, nursing a flagon of bitter black ale. Was he nursing his wounds as well, as the vicar had accused? Possibly, though he wouldn’t admit to it then, not even to himself, as he absently drew on his clay pipe. It tasted flat—as bitter as the ale. Not even his custom-blended tobacco satisfied. He wondered if it ever would again.

  The barmaid across the way was vying for his attention—a furtive glance, a well-displayed bosom strategically arranged to catch the lamplight. There was a time when he might have accepted the invitation in those doelike brown eyes trained so seductively upon him, but that was all a very long time ago, before he’d fallen in love with a mysterious beauty with hair like spun gold in the setting sun and eyes that shone like mercury.

  All at once Jenna’s image passed before him and he recalled those quicksilver eyes dilated with desire, glazed with a passion that he alone had awakened. Oh, how she had loved him. With what unfettered abandon had she reverenced—yes, that was the word—reverenced him. No lover had ever reverenced him before. And he knew with a sinking heart that he would never again know so complete a surrender of rapturous innocence. What heaven it had been to be drenched in the dew of her first awakening. No woman would ever again receive him with so pure and complete a submission to the very essence of love.

  A soft moan escaped him, and he drowned it in a rough swallow of the Heatherwood Arms’ infamous black ale. He grimaced as it burned all the way down to the empty, growling pit of his clenched belly, mercifully cooling the fire that those bittersweet memories had kindled in his loins. The notorious brew wasn’t potent enough, however, to extinguish that fire altogether. Something primeval still stirred in the very core of him, reliving that ecstasy, and he shifted uneasily in the chair that creaked with his sleek, muscular weight.