Tyndale’s answering smile was strained. Looking sharply at him, Devenish detected a hunted look in the clear eyes. He uttered a crack of mirth. “Don’t care to be the centre of attention, eh? Well—” He checked to glance around curiously for the cause of a new commotion that arose in the hall. Two footmen and the butler were remonstrating with someone. Devenish glimpsed a sleek, blue-black head towering over the throng, and grinned hugely. “Beastly luck, coz,” he commiserated, “but your glory is about to be considerably eclipsed.”
He was right. The footmen were sent reeling back. The butler chose discretion as the better part of valour and effaced himself. Through a sudden awed hush, Montelongo strode across the floor, tall, bronzed, pantherishly graceful, totally out of place, yet ineffably proud as he made towards his employer.
One swift glance told him that the Major had suffered a few hard knocks since last they met. He stopped before him. In an oddly measured way, his dark head bowed very slightly. He said in that deep rumble of a voice, “You very fine?”
Recovering his own voice, General Drummond stalked over to demand, “What the deuce is all this? Who is that—fella to come bursting in here, flinging my servants about?”
Behind him, the ladies were whispering excitedly behind their fans. The gentlemen, only slightly less intrigued, had missed no part of the Iroquois’s leathern garments, the long knife that hung, sheathed, at his lean waist, or the beaded moccasins.
Tyndale smiled into his man’s keen eyes. “Perfectly fine, thank you,” he answered, before turning to his irate host. “My apologies, sir. Montelongo is of the Iroquois Nation. He is a chief’s son, but has been so good as to look after me for some years. I ask your pardon for this intrusion, but I’ve no doubt he was concerned when we did not rendezvous as I’d instructed. May I present him to you?”
Sir Andrew’s brows bristled alarmingly, and his outraged eyes shot sparks. Tyndale met those eyes and said in cool challenge, “Monty, this gentleman is General Sir Andrew Drummond. Sir—Montelongo.”
Some small titters arose behind him. The General’s jaw set. He gave a frigid nod. Untroubled by protocol, Montelongo put out a broad, bronzed hand. To one side, Devenish grinned his delight, while beside him Yolande wondered if Craig had lost his mind. Slanting a molten glare at Tyndale, Sir Andrew encountered steady eyes of steel. A reluctant grin took possession of his strong features. He took the Indian’s hand and wrung it, but could barely refrain from gasping at the answering pressure that was, he suspected, carefully restrained.
Montelongo’s lips parted in the brief, white flash that served for a smile. “Proud to meet great warrior,” he rumbled. And again, his head nodded in that quaint suggestion of a bow.
“Jove! chuckled the General. The look in Tyndale’s eyes had softened to a mute “thank you.” “Rogue!” said Sir Andrew. “Off with you. I’m sure the butler will know where to put him.” And turning to his entranced guests, he remarked, “What a night this has been, eh?”
Making his way through the curious and admiring throng, Montelongo stalking behind him, Tyndale led the way out. Once they were in the hall, he said urgently, “Monty, I’ll tell you what happened, later. I cannot guess how you found us, but—have you brought the horses?”
The Iroquois emitted a grunt, the timbre of which indicated an affirmative reply. “When you no come, me go back to St. Albans. Desk man say you leave. Me trail. Find horses with thieves. So take Lazzy.”
“Good God!” Tyndale checked his stride. “They must have been Montclair’s people! But—no. That couldn’t be, they’ve not had sufficient time to get down there as yet.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I wonder who the devil they were.”
“Bad men.”
Tyndale scrutinized the impassive features. “For Lord’s sake! You never killed them?”
“Bad men,” Montelongo repeated. A twinkle lit his dark eyes. “But very good runners. Me and Lazzy find this place. Have mare of beautiful man, too.”
Tyndale laughed, but threw a quick glance around. “Don’t ever let Mr. Devenish hear you say that! No matter how he looks, he’s a splendid fighting man, Monty. He saved my life.”
The Indian was briefly silent. “Him Monty’s brother. Why you wear petticoats?”
It was a term that had been used in Belgium to describe the Scots. It was also a term of high respect, for none had so endeared themselves to the Bruxellois as the Scottish regiments. Nonetheless, leading his man down the hall to the kitchens, and happily unaware of how many awed household eyes were watching, Tyndale carefully explained it was an expression that might better not be used. At least, in front of the uninitiated.
Montelongo grunted.
* * *
The night was crisp and clear, a half-moon illuminated the walkways, and Yolande followed them aimlessly, lost in thought, her plaid wrapped about her shoulders. The attraction she had felt when first she met Craig Winters Tyndale had not diminished. To the contrary, the sight of him tonight in all the glory of formal Scots attire had stirred her heart in most disquieting fashion. Even now, to visualize him, the way his grey eyes had sought her out, that charmingly uncertain smile, made her pulses leap and brought a warmth to her cheeks. Were these emotions merely the result of gratitude because he had come to her rescue? Was this rapid heartbeat brought about by admiration of his military record, or interest because he was different from any other man she had ever known? She closed her ears to the wretched voice that sought to whisper “nonsense!” and, not a little frightened, decided resolutely that she was not falling in love with Major Tyndale. She must not be falling in love with Major Tyndale! The difference in their stations could not be ignored, and there were other loves—Devenish and her parents, for instance. And as for Grandpapa—she shuddered. No, it was quite impossible. Besides, the Major had paid no more attention to her than would be required by the dictates of good manners. How foolish to be constantly mooning over a Colonial gentleman who had made not the slightest push to court her—and should not of course, do so, when she was promised to dear Dev. The chastisement did not seem to make her either more sure, or less miserable, and yet it was the only possible verdict.
Thoroughly irritated with herself, she swung around very suddenly and gave a little cry as she came face to face with the very object of her thoughts. “Oh, my!” she gasped. “How you frightened me!”
“My most humble apologies, ma’am,” said Tyndale, remorsefully. “You passed me by just now and I—er—had been hoping for a word with you, so I followed. Will you permit that I walk with you?”
“Of course, though I must return to the house. Had you come out for a breath of air, cousin?”
“And a smoke,” he nodded, holding up the cheroot that glowed in his hand. “A wretched habit I picked up in Spain.”
“I was indeed surprised to learn that you had served with our army over there. I’d no idea you were a military gentleman.”
“How should you?” He said awkwardly, “We—er, scarcely know one another.”
“True. And have had scarce two words together since you arrived. I had, in fact, begun to think you might be avoiding me.” And she thought in dismay, “Oh! Now, why did I say that?”
“Perhaps I have,” he admitted, his grip on the cheroot tightening. “Devenish is—well, he’s a good man and—and, you and he are— That is, I mean—you are to be wed. No?”
Even in the moonlight she could see that the cheroot was now quite badly bent. Her own heart was thundering, which was too ridiculous. She said with desperate calm, “It has been understood for many years that we will—will marry.”
“I see.”
He did not, to judge by the hesitant words, and, wondering vaguely at the need, she felt obliged to add, “Our estates march together.”
Their progress had become very slow. Tyndale halted to drop the wreckage of his cheroot and grind it into the dirt. “Not a compelling reason for wedlock,” he remarked, gravely.
Flustered, she answered, “No. Of cours
e. I did not mean to imply— Suffice it to say he is my choice. And—and that choice is much applauded by my family.”
“Very wisely,” he said. But he thought, “And how horrified your family would be did you wed a Colonial about whom all they know is that his father was a murderer!”
Watching him from beneath her lashes, she saw the bitter twist to his mouth and her heart was wrung. Fighting an inclination to burst into tears, she said with forced lightness, “You seem to like my grandpapa, sir.”
“I do. He is such a fine old fellow.”
“Yes, he is. I wish he lived closer to us, but he loves this old house.”
“I can see why he would. It has great character. I am—very glad he invited me to stay. Though—I’m surprised he did so. Under the circumstances.”
She caught her breath and, dreading what he would say next, yet longing to hear him say it, faltered, “Cir-circumstances, cousin?”
The moonlight on her lovely upturned face was driving him to distraction. Clenching his fists, he mumbled, “My—er, father. And—and Devenish’s father.”
“Oh.” Of course that was what he had meant. What a ninny she was! “But, you see, Grandpapa does not know about that.”
“No?” Tyndale’s heavy brows drew together. “I thought everyone knew.”
“Only those who were there at the time knew. It has been kept very quiet down through the years. I did not know of it myself until very recently.”
“But—there must have been dozens of people—servants, workers on the estate…?”
“They were loyal, and were well paid to hold their tongues.” She smiled. “Besides, Scots tend to be a secretive people. They have had to be.”
Somehow, they had stopped walking. Not speaking, they stood gazing at one another.
The wind sighed softly through the trees. In the stables, a horse stamped and snorted restlessly. High on the hill, the windows of the house shone bright amber, and from them came the distant sounds of laughter.
Tormented by Yolande’s nearness; by the faint scent of her perfume; by the terrible temptation to sweep her into his arms and kiss those sweetly curved lips, Tyndale wrenched his eyes from her face and stared down at the path. He thought, “My Lord! I must get away from here!” And he said, “If your grandfather did know that my father is believed to have murdered Stuart Devenish, would I still be welcome?”
She did not answer. He raised his down-bent head and looked at her gravely. Her eyes fell away, and she turned from him.
“Yolande,” he persisted, softly. “Would I? Would he give me the benefit of the doubt? Or—would he be outraged?”
With slow reluctance she answered, “He would be outraged. He has introduced you to so many of his friends. And they would—would feel…”
He stiffened. “Insulted. I see. Then I had best be upon my way as soon as may be.”
Spinning around, not wanting him to go, she protested involuntarily, “Why? After all these years, the secret is not likely to suddenly become public knowledge.”
“It could.” Ah, but how sweet, how unbearable to see the concern in her dear face. “Our presence here might awaken old memories; set people to talking.”
It was true. She could only ask miserably, “Then—what shall you do?”
“Tell the old gentleman I simply must leave tomorrow. But there is no reason why Devenish should accompany me.”
“If he promised to go, he will,” she said, adding stoutly, “he is the soul of honour and will not break his word.”
He said with a wry twinkle, “His honour may be severely tested. If the castle has not been lived in for twenty years and more, it must be in a sorry state, and probably beastly damp into the bargain.”
“Oh, no. I doubt it is that bad. Colonel Tyndale comes up at least once a year, and there has been a caretaker of sorts, until recently. I know most of the furnishings are under Holland covers, and I suppose you will find the carpets rolled up, and the linens stored away. I will ask our housekeeper to pack some bedding for you, but I believe you will find cedar chests very amply supplied with linens needing only to be aired.”
“You are too kind, Cousin Yolande,” he said gratefully.
She thought, “No. I am only afraid,” and avoiding his gaze, she began to walk on once more. “Well,” she responded, “you are, after all, one of the family. And—you have, I believe, become a good friend of Alain’s, no?”
He hesitated, then said slowly, “Not exactly. There is—ah, too much between us, you see.”
Yolande glanced at him and found in his eyes a smile touched with sadness. Her face flamed. She knew suddenly that she herself was one of the reasons why the cousins could not be friends. And she knew also that Craig Tyndale loved her. She thought numbly, “What a fine bumble broth it would create did I love him also. Dev would kill him!” Fear closed an iron fist around her heart. She said something, heaven knows what, and hurried back to the house, Tyndale silent beside her.
Chapter X
THE MORNING DAWNED CLEAR but cool, and by the time they were ready to depart the sun was growing warmer, giving rise to hopes for a nice day. The General had been at first amused, then irked by Tyndale’s quiet insistence that he must leave, but had capitulated at last. Since Devenish would not draw back from his promise to accompany his cousin, the end result was that they all would go. “If only,” grunted Sir Andrew, “to detairmine if yon pile o’ rubble is fit fer human habitation, regarrrding which, I hae me doots!”
It had been decided that Josie would stay at Steep Drummond until Devenish returned, and he would then take her back to England with him, hoping to obtain the benefit of Lady Louisa’s wisdom in the matter of her eventual disposition. Meanwhile, however, she formed part of the small cavalcade, her peaked face bright with happiness as she nestled beside Yolande in the open curricle Devenish drove.
Yolande was outwardly as bright as she was inwardly disturbed. The ravages of a sleepless night had been concealed by Peattie’s deft hands, and she was radiant in a primrose muslin dress buttoned high to the throat, a beautifully embroidered yellow shawl about her shoulders, and the poke of her bonnet a foam of primrose lace.
Despondent because he was leaving her, Devenish rallied when she smiled at his glumness and assured him she would anxiously await his return. She was so affectionate in fact that he was soon in high gig, all his dismals flown.
Sir Andrew led the parade, riding a fine bay gelding, with on one side of him, Mr. Walter Donald, his friend of many years who had over-nighted at Steep Drummond, and on the other, Tyndale, astride his big grey. Next came the chaise containing Arabella Drummond and Caroline Fraser, who quarrelled politely all the way, each convincing herself she was scoring the most hits. Following, Devenish drove the curricle, and, bringing up the rear was a landaulette bearing two footmen and various hampers and bottles that promised an excellent luncheon.
Yolande exerted herself to maintain a cheerful façade, responding with every appearance of gaiety to Devenish’s easy banter. Josie, impressed by his proficiency with the reins, eventually interjected the observation that he was “a regular top-draw-yer!”
He laughed. “That’s ‘Top Sawyer,’ my elf. Where did you learn that term?”
“Benjo,” she replied, gazing up at him, ever hopeful of bringing the approving smile to his eyes. “He said I could manage the pony and trap so good because my old man was a Top Draw—I mean, Top Sawyer.”
Yolande murmured, “Dev, we really must try to discover something of her background.” She lifted the child’s hand that was confidently tucked into her own and, marking the fine bones and long, slim fingers, said, “There’s good breeding in her, I’m sure of it.”
“We must?” he said eagerly. “Yolande, does that mean you’re ready to allow me to announce our betrothal, at last?”
Yolande shifted her glance from the child’s hand to Devenish’s handsome, hopeful face. Dear Dev. She did love him. And surely countless women had married gentlemen with who
m they were not deeply in love? She knew she could make him happy, unless … “Dev,” she said, watching him steadily, “are you quite sure you are in love with me? No—do not answer so quickly! Think on it for a moment. You love me, of course, just as I love you. But—is there no one else? Are you really in love with me?” And, realizing what she had said, she could have bitten her tongue.
Devenish had suspected that his passion was not as fully returned, but the confirmation was like a knife being turned in his breast. He managed to keep his face from revealing his hurt, and said staunchly, “I really am, m’dear. But if you ain’t in love with me, it’s only to be expected, and I don’t mind. That you love me at all is far more than I deserve.”
It was the most romantic speech she had ever heard him utter, and she reached across the child to him, her heart touched.
Taking that small, gloved hand, Devenish searched her face, waiting.
“Yes, you may announce it,” she murmured, smiling at him. “We will settle the details when you return from the castle.”
He gave a whoop of joy that brought the heads of the riders twisting around, and so alarmed his horses that he had to relinquish Yolande’s hand and give his full attention to his driving.
“Jove!” he said with a guilty grin, succeeding in quieting the teams at length. “Almost had us in the chaise with your aunts! A fine set-to that would have been!”
Josie’s head was bowed. Yolande stroked the dark curls and asked gently, “What is it, dear. Are you sad?”
The child nodded. “Josie is sad. If Mr. Dev marriages you, you won’t never let him have me fer his—”
“Abigail?” Yolande inserted swiftly.
Devenish chuckled. “Perhaps Miss Drummond will let you be her abigail,” he suggested, buoyant at the promise of a glowing future.
“She’s got a abigail.” Josie sighed. “I’ll be all growed in a year or two.”
The Noblest Frailty Page 19