Thunder and Roses: Book 1 in The Fallen Angel Series
Page 36
Later, after the exhausted children had been put to bed and even the adults were too tired for another tune, Kon brought out a small Welsh harp and handed it to Nicholas.
Gently he strummed the instrument, tuning the string while he considered what to play. He chose a long Romany ballad that seemed to be woven from the haunting joys and sorrows of his wandering race. Clare sat beside him, he eyes closed as she absorbed the beauty of his deep, rich voice. At the end, he sang a verse that he must have translated to English for her sake.
Worldly goods possess and destroy you,
Love must be free as the blowing wind.
Capture the wind between four walls and it dies.
Open tents, open hearts,
Let the wind blow...
The poignancy of it caught her heart. Though she doubted that he meant the words as a message to her, she sensed that the way to hold Nicholas was never to try. Love must be free as the blowing wind....
Then they retired to their bed, which they had laid some distance from the others. Sandwiched between the soft warmth of two dunhas and roofed only by stars, he made fierce, possessive love to her. Desire had been intensified by their mating dance, and now it was raised to fever pitch by the silence with which they came together.
Wishing that words of love were not forbidden, Clare let her body speak for her. Later, when he slept, his head upon her breast, she caressed his thick black hair, filled with wonder at the man she had married. A Gypsy, a Welshman, a nobleman, a bard—he was all of those things, and more. And she knew that she would love him until she died.
* * *
The next morning Clare felt a little fragile. She had been most immoderate the evening before: eaten too much, drunk too much wine, danced too long, and had had wildly intemperate sexual congress with her husband. More than once, in fact. John Wesley might not have approved. However, now that Clare had developed her own inner guidance, she checked directly with the Divine and concluded that He didn't mind at all, for love was the wellspring of her passion. Nonetheless, the slight headache was a useful reminder that moderation still had a place in her life.
As the kumpania was breaking camp, old Keja walked up and announced, "I must talk with you. This morning you ride in my wagon."
Clare was happy to accept. Though she had scarcely exchanged a word with Keja, she had often felt the old woman's gaze on her. They had the wagon to themselves, Keja having used her influence to procure privacy.
For a long time Keja simply stared at Clare, puffing on her pipe. Abruptly she said, "I am cousin of the father of Marta, Nikki's mother."
Clare's interest quickened. If so, Keja was one of Nicholas's closest relatives. Wanting to take advantage of this opportunity, she asked, "Why did Marta sell her son? That knowledge has been a wound in Nicholas's heart."
"Marta was dying of lung sickness," Keja said with equal bluntness. "She should have left Nikki with us, but she had made a vow to her husband to see that their son learned the ways of the Gorgios." The old woman grimaced. "Because it was what Kenrick had wanted, and she knew that soon she would no longer be able to care for Nikki herself, Marta took him to his grandparents, who were his closest blood kin."
"The fact that she sold him for a hundred guineas makes it hard for me to believe that she was acting selflessly," Clare said, her voice hard. "How could any woman sell her child?"
"The old Gorgio offered the money of his own will," Keja said with disgust. "Marta almost spat in his face, but she was Rom—if the Gorgio wanted to be a fool, she would let him."
Thinking of what she had learned about the Rom, Clare said hesitantly, "In other words, the two transactions were separate—she took Nicholas to his grandfather for Kenrick's sake, and in her mind, the money really had nothing to do with Nikki."
Keja gave a gap-toothed smile, her head bobbing. "For a Gorgio, you have good understanding. I show you the proof that Marta did not sell her son for gold." She opened a chest and delved in, withdrawing a heavy leather pouch. Handing it to Clare, she said, "She left this with me to give to Nikki when the time was right."
Clare opened the pouch, then sucked in her breath at the sight of the gold coins.
Keja said, "It is all there, except for a guinea or two that Marta used to buy food on her way back to the Rom. Mine was the nearest kumpania, so she stayed with us."
"What happened to Marta?"
Keja puffed her pipe hard, smoke wreathing her head. "Marta died with the winter, in my arms. The gold I have kept for Nikki all these years."
Bewildered, Clare asked, "Why was he never told that his mother gave him up because she was dying? The knowledge would have made a great difference to him. And why didn't you give him the gold earlier? You've seen him often over the years."
"Marta made me swear an oath to tell only Nicholas's wife, for a woman would understand that a mother must do the best she can for her child," Keja said softly.
"But Nicholas had a wife before me."
Keja looked as if she would have spat if she had been outdoors. "Bah, he bedded that one, but she was not his true wife. You are the one Marta foresaw. She had the gift, and she said that a woman would come who would heal her Nikki's heart."
Clare stared at the golden coins, tears stinging her eyes. Had Marta really foreseen Clare? She had been young when she died, perhaps younger than Clare was now.
Would Marta have left Nicholas with his grandfather if she had known how cold and abusive the old man was? Perhaps she had assumed that Kenrick's mother would care for Nicholas. But the old earl's first wife had already fallen into the long twilight that had clouded her mind for the last years of her life, leaving her unable to love her grandson.
"Poor Marta," Clare said with deep empathy. "It must have been terribly difficult for her to choose between her own people and her promise to her dead husband. And even more difficult to give up her son to a stranger. I hope she is resting in peace."
"She is," Keja said matter-of-factly. "She is with Kenrick. Now that you have come to take care of Nikki, she will no longer worry for her son."
Clare felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle. As a Christian she believed that spirit was immortal. She also knew that there were rare individuals who manifested "gifts of the spirit"—the ability to know things beyond the visible realm. It was said that John Wesley's own mother and sisters had been so gifted. Nonetheless, it was eerie to hear someone speak of the supernatural with such calm acceptance. She was learning more from the Rom than she had expected.
"I love Nicholas, and I will always do my best for him," she said quietly. Remembering the form for Gypsy oaths, she added, "May you burn candles for me if I fail in this."
"Bater," Keja said gravely. "May it be so."
The wagon rumbled to a stop and Nicholas called, "Clare, we're home."
She closed the leather pouch and deposited it in an inner pocket. Since Nicholas had more pressing concerns at the moment, she would wait before telling him Marta's story. But she would not wait long; though he might find it painful to have the old scars probed, she hoped that ultimately the knowledge would take away his feeling that his mother had betrayed him.
She kissed her companion's leathery cheek. "Thank you for trusting me, Keja." Then she climbed from the wagon.
The kumpania stood in front of Aberdare. Williams was on the steps. Apparently he had come out to shoo the Gypsies away, then been bemused to see his employer emerge from a wagon.
There followed an orgy of farewells. Clare hugged Ani particularly hard. "You'll come back?"
The other woman chuckled. "Oh, yes. Like the wind, we come, we go, and we come again."
After waving good-bye, Clare and Nicholas climbed the stairs to the house, his arm around her waist. Expression as bland as butter, Williams held the door open for them. Clare found herself very aware of the lowness of her blouse and the shortness of her skirts. But she held her head high and swept past the butler as calmly as if she had been respectably dressed.
He smiled, but there was an abstracted expression in his eyes. Dropping her levity, Clare said, "Nicholas, what are you going to do about Lord Michael?"
He sighed. "Lay evidence before a magistrate. Michael will be arrested right away, I imagine. If he can't come up with some damned good explanations, he is going to be in serious trouble."
"He's a wealthy and powerful man. Will that protect him?"
Nicholas's eyes narrowed. "I am the Earl of Aberdare, and my wealth and power exceed his. If he is behind the attempt on our lives, he will not escape justice."
It was the first time she had seen a resemblance to his formidable grandfather. Relieved that he was willing to use his influence to protect himself, she said, "I'm glad that you're leaving justice to the law rather than taking it into your own hands."
"I don't believe in duels. They're a barbaric remnant of the Middle Ages." He took off his Romany vest and scarf. "Your class meeting is tonight. Are you going?"
She had forgotten herself. "Yes, unless you'd rather I stayed with you this evening."
"No, go to your meeting. I want to start working on that song to commemorate the mine explosion. I had some ideas over the last few days. But since we'll be spending the evening apart, I think I'll monopolize your time for the rest of the afternoon." He ran his gaze over her with blatant carnality. "Order the bath. Interesting things can be done in a tub."
Blushing, she did as he asked while he withdrew to his dressing room. But instead of disrobing, he slipped out of the other door, went down to his desk in the library, and jotted a hasty note. After sealing it, he rang for the butler.
When Williams appeared, Nicholas handed over the missive. "Have this taken to Lord Michael Kenyon. Most likely he's at the mine at this hour. If not, I want the messenger to track him down and wait for an answer. And don't tell anyone about this—especially not Lady Aberdare."
"Very good, my lord."
With that attended to, Nicholas made his way back to his dressing room. Nothing could be done for several hours, so he was going to use the time in the best possible way.
Chapter 31
Recognizing the seal, Michael Kenyon's mouth tightened as he slit open the note. The words were terse and to the point:
Michael: I must speak with you alone. I suggest 7:00 this evening. The ruins at Caerbach are convenient and neutral, but I will meet you at any time and place of your choosing as long as it is soon. Aberdare.
"Bloody hell!" Michael snarled after reading the familiar handwriting. Crumpling the note in his hand, he pitched it furiously across his office. "Damn Aberdare!"
The messenger said politely, "Is that your reply, my lord?"
Michael's anger burned away quickly, leaving ashes. He dipped a pen into his inkstand, then scrawled: 7:00 tonight, at Caerbach, alone. Kenyon.
He sanded and sealed the note and gave it to the messenger. The man bowed, then left.
Michael stared blankly across his office, feeling the inner tightness that always came before battle. The day of reckoning had come. Deep in his bones, he had known that he would not be able to avoid this confrontation, though God knew he had tried.
He looked at the stack of work on his desk, then shoved it aside. It was impossible to care about projected delivery dates for his new equipment. Wearily he rose, lifted his hat, and strode out of his office. Pausing at Madoc's desk, which was just outside, he said, "I'm leaving for the day. Was there anything you needed to discuss with me?"
Madoc leaned back in his massive chair and linked his fingers across his midriff. "No, everything is fine."
With a faint nod of relief, Kenyon left.
Madoc made a pretense of returning to his work, but inwardly he was thinking about the interesting little episode with the Aberdare messenger. He waited until ten minutes had passed and he had seen Kenyon ride away. Then he went into his employer's office—the office that had been his own for four years. Since no other employees were near, he didn't bother to conceal the bitterness of his expression.
Many records were kept in Kenyon's office, so no one would have thought twice at seeing Madoc inside. That had proved very convenient on several occasions.
After Kenyon's oath, there had been a sound of paper being crumpled and thrown. Madoc scanned the floor and quickly located the wadded note in one corner of the office. Smoothing it out, he read it once, then again, unable to believe his luck. This would be perfect, absolutely perfect.
God was definitely on his side.
* * *
As usual, Nicholas had been right: very interesting things could be done while bathing. The process left Clare spotless and purring. She and Nicholas dozed afterward, then rose and shared a light meal. When she finished eating, she gave him a light kiss. "I'll see you after the meeting. Are you the sort of artist who doesn't like to show work in progress, or might I hear the early results of your composing tonight?"
"I prefer to wait until I have the piece roughly worked out." His gaze held her for a moment. Then he gave her a gentle pat on the backside. "Off with you, or you'll be late."
After donning her bonnet, she went out the side entrance to the stables, where her pony cart was waiting. She had driven around the front of the house before she recalled that she had intended to take some books to Owen. It would be weeks before he could return to work, and he wanted to use the time well. Though she had sent some volumes home with him the day of the wedding, he might be ready for more.
She halted the cart in front of the house and looped the reins around one of the granite urns. Skipping into the house, she went right to the library. No sign of Nicholas; he must have withdrawn to the music room.
She had selected the books and was on the way out when a brilliant flash of light drew her eye to Nicholas's desk. Curiously she went to investigate, and found that the slanting rays of the sun were reflecting off a chunk of quartz and twisted silver. She lifted it and turned it over in her hands. So this was the famous specimen of wire silver that had been collected with such risk, and which in the end had not been needed. With everything that had happened in the last fortnight, she hadn't seen it before. Well, it made a decent paperweight.
She was about to set it down when she saw the note that had been resting underneath. The paper unfolded, revealing slashing black handwriting. 7:00 tonight, at Caerbach, alone. Kenyon.
Dread struck with paralyzing force. No... dear God, no....
Dumping her books on the desk, she snatched up the note. As she read it again, fury blazed through her. Damn Nicholas! After swearing that he would do nothing foolish, he was stepping right into the lion's den. A formal duel would require seconds, so perhaps Nicholas only wanted to talk, but how could he be so stupid as to trust Lord Michael after all that had happened? And how could she have been so naive as to believe Nicholas's assurances?
Only the night before he had mentioned that Gypsies lied fluently when necessary, and obviously that was a skill he had retained. He must have sent a message to Lord Michael before making love to her, and received the answer before they had dined. The damned, treacherous, pig-headed...
Imprecations boiling through her mind, she raced through the house and out to the stables again. Seeing the head groom, she gasped, "Has Lord Aberdare gone out?"
"About five minutes ago, my lady."
"Saddle a horse for me," she ordered. Remembering that Rhonda was gone, she added, "A gentle, biddable one. And use a regular saddle, not a sidesaddle."
He gave her modest day dress a doubtful glance, but went off obediently. Fuming, she paced in front of the stables, vaguely aware that she had never allowed herself to feel such rage in her life; the passion that Nicholas had unleashed in her was emerging in unexpected ways. Of course, never in her life had she felt such fear. Every n
uance of their lovemaking that afternoon returned to her. Looking back, she realized that it had been unusually intense; had he been saying good-bye in case something went wrong? Her stomach knotted at the thought.
Briefly she considered taking the groom with her, but after a moment's reflection she decided against it. This was not the sort of conflict that could be resolved by armed retainers, like bands of medieval knights. A single female would have a better chance of preventing violence between the two men. They had both been raised as proper English gentlemen, and she would use that fact ruthlessly.
The groom brought a chestnut mare to the mounting block and Clare swung into the saddle. Her skirt bunched around her knees, baring her calves, but propriety was the last thing on her mind. She did remember her pony, so as she gathered the reins she said, "Please bring my cart from the front of the house. I won't be needing it."
Then she galloped out of the stableyard. Thank God she had done so much riding over the last weeks, and thank Nicholas for the fact that all of his mounts were beautifully trained.
Caerbach was a small ruined fortress that stood on common grazing land about halfway between Aberdare and Bryn Manor. Originally it had been an outpost of the main castle of Aberdare. It would not take long to reach it.
How soon until she was close enough to hear a gunshot?
As she pounded along the track, she prayed with the greatest fervor of her life.
* * *
Caerbach stood on top of a hill and had once commanded a wide view of the valley. Over the centuries the woods had encroached and the cut stone had been taken for use elsewhere, leaving a scattering of rocks and partial walls set in the center of a sunny clearing. For children it was a delightful place to play hide-and-seek; for adults, it offered undisputed privacy.
Nicholas kept an alert eye on the trees as he rode through the woods, but was unsurprised to find that Michael was already in the clearing, lounging against one of the low walls with his arms folded across his chest. His casual posture did not match his taut face.