Scoundrel's Daughter

by Margo Maguire

  “That will be fine, but I’ll need a couple of horses this afternoon, if you have any for hire.”

  “Jack, I don’t ride,” Dorothea said.

  “Just one, then,” he said to the groom. That suited his purpose even better.

  “I’m not staying here alone,” Dorothea said after the man left.

  “I didn’t intend for you to stay behind.”

  “Well, then, how—”

  “You’ll ride with me,” Jack interjected. “You’ve done it before.” And he remembered every minute of that ride.

  Dorrie started to protest but apparently thought better of it. She finished her tea and when Jack stood, she followed suit.

  Though he was no closer to understanding what was bothering her, she carried herself proudly, as if to deny there was anything amiss. And he admired that.

  Nothing was going to defeat Dorrie Bright.

  “You have time to change into your plain skirt,” he said when they reached the door of the lobby. “It’ll be easier for riding.”

  She agreed and left him for a short while. When she returned, she seemed calm, composed and ready to go. They went outside and found one of the young men holding a sturdy roan mare, saddled and ready to ride.

  “Here you are, Mr. Temple,” the fellow said. “She’s used to the sand and the surf if you’ve a mind to ride the beach.”

  “Thanks,” Jack said. He mounted, then turned to give Dorrie a hand up. With a mounting block and the groom’s help, it was accomplished with greater delicacy than the last time he’d thrown her onto a horse’s back.

  She sat sidesaddle in front of him, and Jack slipped his arms around her, pulling her close. They rode to the path that led to the beach, and then headed north across the sand, wet from the storm.

  “I thought all English country ladies learned to ride,” he said.

  “My mother would not allow it,” she replied. He felt her body relax somewhat, as she became accustomed to the rocking movements.

  “What about Alastair?” Jack asked. “Didn’t he have anything to say about it?”

  “I don’t know what he would have said,” she replied. “He wasn’t there.”

  Jack urged the mare into a canter, and Dorrie wrapped her arms around his waist. She tucked her head under his chin, and when he pressed his lips to her hair, he was instantly aroused. He wanted her badly, though he was determined not to act on his insatiable hunger. At least, not now.

  She turned her face to the wind, and he felt her breath catch. “This is wonderful!” she cried. “I feel as if I were flying!”

  When he poked the mare into a full gallop, Dorrie twisted her body and pressed her back against his chest. She spread her arms like a gull on the wind and giggled with pure joy. It was not the reaction Jack had expected from her, but if he’d learned anything about Dorrie Bright, it was that she never acted predictably. He hugged her to him and breathed in her scent.

  At least the doldrums that had possessed her all morning were gone. Now, if only they could find something of value at Clyfton Castle, something besides crumbling rock and overgrown weeds, Jack would be satisfied.

  “Look, Jack!” She pointed into the distance, where the rotting tower of Clyfton Castle was silhouetted against the gray sky. “Is that it?”

  “Must be,” he said, glad to have something to think of, besides Dorrie’s soft bottom pressed against him.

  He slowed the mare’s gait and visually surveyed the area. This was his last chance to locate the Mandylion without additional help. If he saw anything that spurred a memory of something on the map or in the key, if there was any indication of a secret place, he would bring a shovel and do some digging on his own later.

  If there was nothing, he would start asking questions in town and see if there were any stories about a lay brother, a Templar Knight or a sacred cloth hidden somewhere in the vicinity.

  Jack dismounted after they’d ridden inside what had once been the castle’s outer curtain. Dorothea leaned down and placed her hands on Jack’s shoulders. He eased her down, but did not let go of her when her feet touched the ground. He closed his eyes and tipped his head so that his forehead touched hers.

  His thumbs moved at her waist, and her breasts grew sensitive in anticipation of his touch. She cupped his face, taking his strong jaw into her hands. Her fingers moved over the rough whiskers, his lips.

  He took one finger into his mouth.

  Dorothea made a sound that was unfamiliar to her own ears and leaned into Jack. When she would have thrown her arms around him, he took hold of her hands and kept her from embracing him.

  He started to speak, but changed his mind. Instead, he kept hold of one of her hands, then gathered the horse’s reins and started walking. They went through what was once the great hall of the keep. The stone walls were relatively intact, and, although the floors were missing above them, various fireplaces were visible on the upper level.

  A circular stone staircase led to the high tower.

  Jack kept Dorothea’s hand in his as they walked through the grass and weeds to the far end. “Abgar was king of Edessa in the first century,” he said as Dorothea forced herself to quiet her shaky nerves. “It’s said that he suffered from leprosy and that someone brought him a cloth bearing an imprint of the face of Christ.”

  She moistened her lips. “Was he cured?”

  Jack nodded. “So the story goes. And in gratitude, a likeness of the face on the cloth was painted and displayed at the city gates.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “Those were turbulent times,” Jack said. “A pagan king followed Abgar. Then there were the Romans. The cloth was hidden away by whatever members were left of the Christian sect.”

  “How did it turn up again?”

  “There are several different versions,” Jack said. He poked his head into the stairwell that led to the tower but went no farther. “The most likely one is that it resurfaced in the sixth century during a flood or some other natural disaster.”

  Still holding Dorothea’s hand, Jack began to walk the inside perimeter of the keep, just as he had in all the other castles they’d visited.

  “But it was taken to Constantinople several hundred years later.”

  Jack nodded. “There is documentation of its existence in the city, but when the Crusaders invaded, it disappeared again.”

  “Only to resurface as the Shroud of Turin in France in the fourteenth century,” she said. “Except that you believe the Shroud is a different cloth.”

  Jack kicked at a mound of dirt next to one corner of the hall. Then he let Dorothea’s hand go and stepped back to study that part of the wall, from the ground to the uppermost edge of the second story. He shook his head.

  “What?”

  “Nothing here that I can see,” he said. “At least, nothing obvious. Which is why I’ll have to go over all my notes and try to make an educated guess as to the most likely location.”

  “Then what will you do?” she asked. She was just as puzzled as Jack. She’d assumed that once she stepped inside the ruins of Clyfton Castle, she would know it was the Mandylion’s hiding place. That she would somehow sense it. She’d been wrong.

  Unless it wasn’t here.

  She thought again of the clues and knew with certainty that it was the rhyme written on the map that somehow pointed to the cloth’s location. Nothing else was consequential, at least not in any way that she could see.

  “I have a team of men—still in London,” he said, “who will bring whatever equipment is necessary for an excavation.”

  “So you think the Mandylion is underground?”

  “Not necessarily,” Jack replied. “Look at these walls. They’re stone, and they’re thick. In Edessa, the Mandylion was hidden for centuries in one of the walls of the city. Why not here?”

  “It would be poetic,” Dorothea agreed.

  “My men know how to search a site, without destroying it or covering up important evidence.”


  Dorothea wondered if the two men with her father also knew how to excavate a site. She assumed they had accompanied Alastair for that purpose, although they were no closer to discovering the Mandylion’s hiding place than she was.

  It looked as if she was going to have to tell her father that she had no useful information for him. However, she would not just leave him a note in the back of their carriage. She wanted to meet with him again and ask the questions she hadn’t had the where-withal to ask before.

  “Come on,” Jack said.

  They walked back to the horse, and Jack lifted her up then mounted behind her. He wrapped his hands around her waist and turned the mare, returning to the beach. “Shall we ride some more?” he asked, his breath warming her ear.

  “Yes!” she exclaimed, glad of the diversion.

  Jack spurred the horse into a gallop, and they rode across the long expanse of sand. It was just as wonderful as before, and Dorothea delighted in the speed, the sense of freedom and the closeness to Jack. She placed her hands over his and turned her head slightly—just enough to meet his lips with her own.

  The gait of the horse prevented a deeper contact, but Dorothea was warmed by that slight touch. They were not going to find the Mandylion.

  There was nothing to give her father—no new clues, no information regarding the most likely castle ruin, no ancient cloth to turn over to him. Her adversarial relationship with Jack was finished.

  Dorothea wondered if Jack realized that.

  She leaned into his chest and closed her eyes. There was no reason they could not pursue this…attraction…between them. With so little experience with courtship, all of it overseen by her mother, Dorothea did not really know what to expect.

  She was not going to worry about it now. This moment was so perfect, she wanted to relish every bit of it.

  They galloped across the sand as if they had all the time in the world. Dorothea knew nothing of Jack’s plans or the responsibilities that awaited him, but she had nothing pressing to return to in London. As they rode into the wind, Dorothea wished she could remain this way forever, locked in Jack’s arms, without a care in the world.

  Eventually, Jack turned away from the beach. He made his way up past the hotel and into the center of town, where a large cross stood.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To church,” he said.

  They rode on until they reached a long, low building of ashlar and cobble. A crenellated tower rose from one end of the church, and a variety of headstones marked the ground in the adjoining yard.

  Dorothea read the plaque. “Saint Nicholas Church.”

  “We might find something of use here,” Jack said. He dropped to the ground and helped Dorothea down.

  “Do you suppose the vicar will be here?”

  “Let’s go inside and see,” Jack replied.

  The interior of the church was dimly lit and apparently empty. They walked up the center aisle, and didn’t see the old woman until they’d almost reached the sacristy. She was mopping the floor.

  “Awk! You startled me!” she cried, dropping her mop. “Took a few years off my life,” she added, tapping her chest.

  “We’re so sorry,” Dorothea said. “We never meant to frighten you. It didn’t look as if anyone was here.”

  “And what do you want at St. Nicholas’s?” she asked. “Services have been long done.”

  “We’re looking for the vicar,” Jack said, bending to pick up the mop handle. “Is he here?”

  “No, went home hours ago,” she replied.

  “Is the vicarage nearby?” Jack asked.

  “Of course,” she said and gave them directions.

  It wasn’t far, so Jack and Dorothea walked to the house. Clouds still hovered overhead, and a strong wind was blowing off the sea, but they’d had no more storm than the light rain that had come during lunch.

  “The vicar might know something about our mysterious lay brother, or there may be old records stored somewhere in the church or the vicarage,” Jack said. “It’s the last thing I need to investigate before I decide what to do.”

  Dorothea hadn’t thought about searching records.

  “Were there any records for Holywake?” she asked.

  “No,” he answered. “I tried to get information at both Rievaulx and Holywake, but there was nothing left.”

  “Why do you think there’s something here at St. Nicholas?”

  He laughed. “I don’t. Not really. But to be thorough, I’ll go through the motions and see if there’s a hint of anything useful.”

  The vicarage was a large, gracious home with a wide drive leading up to it. Jack tethered the horse, and he stepped up on the porch with Dorothea and knocked.

  A few minutes later, a pretty woman answered the door. She was well dressed and carrying an infant. “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Ma’am, I’m Jack Temple, and this is Dorothea Bright. We’ve come to see the reverend if he’s available.”

  “Reverend Browning is in the garden, if you’ll come this way,” she said, allowing Jack and Dorothea into the house. “I’m Mrs. Browning,” she said, turning to lead them through to the back. “My husband likes to spend his Sunday afternoons in the garden, reading or playing with the children.”

  “Very restful, I’m sure.”

  “Mr. Temple,” she said, shifting the infant, “you’re American?”

  “Yes, ma’am. From New York.”

  They went out a door at the back of the house and found Mr. Browning sitting in a chair on the lawn, reading to a young boy in his lap. Two other children played with toy soldiers on the ground nearby.

  “Dear,” Mrs. Browning said, “Miss Bright and Mr. Temple have come for a…visit.”

  The men shook hands, and Dorothea listened as Jack told the vicar what he sought.

  “Your children are beautiful, Mrs. Browning,” Dorothea said wistfully. For a short while, she’d been able to forget her father’s dire warning about child-bearing.

  “Thank you,” the woman replied. “They’re a bit of a handful. Boys, you know. I’m just glad this one’s a girl.”

  “Yes, she’s very pretty.”

  As if she heard them talking about her, the infant became fussy and started to wail. Mrs. Browning shrugged, then begged Dorothea’s pardon and left the garden, retreating to the house so as not to disturb her husband and his guests.

  “At the vicarage?” Jack asked. He had sat down on one of the chairs near Reverend Browning, and the two were conversing as if they were old friends, recently reunited.

  “Yes, boxes and boxes of old records,” Mr. Browning was saying. “I’ve never gone through them, though. Couldn’t see any point.”

  “No, I don’t suppose there would be any reason for it,” Dorothea remarked.

  “Would you mind if Miss Bright and I had a look?”

  “Now?”

  “Whenever it’s convenient,” Jack replied easily. “We’re in no rush.”

  “Well, I’d hoped you’d stay for tea. Marjorie!” he called toward the house.

  “We wouldn’t want to trouble you, Reverand Browning,” Dorothea said. Her mother would have disowned her for arriving unannounced at teatime.

  “Nonsense,” he said. “We always have plenty. Marjorie!”

  “Shall I see if she’s in the kitchen?” Dorothea asked. “I hear the baby.”

  “Good idea, Miss Bright,” he said. “I’m sure she’s not far.”

  Dorrie approached the house and heard the baby’s sporadic cries. Mrs. Browning’s voice was audible as well, singing a bright tune as she soothed the child.

  “Rumble, roar and crash away,” she sang as Dorothea raised her hand to knock.

  The next part of the song was inaudible as the baby screeched, but Dorothea clearly heard the woman sing the words, “Though wee and tiny you may be, God’s Angels will guard over thee.”

  Her heart leapt into her throat. Was it possible that the nursery rhyme written on the map was a s
ong?

  “Rumble, roar and crash away, Wind and waves and autumn’s haze. Mama will always stay with thee, ’Til flowers come with summer bees.”

  Dorothea swallowed her excitement and knocked.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You’ll be staying for tea, won’t you?” Mrs. Browning asked pleasantly, rubbing her daughter’s back. The baby’s cries had turned into occasional whimpers, so it was possible to talk.

  “Reverend Browning invited us, but I really—”

  “No, now don’t feel you must decline,” Mrs. Browning said. “We will have plenty. We always do on Sundays.” She murmured quietly to the baby and walked to the front of the house where there was a cradle. Gently laying the baby in it, Mrs. Browning let out a happy sigh.

  “Their nurse has Sundays off,” she said, joining Dorothea once again.

  “All the more reason Mr. Temple and I should leave you in peace.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it,” the vicar’s wife said. “Truth be told, I’ve never met an American before, and I love his accent.”

  Dorothea smiled. She did, too.

  “I heard your song just now,” she said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard it before.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would,” Marjorie said, taking plates from a cupboard. She placed three of them on a table in the kitchen, then took four more to the dining room. “It’s an old song that originated with one of my ancestors. Whether she composed it or not, I’ll never know, but it was handed down through the ages.”

  Dorothea felt she might faint. This was impossibly good fortune. Containing her excitement, she asked, “Was your family from Hornsea, then?”

  “They were the lords of Clyfton,” she replied. “My father was earl, but when my brother died in India, our male line ended.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Dorothea said.

  “More than six hundred years the Bretons were the earls of Clyfton,” Marjorie answered wistfully. She brushed her hands on her apron. “Well, the title and estates wouldn’t have passed to me or my children anyway.”

  “I’m fascinated by the song, though,” Dorothea said. “Do you know how many generations have sung it?”