by Sandra Heath
There was such sensuous seduction in her kiss that Gervase felt almost as if he were coming to life in her arms, but it was only a cruel illusion, for his flesh remained cold and hard. He was engulfed by desire as her breasts pressed sweetly to him, her aroused nipples tangible even to a man of marble. He loved her so much that the agony of feeling he knew now was the most remorseless pain imaginable. If she would only whisper those three words, he would be liberated and able to consummate the passion that burned through them both.
Anne’s exhilaration was totally wanton. She neither knew nor cared what was happening; all she could think of was Charles Danby. To her his lips were warm and responsive, and as she moved against him, the pleasure was intoxicating. This was the realization of the yearning that had beckoned her through the long nights, the final clarification of the half-captured images that had flashed fragmentedly through her days. This was enlightenment, ravishment itself...
The sound of hooves came from beyond the maze, and Sylvanus tore his interested gaze from the rotunda to turn perplexedly. Who could be arriving? Gervase was lost in Anne’s beguilement and heard nothing, but after a few minutes Mrs. Jenkins’s flustered voice penetrated his joy with words that shattered his magic.
“Miss Anne! Oh, Miss Anne, please come, for His Grace is here!”
Sylvanus withdrew his power from Anne, then scampered back to his blind alley, where he pressed down beneath the hedge and curled up into the tightest of balls so that she wouldn’t see him when she hurried past.
She came to in a state of utter confusion. The rotunda seemed to be spinning. Or maybe the maze was revolving around it. Whatever it was, she felt giddy and uncertain of what was real and what was fantasy. Her memory was wiped clean from the moment she’d seen the telltale scratch on the statue’s hand, so she knew nothing of what had passed during the past few moments. As she glanced again at the scratch, the true implications surged through her, and she could not even begin to comprehend what was going on in this peaceful Monmouthshire backwater that until now had always been so placid and ordinary. She looked at Gervase’s face. “I’m not going mad, am I? It really is you, Charles?” she whispered.
“Yes, it’s me! Say what’s in your heart, my love!” he begged.
“Miss Anne? The duke is here!” Mrs. Jenkins called again.
Anne’s lips parted in dismay. Hugh? But why had he called after all? Surely she’d made her wishes plain in her note? There was no time now to think of the whys and wherefores, for somehow she had to speak to him. She really didn’t know how she was going to achieve it with decorum after the astonishing discovery here in the rotunda, for she felt more like giving way to hysteria. She closed her eyes for a moment, and then hurried from the rotunda.
“Anne! Just say you love me and this will all be over! Beware of my cousin, for he means you the greatest harm imaginable!” Gervase’s agonized imploration winged desperately after her, but did not even begin to touch upon her consciousness. She neither sensed nor heard anything, and as she passed the end of the blind alley, she didn’t see Sylvanus in his hiding place either.
At the edge of the maze she paused to compose herself, then walked sedately toward the castle, where Hugh, sinister and malevolent behind an open smile, was waiting in the hall.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“Good evening, Anne, may I waste no time in wishing you the very happiest of birthdays?” Hugh murmured as he took her hand and drew it warmly to his lips.
She looked urgently behind him at Mrs. Jenkins, seeking a hint as to why he had called after all, but the housekeeper, who was hastily lighting candles because the daylight had now virtually gone, could only spread her hands perplexedly, for the note had been taken to the White Boar in ample time. Anne withdrew her hand a little distractedly. “Your Grace, I—”
He interrupted with a gentle reproof that could not have sounded more warmly sincere. “I thought we had agreed to dispense with disagreeable formality?”
“Yes, but—”
He broke in again as he held the cloth-wrapped diadem out to her. “Please accept this, not only as a birthday gift, but as a token of my regard. I have no doubt that in the coming years I will take great pride in seeing you wear it.”
Anne stared at him in increasing dismay, for this unexpected development was a great strain, coming as it did so hard on the heels of her incredible discovery in the maze. “Sir, I sent word to you which I fear you cannot have received.”
He didn’t seem to hear as he pressed the diadem into her hands. “I chose it especially for you.”
Unable to think what else to do, she unwrapped the cloth, and as the diadem’s glory caught the candlelight, her parted lips betrayed reluctant admiration.
Mrs. Jenkins gasped. “Oh, my, what a beautiful thing,” she declared.
Anne turned the wedding crown gently so that the jewels flashed. “It’s exquisite,” she murmured.
“Exquisite indeed, and you are more than worthy of it,” he said gallantly.
She gazed at the matchless workmanship. That it was very valuable she did not doubt, just as she did not doubt her inability to accept it. Slowly, she rewrapped it and held it out to him again. “Greatly as I find it to my liking, sir, I fear I cannot accept.”
“Cannot? I don’t understand.” At last he pretended to notice what she was saying.
“I sent you a note today, sir, but it is clear that you cannot have received it.” She continued to hold out the diadem.
“What note was this?” he asked, ignoring the returned gift.
As she placed the diadem on the table, she struggled to find the right words. “This is a little awkward, sir...”
“Maybe you would find it easier if we went for a walk? To the jetty and back, perhaps?” he suggested.
“Th-the jetty?” She smiled with relief. “Yes, I think that would be best.”
He offered her his arm. “Er, what of you, Mrs. Jenkins?” he inquired, for he needed the housekeeper to witness his apparent heroism.
But Mrs. Jenkins cast an unhappy glance at Anne and shook her head uncomfortably. “I think not this time. Your Grace.”
“As you wish.” Damn! Still, he had no choice; he had to proceed tonight, because by tomorrow a letter would surely be on its way to Critchley, advising of her withdrawal.
As they went out, the housekeeper gathered her skirts and hurried up to Mr. and Mrs. Willowby’s bedroom, from where she observed as best she could through the telescope, although in the encroaching darkness it wasn’t easy to make out any detail.
Anne didn’t speak as she and Hugh walked past the maze, but time and time again her haunted glace stole toward the soaring hedges, which to her were now so very much more mysterious than before. She could not know that from within those high leafy walls, Gervase was watching anxiously. Brought to life again by Sylvanus the moment the last of the sunset had disappeared, he was at the entrance to the maze as Anne and Hugh went by. The impulse to step out and save her by confronting his cousin was almost overwhelming, but he was mindful that Anne had to confess her love without knowing who he really was. Hugh was certain to identify him and thus the chance of escaping from Bacchus’s magic would be lost forever. So, for the moment at least, all he dared do was appoint himself her determined guardian, revealing himself to Hugh only if her life was in peril.
He waited impatiently for Sylvanus, who had stolen into the castle to get Penelope, and the moment the faun and nymph returned, unseen by Mrs. Jenkins, who was on the point of giving up with the telescope because she couldn’t see anything much, all three hastened stealthily across the park to some thick bushes on the riverbank close to the jetty. As they crouched low among the leaves and reeds, a trick of the night breeze carried the sound of the rapids downstream, an ominous roar that echoed the emotion engulfing Gervase now that he saw Hugh properly for the first time since Naples. Here at last was the despised cousin, who not only threatened his beloved Anne, but had also usurped his title and position by th
e foul means of leaving him to drown. No, it was more than just leaving him to drown! Gervase recalled that moment in the grove when the heel of Hugh’s riding boot had cruelly crushed his helpless fingers. There hadn’t been any hesitation, just the unspeakable act that would gain Hugh Mowbray a few seconds more in which to escape, and which would also bring him the dukedom he’d always craved. Now Anne stood in the way too, and her life was only too dispensable. Hugh’s decision in the grove had been made on the spur of the moment, but this was cold-blooded premeditation. It was often said that everything was easier the second time, and from Hugh’s relaxed manner and easy smile, the old adage was only too true, for no one looking at him now would guess that he had murder in mind.
Sylvanus sensed Gervase’s justifiable rage. “For Jupiter’s sake, don’t do anything rash. If need be, we can see she comes to no harm.”
“Would you be calm if Penelope were the one in danger?” Gervase demanded resentfully.
The faun didn’t answer, but Penelope leaned across to put a soothing hand on Gervase’s arm. “We won’t let anything befall her—truly we won’t.”
“I just want to go up to my cousin and knock that evil smile from his face!” Gervase breathed as he looked at Hugh again.
“And so you will, at the proper time,” the nymph said quietly. “Remember that Anne must tell you she loves you without realizing who you really are.”
“I know, but I’d still like to tear Hugh Mowbray’s head from his shoulders,” Gervase breathed.
Sylvanus gave him a reassuring smile. “If we keep our heads and think everything through properly, we’ll both meet Bacchus’s conditions.”
Penelope had been watching the jetty, and suddenly her breath caught. “Oh, no! They’re getting into one of the boats!”
As Hugh untied the rope and then took up the oars, Gervase’s heart almost stopped with dread for Anne. “We can’t let her go with him!” he cried.
Penelope put a hand on his arm again. “Yes, we can. I’ll swim after them.”
“Swim? But—”
“I can call out if he does anything!” Without further ado, the nymph slipped silently into the Wye and swam down into the weed-laced depths, which were as much home to her as the open air.
The occupants of the rowing boat had no idea at all that she was cleaving through the water only a few feet away, nor did they see Gervase and Sylvanus slipping from bush to bush on the shore, keeping the boat in sight all the time. The distant thunder of the rapids carried on the breeze as Anne tried to reason with Hugh, who had been prolonging their moments alone together by arguing passionately in favor of keeping the match. He was so convincingly dismayed that when he begged her to accompany him on the river, claiming that rowing would provide him with a welcome distraction, she felt obliged to agree. His evident distress puzzled her, for she could see no reason for him to want her as his bride-to-be. On his own admission he wasn’t compelled to take only her, and as Duke of Wroxford he could have his pick from the length and breadth of England, so why on earth was he almost begging her not to withdraw?
Confused, and becoming a little discomforted by his vehement defense of a contract she certainly had no desire or need to preserve, she began to wish she’d stayed on the shore. She lay back uneasily in the stem of the boat, trailing her fingers in the water and gazing fixedly toward the far shore, where St. Winifred’s Well had now come into view. She hadn’t looked directly at Hugh for several minutes because she was embarrassed, and so she wasn’t really aware that he had ceased to row. He kept talking as he shipped the oars and then stood, and it wasn’t until the boat swayed as he stepped forward to seize her that she at last began to look around to see what was happening. Someone shouted from the shore. She thought it was Charles, but there was no time to heed the warning because Hugh lunged at her. She tried to scramble away as he grabbed her, his hands at her throat. Her screams were choked and terrified, but then someone, or something, reached up from the water and began to rock the boat so fiercely from side to side that the oars fell overboard.
Another shout rang from the shore, and Hugh hesitated as he thought he recognized the voice. The boat was rocked even more violently as he half turned to look, and he staggered, lost his balance, and with a cry was pitched headlong into the river. He fell against Penelope and in spite of his shock was aware as she tried to squirm away. His clawing fingers twisted instinctively in her long, flowing hair, and she gasped with pain as her head was wrenched backward. His murderous resolve wasn’t diminished as he thought that Anne must have been thrown overboard as well, and as he began to hit the diminutive nymph furiously with his clenched fist, it was Anne he believed he was knocking unconscious in order to more easily hold her under the water.
The boat had begun to be carried downstream from the moment Hugh had shipped the oars, and as he fell into the water without succeeding in his monstrous plan, Gervase began to run desperately along the shore. The dull roar of the rapids could now be heard clearly in the darkness ahead, and from the thunderous sound he realized the flimsy vessel would not survive them. He knew nothing of Penelope’s plight, for his thoughts were all of Anne, who had to be saved before the drifting boat reached the gorge.
Sylvanus’s alarmed attention remained fixed upon the threshing water where Hugh was attacking Penelope. The faun began to dash helplessly up and down the shore. He knew Penelope needed him, but he was terrified of the river. The desperate struggle went on, though, and then he heard the little naiad sob his name. It was too much. His love for her overcame his dread, and with a silent prayer to Bacchus, he leapt into the river.
At first his panic was almost overwhelming, but then knowledge came from nowhere, and he began to swim like a dog. His limbs moved swiftly and rhythmically, and his lifelong fear was suddenly vanquished as he began to close the gap between himself and the nymph he adored so much. “I’m coming, my love! I’m coming!” he bleated so fiercely that he felt as if his heart would burst.
Penelope was frightened. She had always thought naiads would be indestructible in water, but now it was clear she was as vulnerable to drowning as any human. She struggled with all her might, but Hugh merely held her hair more tightly, and all the time rained blows upon her. Suddenly, Sylvanus was there, kicking and punching as he hurled himself upon his beloved’s assailant. Caught unawares, Hugh had to release Penelope in order to defend himself properly, and the moment she was freed, the battered, barely conscious nymph swam down into the depths of the Wye.
Hugh pulled back, unable to withstand such a frenzied attack, and at last he saw the faun’s horns and snub-nosed face, the horror of the Neapolitan grove returned and a scream of terror was wrenched from him. With triumphant bleat, Sylvanus delivered an upper cut to his jaw that was worthy of a trained pugilist. Dazed, Hugh floated away in the boat’s wake toward the maelstrom of the rapids.
Sylvanus trod water and glanced around desperately for his adored nymph. “Penelope? Where are you? Are you safe?” Suddenly, she floated limply up into his arms, and the devastated faun bore her back to the shore, where a shingle bank made it easy for him to carry her to safety in the cloak of bushes. There he cradled her in his arms and showered her poor bruised face with kisses, but she didn’t stir. Not by so much as a flicker of her eyelids was there a sign she was alive.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The pounding of the rapids shook the air as Anne lay in dazed confusion in the drifting boat She was hardly able to believe that Hugh had just tried to murder her, and yet there was no doubt that was what he would have done if someone hadn’t saved her. She remembered hearing a man shout from the shore—Charles, she was sure of it. At the same time she’d seen small feminine hands reaching up out of the river to shake the boat in order to unbalance Hugh.
Gradually, she became aware of the rapids and with a frightened whimper pulled herself up to stare into the darkness ahead, where the sheer wooded cliffs of the gorge marked the rocky descent that surely spelled death. Then she hear
d someone shout again and saw a man standing on the boulders that forced the river through the first rapid. Charles! She tried to call his name, but no sound passed her frightened lips. Tears stung her eyes, and she continued to cling to the edge of the boat, grasping the damp spot left by Penelope’s fingers.
Gervase had sprinted along the bank. The current was much more swift as the river neared the confines of the gorge, and he knew he stood no chance of being able to swim out to the boat. Once on the rocks, he would be about four feet above her, and his only hope would be to pluck her from the boat. But did she have the strength, and the wit, after what had just happened? His heart pumped exhaustedly as he scrambled onto the damp stone and began to shout and wave. He saw her pale face looking toward him. The roar of the Wye was deafening as he lowered himself above the shining water and held his hand down.
“Take my hand!” he called, but his voice seemed lost in the racket of the river.
She knew what she must do, but her muscles seemed to have lost their strength. All she could do was cling to the side of the boat.
“Anne!” Seeing her frozen immobility, he shouted her name like a command.
His tone cut through her fear, and suddenly she found the will to move. Somehow she made herself let go of the side of the boat and braced herself to reach up to him. The current was racing now, and she was skimming toward him so quickly that she knew she would have only a split second in which to catch his fingers. Tears stung her eyes, and she felt more daunted than she ever had in her life, but she found the courage somewhere in the depths of her soul, and as the boat shot between the rocks, she stretched up with all her might. His fingers closed firmly around hers, and suddenly she was swung from her feet.