“You!” she stammered, struggling against that aching, mesmerizing stare as she realized she had been duped into thinking this man was a servant. The bearded visage was etched with sterling clarity upon her consciousness, dragging forth a remembrance of a cast-off portrait in the east wing. She now knew the artist had been most adept at his trade, for Maxim Seymour, the Marquess of Bradbury, was a most magnificent man, and he was here, standing before her as a flesh and blood man. “You’re . . . you’re alive!”
A scowl darkened his brow for a scant second, then his mood changed with the purposefulness of a strong will. Startlingly white teeth flashed suddenly in a grin, and when he spoke, the guttural jargon was gone. In its stead was the neat, precise speech of a well-tutored gentleman.
“You have forced my hand ere I desired to reveal it, fair maid. ‘Twould seem I must be well about my business or well upon my way before you raise a hue and cry.”
The Marquess cast a rueful glance upward toward the top of the stairs and sighed as if disappointed in the choice he was having to make. Turning, he moved toward her and caught her arm as he stepped past her, dragging her along in a rapid descent that left her breathless.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot allow you to roam free until the proper moment is met,” he apologized. “Once the news is out, you will be at liberty to go your way . . . And was that not downward?”
“Stop! Please!” Elise gasped, trying to keep her footing in her haste. “I cannot . . .”
Lord Seymour halted and, sweeping an arm behind her shoulders and another beneath her knees, lifted her against his chest and bore her swiftly downward as if she were but an airy froth of silks and laces. Leaving the stairs, he made his entrance into the crowded hall which had, since her departure, grown strangely subdued and was awash in deep lethargy. The servants had returned to the kitchen, awaiting the moment when the wedding party would venture to the bridal chamber, but in the main hall the guests seemed to loll in a languid, soporific stupor as if awaiting the onset of some great event. Some were vaguely aware of the proceedings, while others appeared distantly amused by the antics of this roughly dressed man.
Maxim strode to the nearest table and seated Elise unceremoniously in a large, high-backed chair that stood beside it. Bending close, he held a thin finger in front of her slender nose, and his green eyes seized hers in an unrelenting vise. “I adjure you, madam, be still. You may well be amazed by what you hear.”
He whirled and, gripping the end of a long cloth that covered the bare boards of a trestle table, swept it and all its contents onto the floor where it landed with an horrendous crash.
“Ho! Good guests of Bradbury Hall,” he shouted. “Now that you have supped well and sipped even better, your must needs be entertained.”
The guests faced about with stupefied slowness and stared blankly, giving no hint of recognition as their eyes came to rest on this ill-garbed stranger. The hall grew silent as they appraised this new development, but their sluggish minds could not clearly grasp what was happening or even cope with the reality of it.
“ ‘Tis him!” an agitated fellow from nearby finally managed to choke out. “ ‘Tis him! Back from hell he’s come!”
Confusion deepened, and a wave of halfhearted inquiries drifted through the hall. “What’s that ye say? Who do ye mean?”
The one who first spoke threw up his arms in disbelief and began to chide the strangely apathetic guests. “Who, do ye ask? Great sainted mother, do ye not know this blackguard? Why, ‘tis the Marquess o’ Bradbury himself!”
“Lor’ Se’mour?” a man slurred thickly, and slowly grinned before he slumped forward, plunging his face into a trencher of food. Startled gasps came from others who gave their full and undivided attention to the Marquess. His mildly amused smile did not waver as his gaze wandered leisurely about the room, searching for the face that belonged to his chief accuser.
“Nay! Nay! It c’naugh be!” a muddled voice argued. “The Marquess is dead! He was killed!”
A soft chuckle flowed across the room, sending shivers down Elise’s spine. From the sound she could well believe that Maxim Seymour had grown horns to complete his satanic demeanor.
“So! You thought me dead, eh?” Maxim seized a sword from the wall and leapt to the top of the trestle table. “Sweet darlings and gentle men, if you think me dead, then press your breasts upon my blade and trust no ghostling lord to bring you harm. Come feel my point,” he urged, then chuckled in derision when no one stepped forward to test it. His bold, accusing glare swept the room and no few felt the crawling prickle upon their napes as the full weight of his gaze fell on them. “I have not left you as some would have it . . . at least not in that fashion. ‘Tis perhaps true enough that I passed beyond recall.” He lifted his broad shoulders in a brief, careless shrug and leisurely paced the length of the wooden plank. “And ‘tis true I was sorely wounded by those laggards on the bridge who tried to halt my escape, but I fell into the stream and ‘twas my fate to pass . . . as though swept by angels . . . into the hands of friends who saved me from the murky depths. So see and hear me, gentle folk! And spread the word that Maxim Taylor Seymour has come to serve vengeance on that thief who purloined his properties with a lie and gave his betrothed to another. I’m here to claim what is mine and to see justice served! Do you hear me, Edward Stamford?”
Maxim leapt across to another table and strode its length, scattering trenchers of food and tankards of ale and wine to the floor with a soft, hide boot. The stupefied guests shrank back in bewildered fright, and some stumbled and fell in their panic. Others stared about them in a daze, unable to shake the mind-confusing trance which had come upon them. Too listless and befuddled to flee, they slowly slithered into their seats or retreated further to the floor.
“Seize him! Don’t let him escape!” Edward shouted from the doorway. He had left some moments ago to relieve himself and had returned to find his guests fleeing a man he had thought himself rid of. He fervently sought an end to him now. “Cut him down, do ye hear! Run him through! He’s a murderer! A traitor ta the crown! The Queen will reward ye for his death!” With a wave of his hand the squire indicated those who had fallen, and stirred fear as he continued. “I ask ye now! Were these simple souls addled by heady brews . . .” He glared about him as if demanding an answer. “Or be this the work o’ a hideous fiend? Has he poisoned us all?”
Terrified gasps and wailing sobs attested to willingness of the guests to believe his statement. Elise searched her mind as she tried to recall just what the Marquess had been doing at the wine cask before she interrupted him. She formed a mental image of the two flagons he had served wine from, and she stared at him in growing dread, half-afraid her uncle was right.
Several men staggered forward to seek revenge for this horrible deed which had been done to them, but Maxim Seymour rested his hands on the hilt of his sword and chuckled as he calmly awaited their stumbling advance. He seemed quite self-assured as he slowly shook his head and chided them, “Carefully consider, gentle men. ‘Tis true you are much besotted with the potion I added to your cups, but ‘tis not hemlock your tongues have tasted and no Socrates’s doom you’ll see. The most harm the brew will do is aid you in a long night’s sleep, but if you test your skill against my blade, you may not fare as well. I ask you now, would you waste your life at the call of this Judas?”
“Take him!” Edward Stamford railed in mounting apprehension. “Ye mustn’t let him escape!”
One of the guests plunged forward, and swords clashed as Maxim met and quickly parried the thrust. Three others rushed in to pit their skill against the Marquess, only to stumble away in defeat. The ease with which he parried the attacks dissuaded many from carrying out the bidding of their host. After all, they had come to Bradbury Hall to feast and frolic, not to do battle with a skilled swordsman.
“Haven’t you brought enough sorrow to this household?” Elise cried, jumping to her feet. She was incensed that this man could hold the entire hal
l at bay while he worked his mischief. “Must you mar Arabella’s wedding night with more pain and grief?”
The green eyes took on a steely hardness as they settled upon her. “This was my home, and this might have been my wedding night if not for the tales of this palterer. What think you that I should do, maid? Leave it to the likes of Edward Stamford without a fight?” His sardonic chuckle belied the possibility. “Watch me and see if I will!”
Edward’s rising panic made him desperate. “Are there none brave enough ta take him?” he screamed. “He’s a traitor! He deserves ta die!”
The bridegroom, Reland, had toasted more liberally than many of the others and was sluggish and slow as he braced his broad hands on the table and pushed himself to his feet. Immediately the guests scattered, clearing a path between the two men, for here indeed was a match worthy of the Marquess.
“Arabella is mine!” Reland thundered in a low roar, and tried to focus his blurring vision on the other. He shook his head to clear it from the thickening cobwebs and slammed a fist down upon the table. “I’ll kill any man who tries to take her from me!”
Edward quickly motioned for a guest to fetch Huxford’s sword and, receiving it himself, delivered the weapon to his new son-in-law. “Catch him unawares if ye can,” the elder advised. “The Marquess is a shrewd one, he is.”
The Earl sneered at the smaller man. “Would ye have me do yer bloodlettin’, little weasel?”
A sudden sweat dappled Edward’s brow, and his lips formed voiceless words for a moment as he searched for an acceptable reply. “I . . . ah . . . cannot defend . . . me daughter, Reland. Me skill with a sword is far too feeble for his lordship here.” He inclined his head slightly to indicate the Marquess. “He’s a wolf, Reland, an’ ye know a weasel can’t best a wolf. Ye’re more his match. A bear set against a wolf. ‘Tis the way it should be.”
Placated, Reland stumbled forward a step and stood with legs braced wide apart as he gazed about him with heavily lidded eyes. The Marquess awaited him with sword in hand, and though there remained only a short distance between them, it seemed to Reland that he stared at his adversary through a long, narrow corridor. Imperceptibly everything around him grew darker until there was only a small glimmer at the far end where his enemy stood, and even that light steadily dwindled. He was very tired and weary. His limbs were too ponderous to lift. He had to rest a moment . . . only a moment . . .
Reland Huxford sank to his knees and there, with head bowed low, braced himself doggedly on stiffened arms until, like a mortally wounded bear, he sprawled forward onto the floor.
Edward was beside himself. He ran to Reland and, grasping his sword, held it aloft. “Who’ll take up the challenge? Which one o’ ye Huxfords’ll receive the sword o’ his kin?”
No one came forward, and Devlin smirked from the doorway where he leaned. “You have the sword, Squire. You carry forth the challenge.”
Edward gaped at Devlin as if certain the other had lost his wits, but the jeering grin of the younger man made him drop his gaze. He stared down in horror at the weapon in his hands, realizing that no one would come to his defense. With trembling hesitancy he lifted his worried gaze to the man he had dubbed traitor, and though the taunting smile of the Marquess mocked him, he could not find the courage to lift the sword and charge his foe.
Maxim began to chuckle softly, mercilessly lashing the older man’s pride. “Come now, Edward,” he chided in a ridiculing tone. “Have you lost your taste for bloodletting? I am here, ready to meet your thrust.”
Fear congealed in Elise’s breast and ran its icy tendrils through her veins as she watched the two men. Her heart labored against the dreadful chill of the emotion, for she knew what the outcome would be if the Marquess successfully goaded her uncle into a fight. It was all too obvious that Lord Seymour meant to kill the elder.
Her mind screamed at the injustice of it, and she suddenly realized the only person who could possibly accomplish the feat of stopping Seymour was not in the room.
Whirling in desperate haste, Elise fled the hall and, lifting her heavy skirts to her knees, raced up the stairs as fast as her spinning head would allow. Arabella’s chamber door stood ajar, and without pausing to knock, Elise plunged through with her cousin’s name spilling from her tongue, but the sound dwindled to a whisper as a flurry of impressions assailed her.
The chambers were dark. Only a meager light shining through the doorway from the adjoining room illumined the antechamber.
The rooms were deathly quiet. Arabella was nowhere to be seen, and no sound came from the bedchamber.
The candles had been deliberately snuffed. The scent of the hot wax still lingered in the air.
Elise felt a strange foreboding as she ran into the bedchamber. There, a lone candle burned, and in the hearth the golden flames of a fire danced along a charred log, casting across the floor elongated shadows of the tall-backed chairs which stood before it. The velvet hangings of the massive bed were open, displaying the richly embroidered coverlet that was still neatly spread over the feather ticks. Nothing in the room conveyed the welcoming warmth of a bride awaiting her groom.
Stepping out onto the loggia, Elise scanned the courtyard, probing into shadows and doorways. A softly whistled tune caught her attention, and she peered through the lantern-lit gloom until she spied Quentin strolling leisurely toward the hall. She had not seen him leave, but it was apparent by his manner that he was ignorant of what was presently transpiring there. Nor would he go to Edward’s aid when he entered. Her cousin was no more fond of the elder than Maxim Seymour was.
Keeping her silence, Elise slipped back into Arabella’s bedchamber. If she did not find her cousin soon, Edward would have to face the challenge of the Marquess, and that one would surely have his revenge.
She felt the warmth of the fire at her back, but a sudden eerie feeling sent a shiver sinuating down her spine and compelled her to lift her gaze. There against the far wall, she saw her silhouette cast, but creeping stealthily toward her shadow from either side were a pair of other shapes, large and manly.
The chambers were not empty!
Elise leapt forward, eluding the beefy arms that reached out to seize her. A meaty thunk followed as the pair came together, giving evidence that the silhouettes were more than mere illusions. Where she had stood an instant before, two hefty bodies now struggled against each other, and the mumbled curses of the pair filled the silence.
“Damn ye, Fitch! Ye broke me nose! Let go!”
“She’s escapin’! Catch her!”
A tall shape lunged for her, and lightfooted as a frightened hind Elise whirled away only to crash into a pear-shaped bulk. As much surprised as she, the man teetered on one foot while he sought to wrap his thickly thewed arms about her slender form. He knocked off her cap, and in the next instant Elise found her face pressed into the folds of the brigand’s roughly woven tunic. It had a wet woolen smell mingled with the strong stench of cooked fish. The encircling arms were strong and forbidding, but she fought against them in desperation, frightened of what might await her if the men took her. She lashed out, catching her hand in the pearl necklace, and distantly she was aware of the precious beads and jeweled clasp scattering across the floor, but the loss of the treasured piece did not halt her struggles as a calloused hand reached forward to muffle her outcry. It was the man who groaned in pain as her teeth sank into his fleshy palm. He snatched his hand away, but as she drew a breath to scream she quickly found a knotted cloth biting into her mouth.
The sharp heel of her slipper came down hard on the instep of the man’s softly booted foot. In the very next instant she pushed with all of her strength against the protruding belly. Suddenly Elise realized she was free, and never being one to faint or yield without a good fight, she set her mind to full flight, but before her darting foot gained a step, she was smothered in the folds of a drapery torn from a window. The large cloth was promptly wound about her until she was wrapped from head to foot. Frustrat
ion and fear fused into rage, and she exploded in a fury of mindless thrashing. A thick arm closed tightly about her neck, bringing the fabric close over her face until she could not draw a full breath of air. The more she struggled, the tighter the embrace became, and when she eased her writhing, the restraint likewise eased. The message became clear. She would be taken one way or another.
“Spence, where ye be, man?” the one named Fitch called. “Let’s be gone from ‘ere.”
The sound of hurrying footsteps approached them from behind. “I canna ‘find the lady’s cloak . . .”
“She’ll ‘ave ta make do wit’ what she ‘as. Let’s be gone from ‘ere ‘fore somebody comes.”
The thick cord which had held the swag in place at a window was used to bind the drapery about her, then strong arms lifted her and laid her over a broad shoulder. Gagged and trussed up like a helpless goose, Elise could only moan and wiggle in protest as she was carried out onto the loggia and whisked down the outer stairs to the courtyards. Once they came to earth, a sense of urgency seized the two. Her stout captor jogged along for a space, nearly jolting the breath from her, and then slipped through a hedge that bordered the courtyard. Of a sudden she was hurled through the air in a rather wild swoop, and she nearly strangled on the scream that erupted from her chest. It found no release beneath her gag, and she came to earth with a bounce, thankfully on a thick pile of straw. There was a moment of confused movement as a startled horse awoke and pranced nervously, making Elise aware of the fact that she had been thrown into a cart. The hushed voice of the driver soothed the animal as bundles of straw were heaped upon her, then the cart jiggled and creaked as the two men scrambled in. They stretched out on top of the straw, and their combined weight pressed her down until she could hardly breathe, much less move. The horse was urged forward, and the cart obligingly followed. The pace was slow, plodding, deliberate, and Elise’s spirits plummeted as she found little hope for rescue.
The driver of the conveyance made a wide swing which brought them around to the front of the manse. Though she had lived only a short time at Bradbury, Elise was able to discern the very moment the wooden wheels of the cart rolled onto the front lane, for her ride became immediately smoother. It was here she longed fervently to scream and alert the household to her abduction, but it was a useless wish, for the men had guaranteed her silence. Somewhere over the rattle and creak of the cart she heard the twittering chitter-chirrup of a nightingale, and she thought how strange that on this crisp winter’s evening the bird should be so near.
So Worthy My Love Page 5