“What have I ever forgotten? Come, tell me. Ah, you can’t. The truth is that I’m a veritable elephant, I simply never forget a single thing. You must fish in another stream, Thomas.”
“Stop your damned wit, Meggie. Listen to me, I was rough but I really didn’t mean to be. Everything was just too much, nothing more, just too much.”
“What reason could you possibly have to maul your bride on her wedding night?”
“I told you, I don’t wish to speak of it again. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I am sorry for that. Now, you will forget it.”
“Gone? Just like that? Very well.” Meggie snapped her fingers.
He stared at her, wondering what was in that frighteningly active brain of hers now.
She said, “Actually I would like to ask you a question, Thomas.”
A question? He didn’t want a question, but he couldn’t very well clap his hand over her mouth and leave it there. He nodded, unwillingly.
Meggie opened her mouth, then closed it. No, now wasn’t the time. She’d told him how she felt. It was enough. She said, “Still, I was wondering if perhaps all men fly out of control on their wedding nights. You know, they’ve been forced to contain themselves for such a very long time, controlling all their base desires, that when they finally have the right to open the door, so to speak, they can’t help themselves? They just fly right through, not pausing to perhaps even turn the doorknob?”
“That makes no sense.”
She sighed. “Of course it does. You just don’t like to see yourself in this light.”
“I don’t wish to speak of it. No more.”
And she snapped her fingers again. She said, “It is odd. Mrs. Miggs told me I wouldn’t feel at all well this morning, what with all the champagne, but she was wrong. Will you please leave, my lord? I wish to bathe and dress. Oh my, I should have respectfully inquired about your plans, which must, perforce, be mine as well since I am the adjunct here. Do you intend that we leave this morning?”
“Yes, as soon as you are able.”
“Ah, do you also have plans that aren’t any of my business?”
“We are on our wedding trip. Now, you will cease your ridiculous anger. A wife should not be angry with her husband.”
“That is on the list?”
“Among other things.”
“Go away, my lord. Go take a strap to one of the horses.”
“How much champagne did you drink?”
“Enough to want to play a fiddle and perhaps dance a bit with Mrs. Miggs. Enough to forget that I wanted to kill you. In any case, even drunk, I realized I would be hanged if I did you in, and that would be distressing to my father. Hmmm. Since I can’t ask my father about this, perhaps the next time I see Jeremy, I can inquire about this door business and a husband blasting through it on his wedding night.”
He went pale, then red to his hairline with rage. “You will not speak of him further, do you understand me? Oh yes, I would be more distressed than your father if you killed me.”
“No, you would be dead and not feel a thing.”
She simply didn’t know that he’d overheard her and her father, so how could she possibly know why he was so damned angry? Maybe that was a good thing. He said, “You honestly feel fine now?”
“I feel ready to take on the world. I feel more than ready to take you on, my lord.”
“I am your husband. My name is Thomas. A wife doesn’t take on a husband, if you mean by that to start an argument with him.”
She realized they’d done nothing but argue since he’d shown himself in the doorway. She said slowly, “Actually, I was thinking about hitting you in the nose.”
He said nothing to that, very wise of him to keep quiet, she thought. He believed in some self-preservation.
She looked at him a moment, wrapped his dressing gown more closely about her, then said slowly, “Actually, I feel very sore between my legs. Does a man regard that as an accomplishment, something he’s expected to do on his wedding night?”
“Since you are not riding, you will be fine by evening. It is nothing. There is no accomplishment here. Last night simply happened. Don’t speak of it again.”
“You are an expert then. You have done this particular business many times, at least enough times to know that my pain was and is a mere bagatelle. I don’t suppose you experienced any distress from your splendid performance last night?”
He shook his head, but he was lying, of course. When he had broken her maidenhead, he’d wanted to scream at her and howl from the intense pleasure that filled him.
“I see. So you didn’t realize what you were doing? Neither the first time nor the second time? You didn’t hurt me either time on purpose?”
“Be quiet, Meggie. It’s over.”
She looked up at the ceiling. “God is letting me down here.”
“Sometimes God forgives actions when they are justified.”
“Whatever that means. Would you care to clarify that a bit?”
“I don’t wish to discuss it further.”
“Yes, yes, don’t mention anything a husband might find thorny. I must relieve myself. Go away.”
He looked as if he would say more, but he didn’t, just turned and closed the door quietly behind him.
“Thomas.”
At the sound of his name, he turned slowly.
She’d poked her head out the door. “Here.” She threw his dressing gown to him.
She closed the door, leaned against it, covering her bare breasts with her hands, and sighed. She saw that he had indeed washed most the blood out of her nightgown. She folded the nightgown into a small square and stuffed it into her valise. She planned to look at it quite often, a reminder that expectations were quite different from reality.
She was downstairs within the hour, her bonnet ribbons tied beside her left ear, her pale green muslin morning dress, freshly pressed by Ann, one of Mrs. Miggs’s daughters, and Mrs. Miggs herself assisted Meggie to dress, marveling over and over how splendidly hard Meggie’s head was when the good Lord knew she should be moaning this morning, still in bed, the covers pulled over her head.
Meggie assured Mrs. Miggs that she felt dandy. As a matter of fact, she looked young and fresh and very innocent. She smiled when she said good-bye to Mrs. Miggs and heard the lady say into her ear as she hugged her, “Do not kill him. You would hang and I would be unhappy. If I were unhappy, then Mr. Miggs would be unhappy as well because I would see that he was. Not as unhappy as your family, but still, there would be some active discomfort.”
“No, I won’t kill him, even though he refused to answer any questions. No, I have other plans for the clod,” Meggie said, gave her another quick hug, saw her new husband’s dark eyebrow raised at this affection between his wife and the innkeeper, and helped her into the carriage.
17
St. Agnes Head
Cornwall
SPRING WAS SERIOUSLY in doubt on the northern coast of Cornwall. As they traveled to the northwest, it became more cold and blustery. The wind blew hard, making the tree branches moan and rustle in the darkness. The air off the Irish Sea tasted of brine and the smell of seaweed was strong.
Thomas didn’t call a halt until nearly eight-thirty in the evening. For the entire day he had ridden some fifty feet in front of the carriage, leaving her to stew alone. She’d been so bored, and finally so desperate to relieve herself, that she’d finally opened the carriage door, leaned out as far as she could, and shouted up to Tim McCulver, “Stop the bloody carriage or I’ll jump!”
The carriage stopped in under six seconds.
“Thank you,” Meggie said, climbed down, and walked into the stand of oak trees beside the road.
When she came out some minutes later, her new husband was sitting astride his horse, looking intently at her. “Are you all right?”
“As in was I careful not to attach any poison ivy to myself?”
“No, but were you careful about that as well?”
She nodded, paid him no more attention, and climbed back into the carriage. If he didn’t want to be lover-like, perhaps beg her pardon a dozen times, then she would do her part and ignore him.
Exactly two hours later Tim McCulver pulled the carriage to a stop, opened the carriage door, and said, “His Lordship asked me to see if you wished to stop for a moment and perhaps commune with nature.”
“Yes,” Meggie said. “Thank you.”
They didn’t stop for dinner. It was nearly twilight. Meggie was so bored, she couldn’t stand herself anymore. She didn’t think, just climbed out of the carriage window. Tim McCulver didn’t see her until she swung onto the top of the carriage, crawled over the low railing and slipped down onto the seat beside him. He was so startled, he dropped the reins and let out a yell.
“It’s all right, Tim. Goodness, the reins. Here, let me get them.”
Before Meggie could reach down for the horses’ reins, Tim squeaked, threw himself forward, nearly falling between the two horses, managed to snag the reins, and as Meggie nearly lifted him back into his seat, he was moaning.
“Are you all right?”
“It ain’t the done thing, milady, it jest ain’t the done thing. Ye’re here wi’ me, and his lordship will twist me ears off me head. Oh Lord, listen to me, yer favorite sinner needs yer good graces.”
“His lordship will do nothing of the kind. If there is any twisting to be done, let him just try it on my ears.”
And she laughed, feeling the wind tear at her bonnet.
It wasn’t until they drove into St. Agnes, a very small village one mile inland from the Irish Sea, that Thomas rode back to the carriage to see his wife seated beside Tim McCulver, who’d driven his mother since Thomas was five years old.
He couldn’t think of a thing to say. He saw Tim’s anguish, saw the grin on his wife’s face, not a sweet confiding grin, but rather a grin that dared him to make a scene. He wasn’t without sense. He kept his mouth shut. Later, he thought, later, he would take her apart. He pictured her hauling herself out of the carriage window and blanched.
There was some moon, but it was hidden behind dark bloated clouds.
Tim said, “It will rain before midnight, milord. I’m glad we didn’t get caught in it.”
“I just hope it will clear by tomorrow.”
“Why?” Meggie asked as she stuffed her windblown hair back under her bonnet and retied it.
Thomas said, “Traveling by boat is more difficult in bad weather. Women tend to moan and complain and puke their guts over the side.”
“What a perfectly happy thought,” Meggie said and climbed down without waiting for anyone to assist her. Her skirt snagged on the brake, and she very nearly went crashing to the ground. She said a small prayer of thanksgiving that she didn’t fall. She could just see him standing over her, legs spread, hands on hips, sneering at her, treating her like a nincompoop. She said, “How nice it must be for men not to get seasick. Do you think it is due to a man’s natural superiority? Or to a female’s frailty, her inherent weakness?”
“Dammit, some men get seasick.”
She said slowly, tapping her fingers to her chin, “Why did you admit that to me?”
“Because Tim is one of them and you would find out soon enough and point it out to me in a perfectly snide voice.”
“What a fine example of logic. You saved yourself from my ill manners. Goodness, it’s very cold here,” she said as she shook out her skirts.
“Yes, a bit,” Thomas said, then gave Tim instructions while he handed Pen’s reins to a stable boy who was staring at the big black horse. “He won’t hurt you. Just be firm and gentle with him. Tim, go along with the boy, see that everything is taken care of.”
“Pen is a very big horse,” she said, then sighed. “I will miss Survivor, but Rory and Alec need her.”
For the first time since they’d arrived, Meggie turned to look at the inn that was set behind some oak trees. She didn’t see much, just a flapping wooden sign that said The Hangman’s Noose beneath a lantern that hung over the inn door.
Meggie looked from the inn to Thomas. “This is very strange. We haven’t seen a soul except for the stable lad. This place looks utterly deserted. There is only the lantern over the front door and look, it seems there is just a single candle shining out that one front window.”
“This isn’t right at all,” Thomas said, and she heard the alarm in his voice. “No, usually, Bernard’s inn is very busy. Why didn’t the stable boy say anything? Good Lord, I wonder what has happened. I want you to stay here, Meggie.” She didn’t want to, but she saw him pull a pistol from inside his jacket. An eyebrow went up. There was no one else about in the inn yard.
What was going on here?
The sky was filled with rolling black clouds, obscuring any hint of light. She fastened her eyes on that single lone candle set in the window.
Then she knew something was very wrong when she saw Thomas break into a run to the inn, the pistol gripped firmly in his right hand.
She was just behind him in seconds. “I don’t like this.”
He stopped, turned. “I don’t want you here, Meggie. Go back there where it’s safe.”
“Safe with the stable lad? How do you know he’s safe? Where is he, by the way? You don’t think he’s hurt Tim, do you?”
“Don’t be absurd, but you’re right, surely he must know if there is something wrong. Why didn’t he say anything? Stay here. I will see to this. Obey me.”
“No,” she said and fell into step beside him. “This is a very important item on my wife’s list: Keep your husband from harm.”
A black eyebrow went up, but he didn’t say anything, just tried to get in front of her when they reached the inn door. Later he’d be inordinately pleased about what she’d said, but not now. Slowly he opened the door, shoving it slowly, inexorably inward. It creaked loudly, making Meggie’s hair stand up on the back of her neck, making her suck in her breath.
“I don’t like this at all,” she whispered against his shoulder.
“I don’t either. Dammit, stay behind me at least.”
“I’m scared.”
“I am too. Be quiet.”
Thomas walked into the small beam-ceilinged private parlor where the single candle was flickering in the window. It looked like it was a signal, but to whom?
Other than the candle, the room was empty. Thomas picked up the candle, saw that it was nearly burned all the way down. How long had it been lighted, and set in that particular spot? An hour? More?
Meggie moved to within two inches of her husband, came up onto her toes, and whispered in his ear, “Is there smuggling on the northern coast of Cornwell? Between Cornwall and Ireland?”
He shook his head, placed his fingers over his mouth.
He checked every inch of the room, then said, “I want you to remain in here, Meggie. I must check the rest of the inn.”
Meggie walked to the fireplace and lifted a poker from beside the mantel. It was big and soot-covered. “No,” she said. “Let’s go. The Hangman’s Noose. I don’t like the sound of that name. Who owns it?”
“Bernard Leach.” He said nothing more until they were across the hall and through the open door of the taproom. It was perfectly dark and smelled of years upon years of ale. “Keep your voice down. Bernard is a Cornishman I’ve known all my life. We need a light, I can’t see a damned thing. Stay put. I’m going to get the candle.”
He was back in a moment, the candlelight shining upward, setting his face in relief, making him look like the devil himself.
“I wouldn’t have married you if it were dark like this and you were holding a candle. You look evil, Thomas.”
“You hold it then,” he said, and then laughed low when he saw her pale face lighted by the candle flame. “You have the look of a succubus.”
“Not a good thing,” Meggie said and shuddered even as she walked toward the long bar and raised the candle to look behind it. “If I have a child, he or
she will be a demon or a witch. Did you know that Merlin was supposedly spawned by an incubus? That’s a male succubus.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” he said.
“Where could everyone have gone? Perhaps there was an accident in the village.”
“It’s possible. St. Agnes village is still a half mile to the west. Bernard’s grandfather built the inn in an oak forest because he liked his privacy.”
They went through the entire downstairs, ending up in the small cramped kitchen. That was where they found Bernard Leach lying unconscious in the middle of a pile of flour, blood from his head seeping into the white flour.
Thomas went down beside him and felt for a pulse in his neck. “Bernard, wake up. Dammit, man, come on, wake up now!”
The man, older, grizzled gray hair, thin as a broom handle, a huge white apron wrapped around his middle, moaned, then opened his eyes. “Oh God, be it you, Thomas?”
“Aye, you old buzzard. You just gave me a mighty scare. Where is everyone? What the hell has happened?”
Bernard clutched at Thomas’s shirt. “Oh my lord, Thomas, it was the Grakers. You know about the Grakers, don’t you?”
“I think I’ve heard the name but now, I don’t know. Who are the Grakers?”
“Not who, Thomas. They’re not people. They’re not of this world. They come and they destroy and then they leave again.”
“All right, what are the Grakers? Where are they?”
“They’re like your English pixies, they live under rocks and in caves and only come out at night. But they’re not like pixies, they’re vicious, attacking if they’re displeased with you.”
“You’re telling me that some sort of evil pixie came to your inn, took you in dislike, and smashed you on the head?”
“It weren’t quite that simple,” Bernard said, and struggled to sit up. He moaned, gently rubbed his head.
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 47