Easy Conquest

by Sandra Heath

  Jack stared at her, so taken aback that for a moment his mind became blank. But then he recovered. “Geoffrey was a French sympathizer?”

  “So it seems. I knew nothing of it, although I confess he was an admirer of Bonaparte. There is French blood in the Fairfield family, and he was always torn by this war, but I never for a moment imagined his loyalty to Britain was in question.”

  “And how do you know of these, er, spying activities?”

  “From Rafe. Oh, don’t you look at me like that as well, for I have already endured it from Mama, and she only knows about the lOUs.”

  “lOUs? Forgive me, Emily, but you are going a little fast here. Whose lOUs? Geoffrey’s?”

  “Yes. Rafe holds gaming parties at Temford Castle, and some of the gentlemen who are his guests are in the government, cabinet ministers included. It seems that Geoffrey plunged far too deeply into play, and left a veritable paper trail of lOUs behind him. It seems that he had also started pilfering cabinet secrets at the same time.”

  Jack got up, his mind racing. “And Warrender can prove all this?”

  “Well, he says he has some of the lOUs, and—”

  Jack gave a cynical laugh. “Never trust any document that has been touched by my dear cousin. I know the importance of that advice!”

  “You mean, the lOUs may not be genuine?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, Emily, but when Rafe Warrender is involved, nothing is simply black and white, but very gray indeed.”

  She thought for a moment. “I was sure the one he showed me was in Geoffrey’s hand. His writing was very distinctive, you see. This one was made out to Sir Lumsley Carrowby. Rafe said he himself had settled it, so I should no longer worry. But he went on to say there were many more, which he would settle once I was his wife.”

  Jack paced slowly up and down the moonlit bedroom. “So all you know for certain is that there is one IOU that purports to be Geoffrey’s?”

  “Yes.”

  He drew a deep breath. “It’s my guess that it is a forgery. Counterfeit papers are Rafe’s specialty.”

  “But what of the spying?” Emily asked.

  “Do you believe, in your heart of hearts, that Geoffrey was a traitor to England?” Jack asked quietly.

  She stared at him, then lowered her eyes slowly and shook her head. “No,” she whispered.

  “Nor do I. It is just a very neat way of forcing you to do Rafe’s bidding.” A nerve fluttered at Jack’s temple. Never had he held his cousin in more contempt than he did at that moment.

  Emily spoke again. “Whether or not it is true, the threat of such a charge would do irreparable harm to Peter’s future. There would always be a question mark over his head because of whispers about his traitor of a father. I could weather such shame, and so too could Mama, but Peter would suffer greatly. That is why I have agreed to this marriage. I will be betrothed to Rafe at the Royal Oak the day after tomorrow, and I will marry him on Christmas Eve.”

  She closed her eyes. The day after tomorrow? Why did it suddenly seem only minutes away? It was as if the hours she was due had sneaked away somewhere, closing the gates of freedom behind them. Soon Rafe’s betrothal ring would be on her finger, like a key in the lock that defended her liberty; and at Christmas the key would be turned ...

  Jack saw tears shining on her lashes in the moonlight. In a moment he had returned to the bed and reached out to take her hand. Her fingers curled in his, clasping as longingly as they were clasped.

  He wrenched her into his arms, his lips seeking hers as if his very life depended upon it. She didn’t resist, nor did she pretend that propriety mattered. It was a moment that transcended everything else, a moment of declaration, of facing the facts. They were in love, and for these few seconds she acknowledged it. She conceded a truth that had existed from the first moment she saw him, after her fall in the clearing, and this exciting man, this golden Viking, had come to her rescue. When he’d touched her then, she’d known she desired him. She longed now to lie back between the sheets and welcome him to invade her whole being.

  He was the once-in-a-lifetime man of whom her mother had spoken, the man who would always mean more to her than any other, even Geoffrey. She wanted Jack Lincoln with a ferocity she had not even imagined before. That she was even capable of such emotion shocked her, but as his kiss beguiled her more and more, she knew that her resistance became less and less. If he were to take her now, she would welcome it, as a lost soul would welcome the portals of paradise. She lay back and drew him seductively down with her. She had no shame now, and made no nod in the direction of right or wrong.

  He yearned to possess her, and for a sweet, sweet moment he considered consummating the desire that seared through them both. How simple it would be to be one with her, and seal their love in the only true way. But come the morning they might—would—both regret it. “No ..." He got up from the bed and turned away, willing his barely controlled passion to subside.

  She lay there in confusion. Never before had she been so swept away by forbidden desires that all her inhibitions had been washed away into the shadows. She would have given herself to him, gladly, eagerly, longingly, but it would have been wrong.

  He looked at her again. “If we were to do this now ...”

  “I know.”

  He reached out to put trembling fingertips to her tousled hair. "I'm going to save you from Rafe Warrender and see that this sword of Damocles no longer hangs over your head,” he said softly. Then almost before she knew it, he had turned on his heel and left the room.

  Emily lay there, alone and suddenly very lonely. She wished she had seduced him beyond the point of no return. If she had held him more tightly, bewitched him more fully with her body, banished his control, they would both be warm and satisfied now. Guilty, but thirsty no more—for a while.

  Such passion as this was not easily slaked; maybe it could never be slaked, but would conjure desire between them forever. Yes, she thought, that was what it would do. She belonged to Jack Lincoln now, and even if she still had to marry his hated cousin, she would remain Jack’s.

  All the tangled emotions of the day suddenly overwhelmed her, and she began to cry. Huge sobs racked her as she turned to bury her face in the pillows. She didn’t hear the door open behind her as Cora hurried in, drawn by the sound of her child’s unhappiness.

  “Oh, Emily, my dearest girl, my darling baby,” she whispered, tears leaping to her own eyes. She sat on the bed and gathered Emily into her arms.

  Mother and daughter clung to each other, the wounds healing as they wept together.

  Chapter 27

  When Jack left Emily, he returned to his room only to collect his outdoor clothes and his pistol. His emotions were in chaos too, swinging from the joy of knowing Emily returned his love, to the disgust and outrage of discovering that Rafe had added blackmail to his already long list of crimes.

  Anger throbbed through him, firing his blood and burning away his restraint to the point that it barely existed. He had to confront Rafe, have it out with him, both for now and the past! Suddenly, Jack knew how to honor his promise to Felix; how to save Fairfield Hall from debt, and from the serpent that threatened its Eden.

  It was all so clear. So simple. By the time he had finished with his cousin, not only would all Emily’s debts be settled, but Rafe would know the folly of blackmailing Emily with threats about her husband’s supposed activities! It didn’t matter whether or not Geoffrey Fairfield had been a spy for the French, only that his innocent widow was being coerced into becoming Lady Warrender in order to protect her son.

  Jack changed swiftly into his day clothes, tucked the pistol inside his coat, and left the house. The recklessness of his present course did not matter; indeed, the possible hazards did not exist for him at all as he walked swiftly around to the stables. The night air was cold, and the temperature was dropping almost tangibly. Stars sprinkled the black velvet sky, the moon was just rising, and a low mist drifted knee-high, swir
ling aside in the draft Jack made as he walked. The first frost was inevitable, he thought as he saddled the same horse he had ridden earlier in the day.

  Within a quarter of an hour of leaving Emily, he was riding across the moonlit park. He followed the route he and Emily had taken to the rapids, and crossed the packhorse bridge, where the river reflected the moon. He intended to leave the estate by way of the disputed gatehouse because he knew no one would be any the wiser if he did that. To go by the main drive would mean arousing Bradwell to open the gates. These other deserted gates were closed only by a rusty padlock that would not offer much resistance to anyone determined.

  He remembered the way through the mist-twined woods, for his years in the Andes had trained him to remember places he had been before. A tree of a certain shape, a rock, a drift of ferns, all had been consigned to his memory when he had been lost earlier in the day. The dilapidated gatehouse loomed dark and silent, and a fox slunk across the way as Jack rode the final yards out of the trees.

  The mist was still no more than thigh high, billowing aimlessly over the ground, as if undecided whether to materialize in full, or slide away into obscurity again. He dismounted by the gates and searched for a stone to break the old padlock. It was then that he noticed the door of the gatehouse.

  The ivy growing over it had been recently torn, and even in the moonlight he could see that someone had shoved the door open and then closed it again. Curiosity got the better of him, and with his pistol at the ready he pushed the door open once again and went inside.

  The low room beyond was deserted. It smelled of damp and mildew, and had such an air of decay that Jack marveled the building was still standing. He opened a door to a staircase, and a waft of chill air swept down over him. Cobwebs laced the way in the moonlight, and he knew no one had gone up there in a long time. Nor was there anyone in the small kitchen or scullery that led off the first room. The gatehouse was deserted, except for himself.

  But someone had been there recently, for there was a very old copy of the Gentleman’s Magazine lying open on the window shelf, together with a grubby sheet of paper and a pencil stub. The paper was slightly damp, but only just, which suggested it had not been there for more than a day or so.

  Someone illiterate had been attempting to copy words from the open page of the magazine. An article about new farming methods in Norfolk, of all things! Who was it? he wondered. Well, he could muse upon the mystery until the proverbial cows came home, and still not find the right name, so there was no point in bothering.

  Leaving the things as they were on the sill, he went outside again to find a stone for the padlock. He found one almost immediately. After three blows the padlock clattered broken to the ground, and he was able to push the gates open. He coaxed the horse through, closed the gates again, then rode swiftly toward Temford.

  * * *

  Of course, Jack was not the only person abroad on the Fairfield Hall estate that starry night, for Manco and Peter had preceded him from the house. They had gone to the clearing where Geoffrey Fairfield had died, but Peter was not thinking about his father, or indeed about Jack’s nocturnal activities in Emily’s room; it was Manco’s amazing talent for fishing with only his bare hands that completely absorbed the boy’s interest.

  Peter crouched in the mist at the end of the pool. He was snug in the poncho Jack had given him after dinner, feeling warmer than he would have done in his greatcoat. He was watching Manco, who lay on the bank, an arm plunged shoulder-deep into the ice-cold water. The Indian’s knitted hat had slipped sideways, and the golden discs in his earlobes glinted in the moonlight.

  Already two fat tench lay twitching on the grass, having been scooped from the depths as if with a ladle. The water splashed a little, and with a deft movement Manco drew another fish from its haven and tossed it on the bank. Then he scrambled to his feet, making the mist recoil as if stung. He grinned at Peter.

  “See? Viracocha make Manco fine fisherman,” he said. “Viracocha, great god of sun, of everything, and all creatures in universe.” Manco waved an arm to indicate the earth and the sky.

  Peter hoped the Indian wasn’t about to launch into another hymn of praise in his guttural, almost explosive native tongue. He had shouted to the heavens when they arrived in the clearing. Aticsi Uiracochan caylla Uiracochan tocapu acnupu Up iracochan... Oh Creator! Oh conquering Viracocha! Ever present Viracocha ... !

  Manco glanced up as an owl called. “Bird of bewitching eyes,” he murmured. Then pointed to his own eyes and smiled at Peter. “Manco have owl eyes too. Cast magic with eyes. Conquer evil spirits and make enemy obey will.”

  “Really?” Peter was impressed.

  “Manco is weaver of spells.” The Indian put a hand in his purse, then flicked his fingers toward the pool. The surface of the water quivered, then concentric circles surged strongly toward the banks, where they washed audibly by Peter’s feet.

  “How did you do that?” the boy gasped.

  “Inca magic. Boy not Inca, so boy cannot be told.”

  “Oh, please,” Peter begged, but Manco was not to be moved. Instead, he bent to toss all the landed fish back into the pool.

  “Catch fish easy when Viracocha give help,” he said.

  “You might think so,” Peter answered, his breath as silver as the mist. He wasn’t quite able to keep a peevish note out of his voice, because Archie Bradwell was in his way as clever a fisherman as Manco, albeit taking longer and having to use a line.

  “Tomorrow you show Manco all estate?”

  “If that is what you want, then certainly I’ll show you,” Peter agreed.

  “Manco want to know every granny.”

  “Granny?” Peter looked blankly at him.

  “Every granny and book.”

  Peter laughed. “You mean every nook and cranny.”

  “Yes, that what I say.”

  Peter didn’t argue. “If you want to see everything, you can.”

  “Yes, everything. Including House of Viracocha?”

  “Where?”‘

  “House of the Viracocha, House of the Sun. On road. Place that guard locked gates that are never opened,” Manco explained.

  Peter’s eyes cleared. “Oh, you mean the old gatehouse.” He frowned a little. “Why on earth do you call it the House of Viracocha?”

  “Because it where sun live. Windows shine brightly because Viracocha take rest inside. He open door to go in. Leave open.”

  Peter was bemused. “I... I suppose you mean something about the sun reflecting on the window, but the door can’t have been open. The place is locked up and no one goes there now.”

  “Is abode of Viracocha. Manco see. Nothing wrong Manco’s eyes.” The Indian’s tone indicated a miff.

  Peter shifted awkwardly. “No, of course there isn’t. Well, if you want to go there, then we’ll go.”

  Mollified, Manco smiled again. “Now Manco teach boy catch fish.”

  “Oh, yes! I want to show Archie Bradwell a thing or two!” Peter flicked his poncho back and rolled up his sleeve.

  “Archie Bradwell?”

  “The gatekeeper’s obnoxious son,” Peter explained.

  Manco’s brows drew into an uncomprehending frown. “Ob-nock—? Manco not know word.”

  “Horrid, mean, sneering. Anything like that as far as Archie is concerned,”

  “Ah. Archie boy is Pizarro boy.” Manco understood now.

  “Yes.” Peter had become accustomed to the adjective by now. He lay down on the bank as Manco had shortly before, and plunged his arm into the bitterly cold pool.

  Manco leaned over him, instructing him carefully, and in what seemed like no time at all a tench seemed to place itself in Peter’s palm! The boy’s fingers closed and with an excited whoop he scooped the fish out of the water. Cold droplets scattered, and then the tench lay flapping and slapping on the damp ground.

  Peter leapt to his feet and danced excitedly around. “I caught one with my bare hand! I actually caught one!”r />
  “Only with help of Viracocha,” Manco reminded him.

  “Yes, of course,” Peter said quickly. Then, as Manco returned the tench to the pool, the boy’s glance moved to the Indian’s bow and arrow, sling, and knife, which had been temporarily discarded on the grass. “Will you show me how to use these as well, Manco?”

  The Indian straightened and looked inquiringly at him. “You shoot Pizarro boy?”

  “Shoot? Oh, Lord, no!” Peter gaped at him in the moonlight.

  “Hmm.” Manco watched the tench dart away to safety. “Capac Jack and Capac Miguel say shoot not good thing in England.”

  “Definitely not good.”

  Manco sniffed. “Then find other way. Magic way.”

  “Look, Manco, I know I don’t like Archie Bradwell, but I don’t want him dead or anything like that! I just want to teach him a lesson. He’s always so good at things, whether it’s fishing or riding, or setting traps. He can even run faster than me! Everything I want to do well but find difficult, he can manage as easy as wink.”

  “Wink?”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Peter said quickly, not wanting to embark upon another explanation.

  Manco thought for a moment. “We make bargain? I help you with Pizarro boy, you help me with devil.”

  “Devil?”

  “Man who want marry your mother. Man who keep Manco in England!”

  Peter’s eyes cleared. “Oh, Sir Rafe, you mean?”

  Manco nodded. “Yes. That him. Manco want go home to Peru, but Capac Cristoval not leave until all good here. All good when devil out of way and Capac Jack take Palla Emily as wife.”

  “Wife?” Peter rather liked the thought of Jack Lincoln as a stepfather. Things had certainly been much more exciting at the Hall since he arrived!

  “Capac Jack love her, and she love him. Manco know.”

  Peter nodded then, remembering what he had overheard by the entrance to the topiary garden. “And Grandmama loves Mr. Reynolds,” he said.