The Earl's Captive

by Lorna Read

  “Let go of me!” Lucy demanded.

  Pretending to swoon, she sagged limply onto the counterpane and then brought her knee up in one swift movement, but unfortunately missed the vital spot.

  “You little bitch!” He gave her wrists a painful twist. “Give in gracefully, my girl, or I'll tell your father I saw you bare-arsed in the hayloft with one of the stable-lads.”

  “But I didn't… I've never …” Lucy began.

  “Who d'you think he'll believe?” Masters cut in. “You, who he knows to be a cheeky, devious little hussy, or me, his well-intentioned, honorable son-in-law? Do you really think your life would be worth living then? Don't you think he'd treble his attempts to get you married off before your reputation was in question, or your waist started to swell?”

  He transferred his grasp on her wrists to one hand and used the other to grope for her breasts. Lucy twisted to left and right, trying to deflect his podgy fingers.

  “Be sensible, Lucy, there's a good girl.”

  Sensible? She would rather render him insensible!

  “You're in a tight spot and maybe I'm the only one who can help you. Give yourself to me and I'll put in a good word with your father, try to convince him Pritt isn't the fellow for you, and that maybe I can find someone more suitable amongst my wealthy friends. I think the mention of money might make him see reason. And I know a lot of young studs who'd be a good match for a lusty young wench like you.”

  As he groped at the skirt of her dress, there was a knock on the door and Binns's flat country tones could be heard saying, “Your father wants to know if you're ready, miss. The Reverend is expected in fifteen minutes.”

  “Damn!” cursed Masters, swinging himself off the bed. “I never realized the old bastard would be here quite so soon. How long do you think he will stay? One hour? Two?”

  “I don't know,” Lucy said. Right then, a couple of hours spent in the Reverend's company felt like sweet relief compared to whatever Masters might have in store for her.

  “Well, I'll stay the evening and come to your room later. Remember what I said, sister dear. I'll put in a word for you if …”

  Lucy nodded. Bending towards her, he pressed his lips on hers and Lucy shuddered in revulsion as it felt like kissing a slimy, dripping fish. Then he was out of her room with a wink and a leer, leaving her to collect her scattered wits.

  Where was Helen, who was supposed to be helping her with her hair? Where, indeed, was Binns, who should have been dancing attendance on her, lacing her into her dress, proffering advice about this necklace or that, rather than just calling to her through the door? Lucy had never felt so alone, so abandoned, so confused.

  Feeling dazed, she got up, reached in the cupboard for her blue dress and began, mechanically, to unfasten the cream one she was wearing. Then, struck by a sudden thought, she fastened it again and stepped quickly over to the window.

  Outside, dusk was falling and low-flying swallows were dipping over the meadow at the back of the house. She had climbed out of the window before, but never in a dress as full as the one she was wearing. Still, she had no time to change.

  Glancing up the hill, her eyes found, and rested on, the clump of sombre pine trees that surrounded the rambling old vicarage. It could have been her imagination, but she thought she spied a moving speck descending the hill path – Nathaniel Pritt on his trusty Welsh cob. There was no time to lose.

  Pulling up her skirts and knotting them at the side, she unfastened the casement and swung her body out onto the ledge. She clung to the window sill as her feet found the familiar fork in the ivy. Then she was down it, on the tree branch, feeling her dress snagging on a hundred sharp twigs. She dropped lightly to the ground and glanced nervously all round her. She could hear distant voices from the parlour and the sound of her father shouting, but here, at the far corner of the house, all was quiet.

  It grew darker still as she crept towards the high meadow, fervently wishing that she were dressed in dark clothing instead of the all-too-conspicuous cream dress. Reaching the fence, she lifted a halter off the gatepost and gave a low call to the bay stallion who was silently cropping the turf.

  “Here, Emperor. Here, boy.”

  The horse pricked his ears in interest. Martin Swift's prize stallion was always willing to lower his noble pride and answer the call of a human if there was any hope of an apple or a handful of sugar. Obediently, he trotted towards Lucy, a tall shadow in the gathering darkness. Meanwhile, Lucy climbed onto the gate. As soon as the horse was close enough, she held out her hand and, while he was inspecting it for the hoped-for sugar, she slipped the halter over his ears and was on his back before the surprised animal could sense her intentions.

  Emperor set off at an indignant gallop across the field and Lucy clung grimly onto his back, thanking God that she'd had the nerve to take moonlit, bareback rides in the past and accustom herself to doing without a saddle. It always felt strange to be riding astride a horse like a man, especially when wearing skirts of slippery silk, but she jammed her thighs and knees against the horse's polished hide and willed him not to stumble.

  The far fence was looming up. Emperor made as if to swerve, but Lucy, by holding him in check with reins and calves, forced him to square up to it, then, giving him his head, she jabbed his flanks with her heels. He took off like an eagle and soared over, landing in the lane that led upwards, away from the town, towards the moors.

  Lucy gave an anxious glance over her shoulder. The Reverend Pritt should be nearing the farm by now. Surely he would hear Emperor's hoofbeats and raise the alarm? Or maybe her disappearance from her room had already been noted.

  “Come on, Emperor boy,” she murmured encouragingly, giving his hard, muscular neck a pat. She had no regrets about stealing her father's prize beast. Not after all he'd done to her. She planned to get a safe distance from Prebbledale and then set him free, knowing he could find his own way home by equine instinct. Gripping tightly with her knees and crouching low over his neck, she dug him again with her heels. He obligingly set off at a fast canter, tackling the steep hill as if it were nothing but a gentle slope.

  As they crested the summit, Lucy slowed her mount and looked round. The moon was out now, silvering the trees and fields and revealing the houses and outbuildings of the village in eerie silhouette. Her eyes picked out her own house and she noticed, to her alarm, several dark figures darting around: her family, looking for her. Soon, they would discover the theft of Emperor, and then horses would be saddled and searchers sent out with lanterns to look for her and bring her back.

  Ahead stretched the moors, wild, rocky, deserted except for the occasional band of gypsies or robbers. She would take her chances with them, she decided. By tomorrow, she'd be far away. She'd disguise herself and maybe find employment in an inn, or perhaps some kind family would take her in and give her work as a housemaid.

  She stirred the spirited horse into a gallop and felt the wind singing through her hair as Emperor's hooves struck sparks from the stony ground. The physical exertion of riding stripped the tension from her and she laughed out loud, the wind whipping the sound from her mouth before it could echo among the rocks. They would never find her. On she galloped, into the welcoming darkness.

  Chapter Five

  Lucy dreamt of snow. She was lying on an endless expanse of it and above her, from an inky sky, soft, white flakes were falling in their thousands and settling on her shivering body. Gradually, the shivering stopped and a kind of drowsy numbness took over.

  She was almost warm now and a deep sleep was overcoming her. She had been told that this was how people died. She didn't mind dying this way, in comfortable, floating numbness. It was as if her body had already left her and only her spirit remained. Yet her senses were still working because she could hear the neighing of a horse.

  The neighing grew louder, piercing her dream and forcing her awake. She had made her bed under an overhanging rock to protect her from the night dews and had pulled her ski
rt and top layer of petticoats around her shoulders and arms, to keep herself as warm as possible. Even so, the September night was chilly and the stony ground beneath her uncomfortably lumpy, and she wished she had brought a warm cloak to snuggle beneath.

  She heard the neighing again and, in a sudden fear that Emperor might be under attack from some wild animal, crawled from her hiding place, stretched her stiff limbs and set out in her thin satin slippers across the damp, prickly heather to the place where she'd tethered him to a tree stump. The horse was standing, gazing at her. His ears were pricked and his stance suggested observant attention, but there was no sign of any marauding animal or bird. Nothing, not even a mouse or a hunting owl, stirred on this lonely stretch of high moorland.

  Suddenly, without warning, something encircled her waist and gripped her tightly. She thought at first she had accidentally strayed into some kind of animal trap, and screamed out loud, but a man's coarse chuckle behind her told her the 'trap' was of human rather than mechanical origin.

  The moon had tantalizingly hidden behind a cloud and, even if she had been able to twist round sufficiently to face her assailant, Lucy would have been unable to make out his features in the total darkness which now engulfed the moor. So much had happened to her during the last few hours that now, even at this terrifying moment, she felt numb rather than afraid.

  Her mind was icy clear and her nerves steady. She knew that, realistically, she did not have the strength to attack and overpower her captor. She doubted if there was anyone within earshot but, with the small chance of there being a poacher or benighted traveller in the vicinity, she opened her mouth and let out a piercing scream using the full power of her lungs.

  The man holding her seemed unimpressed. “Scream out, me darlin' girl. No one will hear you. There's only miles of hills and the night birds and the dark waters – and me an' me cronies.”

  Lucy's heart sank. So there was a whole band of them. No point, then, in fighting and screaming and risking physical damage to herself. She had nothing to give them apart from Emperor, and they would be foolish to steal him as he was a well-known horse who could be easily traced. Better, she thought, to go with the man willingly and calmly and keep her wits about her. Perhaps these 'cronies' of his would prove to be a blessing in disguise, for, if they took her along with them, she stood less chance of being found by her father.

  “What do you want with me?” she asked the man, still unable to see his face.

  He remained silent.

  She tried again. “Who are you?”

  “Me name's Rory McDonnell,” he replied in his soft brogue, a mixture of Irish and North Country English.

  “Then, Mr McDonnell, sir, kindly release me. You're holding me so tight that I can hardly breathe. I won't run away, I promise.”

  How could she run away? Once out of sight of the road, she knew she would only get lost among the rocks and lakes and, if she didn't have Emperor, she would stand little chance of reaching civilization.

  “What name are ye havin'?” he asked her. His voice was soft and sounded young. Lucy wished the clouds would blow away to allow the moonlight to reveal his features. All she knew was that he was taller than she was.

  There seemed no harm in revealing her name to him. “It's Lucy. Lucy Swift.”

  “Swift as the deer, me little white doe! I won't shoot you, my beauty, you're quite safe with Rory, but I'm afraid I have to do this, although I know you won't like it. It's for your own sake, mavourneen. You don't want to be after dashin' off and breakin' your pretty ankle on the wild moor, where no one will find ye.”

  Lucy flinched as a length of cord was wound tightly round her wrists. Then her captor stepped to one side, the end of the cord wrapped around his own hand. Once the pressure of his arms was gone, Lucy took several deep, thankful gulps of air, then regarded the man curiously. He stood a little above average height, his shoulders were broad and his face was half covered by a black beard. In the night gloom, she could not make out his features clearly, but she guessed he was nearing thirty. As she stood there regarding him, he tugged on the cord.

  “Follow me,” he ordered and set off purposefully towards Emperor. He made a clicking noise with his tongue, then stretched out a hand. To Lucy's amazement, the spirited stallion stepped docilely towards the stranger and allowed his muzzle to be stroked, whereupon Rory gripped his halter and set off down the hill leading his two prizes.

  It was at this moment that the numbness that had settled on Lucy's thoughts lifted and she found herself seized by a surge of pure panic. Where was he leading her? Who were his friends? Were they gypsies? She hoped so, because there would be women and children among them. She would be more inclined to trust and feel safe with a member of her own sex.

  As she stumbled through stones and bracken, feeling sharp stalks and small pebbles working their way painfully into her flimsy shoes, Lucy longed for the comfort and safety of her home. She felt a rush of affection for her mother. Maybe she would never see her again!

  Yet she could never go back to face the things her father had in store for her, especially now that she had stolen his finest horse. No, her home life was in the past. Yet the future, as it seemed right now, seemed to hold little better – more fear, more violence, more threats. She felt totally bewildered by the events that were carrying her along at such a breakneck pace, as an unwilling victim.

  As they turned the corner, Lucy still being led by her captor, Emperor still following obediently without so much as a whinny, she noticed that the sky seemed to be getting lighter, lit by an orange glow. They rounded an outcrop of rock and the reason was immediately apparent; Rory's companions, whoever they were, had constructed a sizeable fire and she could make out two or three figures silhouetted against the flames. Rory gave a kind of hoot, like a hunting owl, and a huge figure uncoiled itself from a sitting position and approached them.

  Lucy's spirits plummeted as the man swam into vision in the flickering orange light. He was a giant, bigger than anyone she'd ever seen before in her life. His cowhide coat was cracked and aged, his hair brindled like a dog's. He, too, sported a flourishing beard and his broad face displayed a mixture of dirt and scars. When he smiled, his teeth were black and brown like the stalks of rotten mushrooms. She had never seen anyone who looked so thoroughly a ruffian.

  “We-e-ell,” the giant drawled, pushing back his coat to hook his thumbs into his belt and revealing an all-black outfit that made him resemble an executioner. “What 'ave we 'ere, then? Let's see … Hmm …”

  He walked in a wide circle round the trio, looking them up and down. “It's been good 'unting for you, Rory me lad. Two fine specimens, a thoroughbred stallion and –” bending his body at the shoulders, he brought his ugly face down so close to Lucy's that she almost reeled from the force of the liquor on his breath – “a thoroughbred brood mare, too, by the look of it!” Straightening up and towering against the sky, he let out a raucous laugh that caused Emperor to flinch nervously.

  “Wouldn't mind doing a bit of breeding with her meself.”

  The new voice came from Lucy's left and she turned her head to see that a third man had joined them, unnoticed till this moment. He was a slight individual, old and unhealthy-looking, with hollow cheeks and sunken eye-sockets. From his upper lip sprouted a wispy moustache. Lucy thought he looked like a sick weasel. However, he appeared to be an expert on horseflesh. He ran his hand over Emperor's neck, across his withers, over his flanks, inspected his hocks and finally picked up each hoof in turn. At length, evidently satisfied, he turned to Lucy.

  “He yours?” he enquired briefly, almost immediately entering into a spasm of coughing that made his weak frame tremble like breeze-buffeted reed.

  “Yes, he's mine – or rather, my father's,” answered Lucy, as sternly and boldly as she could. These men had to be shown that she was better than them. Yet in her heart she wondered if she really was. There, to one side of the fire, was a group of horses, roped to each other. The men were obv
iously horse traders, on their way to a fair. At worst, they could be thieves. Even this would make them no worse than herself, for hadn't she stolen a champion horse from under her own father's nose?

  “Pay a good price to get him back, would he?” asked Weasel-face, having recovered from his coughing fit.

  Lucy stifled a gasp. The last thing she wanted was for the men to drag both her and Emperor home to her father's house, delivering her back into the clutches of all she was fleeing to avoid, plus the added horror of her father's wrath, which was bound to be near-murderous.

  Yet she couldn't really explain to men of this type that they could take the horse back, but not her. That would be inviting them to use her in ways she refused to imagine. Maybe the best way out was to tell them part of the truth: “No doubt. But, you see, I've already stolen him myself.”

  Her revelation evinced a shocked silence from all three men. Then, in unison, they broke into guffaws, Giant slapping Weasel-face on the back with a blow that sent him staggering, and even Rory at her side bellowing fit to burst.

  Eventually Giant, wiping the tears from his eyes, bent down to Lucy again and chucked her under the chin. She resented such familiar treatment and, huge as he was, she glared at him as viciously as she could.

  “Pretty little thing. A bit foolish and ill-mannered, though. Fancy stealing a horse from your own father!”

  He started to laugh again, then checked himself. “I'm sure we can teach her a few manners, though, eh, lads?”

  “I'll bet,” agreed Weasel-face enthusiastically. The pointed tip of his tongue came out and wetted his lips, showing small yellow teeth.

  Lucy shuddered. These men were bestial. She couldn't bear to be touched by them. But her intuition, sharpened by fear, was as keen as an animal's and she could feel a sensual charge in the air, the kind of electricity that is generated when lusty men, starved of female company, find themselves in the presence of an attractive woman. She stole a glance at Rory, the man who had initially captured her. He had remained silent all this time. She wondered if it could be that he didn't agree with the sentiments that were being bandied about – or was he, perhaps, worse than either of the others?