by Lorna Read
She frowned sternly down at her companion but found it impossible to be angry with someone who was looking so cheerful and friendly, so like a brother. “All right. So maybe you helped me. But it's daybreak now. They – my family, that is – will be searching for me. Remember I told you I had stolen a horse of my father's? It's true. But what you don't understand is why I did it, and …”
Lucy's voice trailed off. She wondered why she was bothering to try to explain all this to a common ruffian who had treated her no better than if she had been a slut from some low inn. Besides, he was making no attempt to answer any of her questions.
She stood looking at him indecisively. A glance over her shoulder showed her the ashes of last night's fire, the outlines of two slumbering bodies and a string of horses, some cropping, some standing idly, heads down, dozing in the early morning sun. Emperor was with them, his halter knotted to that of a sway-backed grey cob. If she were just to wander over, give him a pat, untie the rope …
A chuckle broke into her thoughts, hauling her back to the moment of her capture the previous evening. A hand sneaked out from beneath the blanket and gripped her ankle, making her squeal in protest. “I know what you're thinking, mavourneen. But it's no good. Pat wouldn't stand for it after what you deprived him of last night. Don't you remember the vow you gave, Lucy McDonnell?”
McDonnell? My name is Lucy Swift!
She froze. Why did he persist in perpetrating this myth? Couldn't he see she'd had enough? She spat out the words, “What do you mean?”
“Sit down,” he said.
Maybe he was right about Pat. If so, she would be wise to obey. She straightened a corner of the blanket and sat on it, thinking that he had better make his explanation a good one. She could still hardly believe that she was several miles away from home, and that she had spent the night with an uncouth trio of men, and Rory's words did little to make her feel more at ease.
“I'll tell you about me, right? An' then you can begin about you. I'm Rory McDonnell – ye know that already. I'm twenty-three, coming up twenty-four in November, a fine age for a man. I've never been much good to no one, especially to meself. Me da' was a tinker; me ma … well, you would have loved her, everyone did. But she's dead.
“An' as for the old man, I haven't seen him for more than seven year. Last time was at a fairground when he was just about to go into the ring – he was a boxer, you see, and a fair wrestler, too. He winked at me and said, 'Rory, me son, where there's money to be made and you have a talent, you must follow. Gold, that's what matters first, then your immortal soul.'
“I prayed for him, mavourneen, prayed for him, I did, but they carted him off.”
“Dead?” Lucy whispered.
He had no background, no breeding, she thought. Most of her father's stable lads could claim better lineage than Rory. Even her father's family line went back to the great kings of Ireland, or so her father said. Yet, for some reason, she felt as if there was nothing she would rather do in the growing warmth of that autumn morning than sit listening to the vivid reminiscences spilling from the lips of this born storyteller, even if he wasn't directly answering her questions.
“No, bless you,” he continued, “not dead. He was carried off to the gallows – or the transport ships, I don't know which.”
“But why?”
“'Twasn't his fault he killed the nobleman who fought him, but he did. Milord was drunk, did it for a wager. Big hulking fellow he was, an' there's me old da', nigh on forty, slight and slippery as an eel and cunning with it. Milord's built like a beef bullock, punching the air, hoping to find a nose in it, and there's Father, calculating his moment and then, oof, a straight left to the point of the jaw.
“Feller's head snaps back, we all hear it, then down he goes, crack, and everyone fussing and shouting. Then they comes and takes him away. It were a fair fight, but Milord's father insists that because he's a gypsy, he's used some magic trick, and so he's accused of murder.”
His father, a murderer? Lucy felt herself shiver. How could she be sure Rory was telling the truth? Maybe he was a maniac from a whole line of cut-throats! All she knew of him was what she could see with her own eyes, a young man, with tousled dark hair, talking animatedly, crouching and rocking back and forth on his heels, his brown britches and dark green jacket rumpled and dirt-streaked.
“Did you ever see him again?” she asked.
“Never. When they came to take him, I ran. Not that I was a coward, Lucy, but it was twenty of them against him and me, and he once said to me, 'Rory, son, if ever the Devil or the Law come, make sure they only take one of us, leaving one to carry on'.”
“And your mother? What happened to her?” Lucy was shocked at her own curiosity. Nobody had ever told her their life story before and she would never have had the boldness to ask. But up here, in the hilltops, with a grouse squawking somewhere in the heather and the breeze ruffling her hair, normal etiquette seemed not to matter.
“My mother, Kathleen … Pretty girl, so I'm told. Came over from Wexford to settle in Lancashire with her parents.”
“I wonder if she ever knew my father?” burst in Lucy impulsively. “His family did the same thing – came from Ireland, took a boat over the sea to Liverpool. No, that was my great-grandad. It was long before your mother's time.”
“Still, we might be related. Who knows?” smiled Rory. Lucy found herself smiling back.
Rory seemed anxious to complete his story. “Her family didn't approve of her marrying me da'. She gave birth to me, caught a chill and never recovered. Me father nursed her for two whole years after that, while she grew thinner and thinner, until… Well, that's the way of the world.”
He gazed off into space, then pulled himself swiftly back to the present. “Us now? Horses is our game. We trade, buy, sell … mark a few here and there.”
Lucy knew from her father what 'marking' was – disguising a stolen horse so that it could be sold as a different and apparently legitimate animal.
“Now, take that fine animal of yours. All the dye in the world couldn't turn him brown or white. We might manage a sort of piebald, though.”
Lucy giggled at the thought of Emperor painted like a circus pony. “It was my plan to turn him loose and send him home,” she informed him.
“Maybe that's what we'll have to do, if you don't want your father to come looking for you,” he replied.
So he had remembered what she had told him and his companions the night before. Obviously an alert mind was at work behind the casual, careless exterior. What, then, would he have to say on the subject of their mock marriage?
Before she could ask this all-important question, he sprang to his feet and held out a hand to her. “A walk? Just over the hill?” he invited.
Lucy didn't need to be asked twice. Her legs were cramped and aching from the dervish whirling of the previous night. Besides, she wanted to see what, if anything, was visible from the highest point. Maybe she was still close to Prebbledale. She had no way of telling how far she and Emperor had travelled in their wild flight.
The hillside was steep, the bracken turning the crisp, brittle brown of autumn. A curlew gargled querulously, trying to draw them away from its nest and Lucy gasped and jumped as a hare sprang up almost from under her feet and raced, ears flattened, through a tunnel of undergrowth.
As they drew higher and the rusty ridges of rocky ground folded away beneath them, a panorama gradually emerged and when Rory helped her clamber onto a rocky pinnacle, the view made Lucy gasp in wonderment. Undulating below her were acres of uncultivated land in shades of purple, tan and green; clusters of stunted trees, white blobs of cropping sheep; a lake grey and opaque in the shadow of an overhanging rock face.
As far as she looked, she could see no sign of a rooftop or church steeple. Close by them, a stream splattered over gleaming rocks, dropping in twin waterfalls to descend into a fern-fringed crevice several feet below. Just before it curled creamily over the sharp drop, centuries of runn
ing water had gouged out a hollow in its bed, forming a pool of maybe three feet in depth. Lucy longed to step into it and bathe her dusty, aching body.
She mentioned her wish to Rory, who immediately told her to go ahead, promising to stand on the ridge and keep watch to make sure no one trespassed on her privacy. Gratefully, Lucy lifted the hem of her dress, which was badly torn from constant snagging on rocks and undergrowth. She glanced up at Rory to check that his back was turned, then gave a small shriek as her legs were suddenly enveloped in icy water up to her knees.
It was cleansing and revitalizing, reactivating her sluggish blood, clearing her aching head. Lucy crouched down and thrust her hands into the stinging chill of the pool, then splashed her face. Water dripped from her hair, soaking her clothes.
The autumn sun was warm on her face. Why am I standing here fully dressed? I should be naked, she thought.
Trusting Rory not to turn around, she quickly undressed and sank into the pool, where she sat on the water-smoothed pebbles and, cupping her hands, sent delicious sprays of water splashing over her shoulders and breasts. Forgetting herself, she began to sing, her head thrown back, her russet hair streaming in seaweed strands all around her.
It was a small sound, like the snapping of a twig, that made Lucy look up. She had been so absorbed in her task of washing herself and her hair that she had momentarily forgotten the existence of her male sentinel.
“No!” She cried out in shock and fear as she saw a naked Rory approaching, the virile, black, curly hair springing from his loins and chest, the powerfully-made thighs and shoulders, the soft, dark fuzz on his arms and legs. Despite herself, she felt a throb of desire.
She tried to leap out of the pool and make a dash for her clothes but the water dragged at her legs and impeded her progress. With a great splash that sent water cascading anew all over her drying body, Rory jumped into the pool and landed beside her.
She was almost out of the water when he hauled her back, his hands slipping on her wet skin. Summoning all her strength, Lucy directed a mighty kick at his shins, but the water slowed down the swing of her foot, giving him time to dodge.
His arms encircled her, crushing her against the shameless reminder of his maleness. Lucy sank her teeth into his shoulder and was pleased to hear him wince in pain. She was shocked and angry. She had thought she could trust him. He had given her his word that she could bathe in safety and privacy, and now he was taking advantage of her while she was totally unprotected and vulnerable.
She tried to bite him again, then felt her long, wet hair caught and tugged backwards, tilting her face up to his. His lips closed on hers, his tongue darting around the tip of her own tongue, then against the roof of her mouth, flickering like a snake. Then he slackened the terrible pressure of his mouth and his lips became soft, seeking, exploratory, until she found herself responding with a heavy, drugged sensation in her head, a dragging, swollen ache in her loins, hardening nipples and an urgent need to be fondled, stroked and pressed even harder against his powerful body.
She hardly knew what was happening to her. All she knew was that she didn't want to fight him any longer. Her mind screamed, He's let you down, you trusted him, he's misused you. Kick! Bite! Run!, but her body was reacting without any orders from her mind.
She didn't resist as he picked her up, carried her to the bank and laid her gently down on a patch of grass beneath a bush of some aromatic herb that tanged spicily in the sun. She was no longer conscious of her nakedness.
She felt her hand being taken and a hard object being firmly pressed down over one finger. She raised her finger to her eyes and saw the sun glinting on gold. She turned it round and saw the break in the metal and, acting on a sudden suspicion, looked at Rory's ears. One bore an identical ring and in the other was a small hole, empty of the ornament it had once borne.
“One for each of us,” he said, smiling at her. “I'll see if I can't get you a better one at Pendleton Fair.”
“Are we … are we truly married?”
She held her breath, waiting for his reply, aware only of the warmth, both physical and emotional, emanating from the man at her side and of the newly awakened, unfamiliar sensations deep within her.
His steady gaze never left her eyes. “Yes.”
Her eyelids closed and her heart thundered in her chest as she tried to make sense of his words. He began to talk, in the air over her head.
“Patrick trained as a priest many years ago. He's the only one of us who can read and write. He gave it up in favour of the travelling life, ale, women, but he's still qualified to perform marriages and baptisms and officiate at a burial. Those vows we took last night were just as real as any taken in a church. You're me wife, Lucy, in the eyes of God and you're more beautiful to my eyes than the mountains, the sea and the dawn.”
Rory's mouth once more engaged with her own. His body moved across hers and pressed her down, crushing the juice out of the grass blades and wild flowers beneath her. Her nipples tingled and hardened as they brushed against the soft, dark pelt on his chest and she clamped her thighs together, fearful of what was to come.
If she really were his wife, then this was what was expected of her. But she was afraid, so afraid, not only of the pain which her sister had told her every woman experienced the first time she lay with a man, but of the overwhelming power of her own desire. Surely it was wrong to want a man so badly?
She shivered as his strong hand reached down and parted her thighs. Her eyes widened at the sight of his tumescent manhood. Surely her body wasn't built to accommodate anything as large as that? Panic rose in her.
“Be gentle, please,” she murmured. “I've never…”
“Hush, Lucy. I know how to break in a filly.” His eyes danced and he kissed her and she tasted herself on his lips, a sweet, salt taste like a sugared oyster. “Just relax.”
He kissed her again, a longer kiss this time, his tongue dancing with hers, then he crouched over her and she tensed as the blunt, smooth head of his hard maleness sought entry to her body.
There was a sudden sharp pain as he penetrated her, and she cried out, instinctively trying to pull away from him.
“There, mavourneen, there,” he whispered, caressing her hair. His hands fluttered over her body, pausing here, stroking there, soothing and relaxing her until she felt as if she were floating sleepily on the edge of a dream.
Then, in an abrupt change of mood and tempo, his lips rained hard kisses on her face and neck, his teeth nipped her shoulder, bit at her ear. Her body was pulled up into his embrace, twisted around, pressed down, as, embedded deep within her, he rode the rhythmic surges of his own pleasure.
Lucy was caught up and carried along in the urgency of his desire. All pain had gone now and the strange pulsations inside her belly, which forced her to jerk her hips spasmodically upwards, made her groan with delight. Never had she experienced such piercing, poignant ecstasy. Her whole being was overtaken by a series of shuddering ripples which made her shake and tremble. She gave herself to them, tossing her head from side to side, flinging her arms out, crying aloud, and her moans were soon joined by Rory's hoarse cry of fulfillment.
Later, Lucy awoke from a refreshing doze and smiled softly to herself as her forefinger traced the outline of her slumbering partner's eyebrow, which felt like a strip of velvet. At last she had an ally, someone who cared for her, someone who pleasured her, a man whose poetic vision and way with words surprised and delighted her. Maybe now, her future path would not have to be travelled alone.
Husband … The word was alien to her. She didn't feel like a wife. The perfect marriage she would have planned for herself was to a man who loved and desired her and awoke an answering passion in herself. But, she was forced to admit to herself, that was exactly what Rory had done. Maybe Fate had had to move in strange ways to bring about the things that were best for her, she mused.
Though she hated not being in control of her own destiny, she felt like blessing the unseen h
and that had brought the two of them together. She still felt like Lucy Swift, and not a bit like the Lucy McDonnell that the gold circlet on her finger now proclaimed her to be. But she knew it must surely take time to become part of anyone else's life – and, for now, her individuality lay submerged in the afterglow of union and sensual satisfaction.
Chapter Eight
Ever since she was a small child, Lucy had loved fairs. Her father had taken her to many and she had never failed to be fascinated by the clustering throngs of gaily dressed humanity, the merry-making, the excitement.
Pendleton Fair was only a small, local event, but the population of many surrounding villages seemed to have turned out in force. One had to be on one's guard against the bands of pick-pockets who roamed around, looking for a woman absorbed in gossip or a man the worse for ale, who would not feel the light, dexterous fingers in their pocket or see the hand creeping into their cloak or basket.
She had now spent five whole weeks with Rory, Smithy and Pat. The attitude of Rory's companions towards her had mellowed, especially when they discovered that she knew every bit as much about horses as they did, with the exception of the tricks they got up to which enabled them to pass off an unsound horse as healthy, or even, on occasion, to make a fit horse appear damaged so that they could buy it cheaply. She did not approve of these sharp practices and wondered if her father was aware of their existence.
Her father … He was causing her endless worry. Every time they visited a fair, which was two or three times weekly, as different towns held their markets on different days, she was constantly on the lookout for him, especially as he would naturally make a bee-line for the horse-sales. Lucy could only pray that she would spot him before he caught sight of her.
Yet, she reflected, a market or fair would probably be the last place he would expect to find his missing daughter. Doubtless he was happy to have Emperor back. Pat and Smithy had reluctantly seen the sense in her suggestion that, as he was an easily recognizable horse, he should be set free and allowed to wander home, and so they had led him to the track that wound down from the moors to the valley and had left him to make use of his natural homing instinct.