The Earl's Captive

by Lorna Read

  “Dear Solomon,” she said, fondling the hound's silky ears. “You're not happy without your master, are you?”

  The animal gave her a mournful glance from its liquid brown eyes.

  “Where is he, then?” she murmured, rubbing the bristly ruff at the back of its neck. “Do you think you could find him?”

  The dog shifted half an inch closer to her, as if for comfort. Sighing, Lucy removed her caressing hand and informed it, “No, I'm not very happy, either.”

  With a sigh, the dog sank down, rested its heavy head on its forelegs and gazed morosely into the fire. Lucy envied that ability to relax, that capacity for waiting, and wished she had some of the animal's patience.

  The door opened and Matthew came in bearing a bowl of hot beef broth, some freshly-baked bread and an assortment of cheeses and cold meats. He placed them on a small table at the side of her chair, then asked meaningfully, “Master not home yet?”

  “No, Matthew. I have no idea where he could have got to.”

  Did Matthew know about the “robbery?” How much had either Philip or Adam told him? The same uneasy feeling which had affected her after her meeting with Adam that evening stole over her again. Matthew knew something; she was sure of it. He was implying that something might have gone wrong with Philip's plan. Yet at the same time, he was not giving anything away.

  Could he and Martha suspect that their son was not completely loyal to Philip? If this was the case, why had they not voiced their suspicions to Philip himself? Of course, she realized; they were Adam's parents. Their loyalty towards their son came before their loyalty to their employer.

  Still, she could tell that Matthew was worried and unhappy. He lingered in the room as if trying to make up his mind whether or not to tell her something. Then, abruptly, he walked out, leaving Lucy staring unseeingly at the steaming broth.

  An uncomfortable, prickling sensation in her bones warned her that Philip was in some kind of danger. Either that, or his scheme would fail owing to something as simple as Adam having persuaded the Hardcastles to take the longer, safer route to Bidstone House after all.

  She had no reason to suspect that Adam wished to harm Philip physically. Maybe she was building it all up in her imagination and Adam was still Philip's trustworthy servant, in which case she was doing him a grave injustice. Yet she knew that Adam fancied himself in love with her, and that when in love, people were capable of doing strange, out-of-character things. She herself was guilty of some extraordinary aberrations from her natural behaviour.

  Her common sense told her that there was no point in going out to search for Philip but, on the other hand, she knew that if another two hours passed without his return, she would not be able to prevent herself from saddling a horse, lighting a lantern and scaling the hilly track which Philip had taken earlier.

  The clock on the marble mantelshelf chimed ten. Where was he? Had he himself been apprehended by a genuine robber up on the moors, who had stripped him of his jewels and horse and left him to walk the tedious distance back to Darwell Manor on foot? Or had Hardcastle or one of his attendants been armed, in which case Philip might be lying dead or injured on the lonely hillside?

  She could not bear the suspense. Swallowing a mouthful of her now tepid soup, she placed the bowl beside the untouched food, left the warm room and set out for the side door leading into the stable yard, with Solomon bounding joyfully at her heels.

  There were now only three horses living in a stable which had once held twenty or more: Philip's young, fast bay, the chestnut gelding which Lucy usually rode, and a docile hack on which Martha rode to market. Philip had long ago taken the useless mare which Lucy had brought him to a local horse fair, where it had brought a far lower sum than fifty guineas.

  She paused and stroked the velvety nose of the friendly piebald hack, then a fusillade of barks set her whirling round to see Philip riding into the yard, looking every inch the highwayman he had pretended to be.

  Lucy's first instinct was to run to him, but discretion sent her shrinking into the shadows. Watching him secretly like this gave her a strange, excited feeling such as she had felt the day she had observed him playing with the dog.

  There seemed to be something slightly stiff about his movements as he dismounted from the saddle. Perhaps it was just fatigue, she thought. He removed his mask and ran a hand over his face. He paused to pat his dog, then led the bay into its stall and unsaddled it himself, rubbed it down with a cloth and fed and watered it, while Lucy cowered in an empty stall, hoping Solomon would not seek her out and advertise her presence.

  She was in luck. The faithful animal preferred the company of its master and did not once come whining around her hiding place.

  Having attended to the horse, Philip approached the Manor by the same side door which Lucy had used. She gave him a few minutes to get safely inside and out of sight, then followed. She wondered if he were already looking for her and decided that, if that should be the case, she would tell him that she had been in the music room, where surely he would never think of looking at past ten at night.

  She re-entered the deserted drawing-room, where her discarded meal was still lying. Philip's return had released her appetite and she took a slice of the wholesome bread, buttered it and placed a piece of delicious cold ham on it, which she was halfway through eating when Philip's sudden arrival interrupted her.

  She looked up in surprise as, without a word, his face totally expressionless, he deposited a pile of glittering gems in her lap. She exclaimed in delight as the firelight worked magic on their faceted surfaces and brought out the rich, warm glow of old gold, the delicate sheen of silver and the glimmer of precious stones.

  “So, your hold-up was successful. Long live highwayman Philip, the peril of Pendleton Moors!” Lucy's gay words were greeted by a brief smile, which flickered across his face and faded almost instantly.

  “Yes, I have the jewels, no thanks to you,” he replied briefly.

  Lucy's hand flew to her mouth. “What do you mean? I did exactly as you said. Matthew brought me all the correct ingredients and I mixed that ointment perfectly. So, if the potion did not work, how did you regain your property?”

  “Ah. Matthew!” A look of interested speculation crossed Philip's face, but he did not venture to explain the reason for his exclamation.

  “I was waiting on the hillside above the road,” he continued. “The Hardcastles' carriage came along on schedule, but with four chestnuts pulling it. I deduced that you had mixed the potion wrongly and that the two greys you had, shall we say, 'interfered with', had collapsed too soon. Either that or you had not applied the potion at all.

  “Rachel would have insisted on a matching team. She would not have been seen arriving at the ball with a patchwork of nags!” Philip brandished his riding whip and glared coldly at her. “So, miss, what have you to say for yourself?”

  “Truly, I –” Lucy was not given a chance to justify herself because Philip, standing before her with his back to the fire, insisted on carrying on with his story of that night's adventures.

  “The carriage passed and I was about to relinquish my plans and come home instead when one of the lead horses fell, the result of a lucky accident. In the resulting turmoil, I was able to persuade Harriet and Rachel to hand back my possessions.”

  “Do you think there is any possibility that you could have been recognized?” Lucy enquired, puzzled by his lack of enthusiasm regarding the regaining of his prized heirlooms.

  “None. I wore a mask and disguised my voice well. I have no doubt but that they took me for the very creature I was trying to be, a common highwayman. I even had the satisfaction of striking a blow.”

  The relish with which he related this unexpected piece of information intrigued Lucy. “Oh?” she inquired. “Against whom?”

  Philip narrowed his eyes and barked out a mirthless laugh. “Rachel. I thought you would be pleased to know.”

  Lucy's delight at hearing that the cruel, haug
hty girl had received a blow in payment for all those she had meted out to innocent victims such as herself, caused her to smile wryly, a smile that died the instant it formed as she remembered that she was still under suspicion. She had to make him believe her.

  “Philip!” She stared hard at him, trying to put her whole soul into the look, noticing as she did so that his black cloak appeared to be torn near one shoulder. “I carried out your plan to the letter, but I was delayed because one of the horses wouldn't let me near it. I then had to treat another and was almost caught red-handed. I was lucky to get away at all. Adam will tell you. He waited for me.”

  “Adam. Hmm.” He compressed his lips and looked away.

  What can I do to convince him of the truth? Lucy wondered desperately. Should I fall to my knees and beseech him? No, she could not do that. Kneeling and cringing were not in her nature. If he refused to believe her, then that was his decision and she could only hope and pray that somehow, some way, she would be exonerated.

  He jerked his head and met her eyes again. Her heart gave a hopeful flutter, but the hard, icy glint remained in his eyes and her spirits sank again. What he said next surprised her.

  “I would like you to choose something in payment for having helped restore my home to me, if not the jewels,” he said curtly, indicating the items still reposing in Lucy's lap. “If you see nothing there which takes your eye, I have some of my mother's less valuable, but perhaps prettier baubles upstairs. I shall bring them. They may be more to your taste.”

  “But Philip!” Lucy looked at him in amazement. “These jewels are so exquisite, so grand. When would I ever find the occasion to wear something so splendid?”

  Just as she was reaching out to examine a sapphire bracelet, her pride reasserted itself and she drew back her hand. “No,” she said. “You can keep your trinkets. If you refuse to believe that I kept my side of the bargain, then I refuse your gift as I am obviously undeserving of it.”

  “For God's sake, girl, just take something,” he snapped. “Sell it, buy yourself some frippery, I don't care.” His eyes flashed dangerously and she almost flinched and spilled the jewels onto the floor.

  He was waiting. Well, she thought, if he insisted on foisting a gift on her, she would choose the very best! One item stood out from the tangled mass of glittering objects in her lap and that was a large, curiously designed emerald ring that she had last seen adorning Rachel's hand. She picked it up and held it out.

  “With your permission, sir, I should like to take this ring.”

  “No! Not that.” He snatched it from her. “I am sorry. It was my mother's and I am afraid that I cannot let it go. You can have anything else, but not that ring.”

  She almost wept with disappointment. There was nothing else she really wanted. Something about the ring had captured her imagination; the other jewels, even the fiery-hearted rubies, seemed lacklustre and uninteresting by comparison. In the end, she picked out a pair of delicately wrought gold and amethyst earrings.

  She knew they would not fetch as much as diamonds if she were to try to sell them, but neither would they raise very much comment if she were to wear them. They would serve as a permanent reminder of the months she had spent at Darwell Manor, and of the Earl who had not just captured her but captivated her, too, and whose love she could never win.

  Philip approved of her second choice and gathered up the rest of the jewels, bidding her a curt goodnight as he took them away, no doubt to be locked up with the house deeds and any other valuables he possessed.

  Lucy was left sitting disconsolately by the dying fire. Apart from those dreadful days following the news of Rory's death, she had never felt so low and dispirited. She cursed Fate for having allowed her meet Philip under the worst of circumstances. She had come to him as a cheat and a thief, and was leaving as a suspected murderer and a betrayer of his trust.

  Add her borrowed, ill-fitting clothes to the list and there was not much to admire and love about her, either inside or out. By now, Philip must be desperate to see the back of this awkward guest who had long outstayed her welcome.

  Yet what about all the help she had given him? He would never have regained the deeds if it had not been for the aid which she, and only she, had been in the unique position to give him! As for the jewels, she had carried out his orders perfectly and could not be blamed for a last-minute change of carriage horses, which she suspected was done on a whim of Rachel's. Maybe she thought chestnut horses would set off the shade of her dress better than greys.

  For Philip, she had suffered the cruel gibes and blows which Rachel had hurled at her; the outrageous mauling at the hands of George Hardcastle which still made her feel physically sick whenever she thought about it; fear and anxiety on many occasions; near death in the snow on the night she left Rokeby – and then there was Adam's embarrassing proposal, to say nothing of the danger she had endured that very day!

  Surely he was aware of everything she had gone through on his behalf? Or was he really so cold and self-centred that he could use anybody to fulfil his purpose and then discard them without a second thought?

  She remembered that hot, lustful look which had come into his eyes on that very first afternoon when, wearing his mother's beautiful silk dress, she had joined him in the banqueting hall. She had seen that look again on occasions such as the moment when they had been standing by the waterfall and Lucy had been certain that he wanted to kiss her but was holding himself back for some reason.

  Maybe she was totally wrong. Maybe the only kind of 'wanting' Philip was capable of, was the rough sort she had almost experienced at his hands when he had dragged her into the stable after she had delivered the mare. Perhaps he had no finer feelings at all …

  And yet her intuition told her that there was a great deal of tenderness and sensitivity in his character that, for some reason known best to himself, he preferred to conceal. He was an enigma. She refused to give up and slink back to the Swifts' farm and the dreary future she knew would be hers, until she was absolutely certain that no vestige of affection for her dwelt in Philip's heart.

  Her pulses raced as she realized what she must do. She had failed in her last attempt to visit him in his room, but this time there was no dying, hallucinating old man to stop her. She had nothing to lose, so there was nothing of which to be afraid.

  Lucy's hands were trembling as she stood in her bedchamber lacing herself into that same exquisite blue dress which had evinced such an admiring look from Philip when he had first seen her in it. Putting on such a complicated garment without the aid of a maid was difficult, but she couldn't summon Martha for fear of her guessing what was in her mind. How shaming it would be if she were to be discovered tiptoeing up the stairs to his room, when she was supposed to be tucked up in bed in the nightgown which Martha had laid neatly out on the bed for her.

  She brushed her chestnut curls until they shone, then tightened the tiny clasps of the amethyst earrings. Her neck felt far too naked without an ornament round it, as the neckline of the dress plunged so deeply. The necklace Rory had given her was too badly damaged to be wearable. She would have to go to Philip as she was and he would have to understand that she possessed no jewels apart from the earrings.

  At least he can't accuse me of jewel theft, she thought wryly. Besides, she needed him to want her for herself, not for her surface appearance.

  The thought of being close to Philip, of yielding herself up to him, filled her with quivers of anticipatory desire. Once again, she recognized these now familiar bodily feelings, the sensations she dreaded and yet, on this occasion, welcomed. She wanted to show herself to Philip as a passionate woman, to respond to his caresses with the wild abandon that was natural to her, not with decorous sighs and maidenly protests. She wanted to unlock that warmth and tenderness that she knew was in him; to ignite his body with her own.

  Taking just one candle with which to light her way, Lucy stole out of her room and down the corridor to the staircase, wincing at the rust
ling of her skirts. When she reached the first landing, she paused.

  Suddenly, the audacity of her actions struck her. Would she not cheapen herself in Philip's eyes by behaving no better than the slut who had seduced Rory in the inn? No, she was not going to seduce Philip; rather, she was going to create a situation where he could, if he wished, seduce her! She would tempt him with her mere presence in his room, but nothing else.

  Her heart hammering like the hooves of a speeding horse, she reached for the door handle and very slowly turned it. A lamp was lit inside the room. Philip was seated at a desk, reading. He looked up in open-mouthed astonishment as the swish of Lucy's dress advertised her presence. She felt a hot blush break out all over her face and neck as she stood there in a dress which was a blatant invitation to any hot-blooded man.

  Philip scraped his chair back and got to his feet, gazing at her in a silence which was heavy with unspoken thoughts and wishes. He took a small step towards her and she licked her lips nervously and felt a sudden desire to run pell-mell from the room. Why, oh why had she subjected herself to this embarrassment? She felt like a fairground freak being gawped at by curious but uncaring eyes.

  No, do not weaken. Be brave, she told herself, switching on the intuition that allowed her to anticipate the reactions of a horse and hoping it worked with a man, too. He is not sure why you are here. You must tell him, or show him.

  But what could she say? All at once she found herself in sympathy with every man who had ever been in love and, through tradition, had been faced with saying the first word, making the first move and risking heartbreak and rejection.

  Yet, no matter how much she wanted to, she could not tell Philip Darwell that she loved him. But if she could not tell him …

  Her feet carried her forward on a wave of reckless courage. She was face to face with him, feeling as though her body and soul lay naked before his unwavering gaze. She stretched out one trembling hand and brushed the silken sleeve of his shirt – but the instant she touched him, he sprang away from her and leapt towards the window, where he stood gazing blankly out at the dark night which shrouded the Manor.