Vixen

by Jane Feather

  Chloe calmly, casually, put out her foot, catching Crispin’s ankle as he lunged in full extension. He lost his balance, and as he swayed, she brought the candlestick down on his head. He fell sideways to the floor and lay still.

  There was a moment of total silence, then Samuel, pistols in hand, appeared at the foot of the stairs. He leveled his weapons at the assembly in general and nodded curtly. “I shouldn’t move if I were you, sirs.”

  Hugo doubled over, struggling for breath as the men in the crypt stared between Samuel and Chloe, still standing over the fallen Crispin.

  “Have I killed him?” Chloe asked into the silence.

  Hugo straightened slowly. “You don’t play by the rules, do you, lass?” he gasped as his lungs expanded and he drew a deep shuddering breath.

  “I wasn’t going to let him kill you,” Chloe said. “Of all the underhanded tricks.”

  “Shameful, I agree,” he said dryly, bending over the fallen Crispin, feeling for the pulse in his neck. “And I suppose one underhanded trick deserves another. At least you seem to have stopped short of murder.”

  “But he has to be dead,” she said in a voice that now didn’t seem to be her own. She lifted the candlestick again. “I’m married to him, and I would prefer to be his widow.”

  Hugo caught her arm. “Steady now, lass.” He spoke quietly but firmly as he twisted the candlestick out of her grip.

  “But you don’t understand—”

  “Yes, I do,” he interrupted, picking up the cloak they had taken off her earlier. “Put this on.” He wrapped the cloak around her shoulders and lightly kissed her brow. “Trust me, lass.”

  Jasper stirred and his eyes fluttered open. “Lattimer?” His voice was a thread.

  Hugo crossed over to him. He stood over his fallen enemy and spoke with slow, deliberate clarity. “It’s done, Jasper. Finished. The circle is completed. The girl is mine.”

  “And has been for quite some time, I understand.” Blood trickled from the corner of Jasper’s mouth as he moved his lips in the travesty of a mocking grin. “For all your self-righteous posturing, Lattimer, you debauched her. You’re no better than the rest of us.”

  Hugo stood very still, his face white in the candle glow, but his voice was low and even. “Of course you would see it in those terms, wouldn’t you, Jasper? You seek only to sully and you would see only defilement in love.” His shoulders lifted in a dismissive shrug. “I’ve done finally with you and yours … and with this sewer.”

  His eyes ran around the crypt, lingered for an instant on the faces of the men gathered there, then he turned away from Jasper. As he did so, a harsh rattle came from the wounded man’s throat and Jasper’s head fell back. Hugo swung back to him. His expression was inscrutable as he watched death film the shallow eyes as they stared up at the vaulted roof of the crypt. Then he turned aside and strode back to Chloe.

  He took her left hand and drew off the serpent ring. It bounced on the granite slab by Crispin’s head as he threw it to the floor.

  “Come along, lass. You’ve breathed this infected air for long enough.” He swept her ahead of him toward the stairs where Samuel still stood, his pistols still aimed at the cluster of men in the crypt. But no one made a move.

  Chloe was silent as they went up the steps and into the pure cold air of the moor. She could think only that Hugo had talked of love … that he’d told Jasper that he loved her. He’d fought for her … risked his life for her … as he had done for her mother.

  But she was married to Crispin. Even if she never saw him again, she was his wife. Jasper was dead, but Crispin wasn’t.

  The horses were tethered in the copse, restless at the end of their ropes, quivering in the frosty night. Hugo lifted her onto his mount and swung up behind her. He was as silent as she, but he held her tightly against him as they rode back to Denholm. Samuel rode alongside, also keeping his own counsel.

  “I’ll see to the ’orses,” Samuel said as they dismounted in the courtyard. “Ye’d better throw some kindlin’ on the fire. Like as not it’ll be out by now.”

  Hugo and Chloe went into the house. The kitchen was dark and cold, only the ashes in the range showing any light. Hugo lit the candles, stirred the embers, and threw on kindling and fresh logs.

  Chloe stood wrapped in her cloak, watching him. She was beginning to feel as if she were slipping back into the drug-induced torpor. “Hugo, they married me to Crispin this afternoon,” she finally said. The words sounded as if they came from somewhere outside herself. “Just taking off the ring can’t make it go away.”

  He pulled a chair up to the blaze and beckoned her over. “No, I know that,” he said, drawing her between his knees. “Let me explain. You’re a minor, married against your will and without your guardian’s consent. In addition, the marriage has not been consummated.” His eyes were grave as they examined her face. “That is true, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  He’d known it was, but still the fear had been there that he might have miscalculated … that Jasper would have found some way to defile her before he could reach her. The final relief seeped through his veins. He smiled. “Then the marriage will be annulled, lass. It’s a mere formality. Crispin won’t dare to contest it even if he could.”

  “So I’m not married?”

  “Yes, you are, technically. But only for as long as it takes me to find a Justice of the Peace.”

  “Oh.” Her knees began to shake and tears suddenly filled her eyes. “I’m sorry …” But the flood of tears was unstoppable.

  “Hush, sweetheart.” He pulled her down onto his lap, cradling her against his chest, rocking her gently. “Did they hurt you, love?”

  She shook her head against his chest, tried to speak, but the words Were lost in sobs.

  Samuel entered the kitchen, glanced at the pair by the fire, and sat down in the chair opposite, stretching his feet to the fire.

  When her tears had subsided somewhat, Hugo sat her upright and said, “Sweetheart, you have to tell me. Did they hurt you?”

  “Only a little. But it was uncomfortable,” she said frankly, wiping her eyes on the handkerchief he handed her. “I don’t know why I cried like that … I expect it’s because I’m hungry.”

  Hugo threw back his head and laughed in rich relief. Samuel grinned and went to the pantry. “Coddled eggs do ye, lass?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She smiled mistily and leaned back against Hugo’s shoulder.

  “Tell us exactly what happened to you,” Hugo demanded, knowing he wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d heard every detail. While she ate her supper, he listened as she rendered a faithful account of her captivity. She left out nothing, including what Jasper had told her of Hugo’s past. Hugo’s eyes were hard, his mouth a grim line, and when she concluded, he said with soft savagery, “He died too quickly.”

  Both father and son had died too quickly for the evil they had wrought. But he must let it pass from him now. It was over. Without a Gresham to lead it, the Congregation would disband. Crispin hadn’t the authority or the maturity to take over from Jasper. It had been created by the Greshams and would die with them.

  He glanced over to the table, where the last Gresham sat wiping her plate clean with a slice of barley bread. Stephen never knew what a pearl he’d sired. And the qualities he’d passed on to his daughter—the fire and the passion—were without the taint, the twist that marred them in the father.

  He leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed as he allowed the peace to fill him. He was finally free. He had honored Elizabeth’s charge; Chloe would never again be harmed by the Greshams; and he had confronted his painted devils and defeated them. He knew himself to be no better and no worse than the next man. And the knowledge was sweet.

  He opened his eyes to see Chloe regarding him gravely. “Why didn’t you tell me that you’d loved my mother? Why didn’t you tell me what happened?”

  He met her gaze steadily. “Cowardice, lass,” he said. “I was terrifie
d I would lose your trust if I told you. How could you trust a man who had played in the crypt … who had done what I had done? I couldn’t bear the thought of losing your love and your trust—they were … are … the most precious gifts … gifts without price.”

  Sweet relief flowed in her veins. It wasn’t lack of love but love itself that had kept him silent.

  “It doesn’t matter to me,” she said. “What happened … what you did …”

  His eyes held hers for a minute, then he said softly, “And it doesn’t matter to me anymore. The past has ruled for long enough.”

  Samuel gave an audible sigh of relief and began gathering up dirty dishes.

  Hugo stood up. “It’s time for bed,” he said, stretching and yawning. “Upstairs with you, lass.”

  “It doesn’t seem as if there’s any essential difference between adultery and fornication,” Chloe observed with a mischievous chuckle, turning her head on Hugo’s chest to look up at him with dancing eyes glowing with the residue of desire and its fulfillment.

  “Certainly they both involve the participation of a fallen woman,” Hugo stated blandly, catching up the thick golden mass clustering on her shoulders and twisting it around his wrist. Then he let it fall again, concealing the blue-black stripe where her brother’s whip had fallen. It was over and Jasper had paid the price.

  Chloe, unaware of the fleeting thought, smiled and drew her hand in a lazy caress across his stomach. “And a fallen gentleman, I would have said, since, in my experience, it takes two.”

  Hugo stroked her hair. “Well, perhaps we should expand your experience and see what difference the blessing of the church makes.”

  He spoke so softly that for a minute Chloe didn’t understand what he’d said. Then she did. She sat bolt upright. “Are you going to marry me?”

  “Someone has to,” he said with an air of solemnity. “You’re not safe in Society unmarried … or do I mean Society isn’t safe?”

  “But … but you said Society would think you were taking advantage of your guardianship.” She frowned down at him, still unsure that he really meant what he was saying.

  “Society can think what the hell it pleases,” Hugo responded. “The question is: Do you wish to marry your guardian, lass?”

  “But you know I do. I’ve been saying so this age. Only you wouldn’t listen.”

  “No, a lamentable failing,” he agreed, his eyes smiling. “I’ve had the most foolish tendency not to listen to you. However, I begin to understand that you always mean what you say, and that, in general, you know what’s best for you.”

  “And for you,” she flashed.

  “Conceited minx.” He caught her head and drew her face down to his. “I’ve known what’s best for me for a long time, sweetheart, I just needed to be convinced that it was best for you too.”

  Chloe dropped her mouth to his, her body moving over his, fitting herself to his curves and hollows, reaching a hand down to guide him within her. Pushing backward, she sat on her heels, moving her body around him, her eyes languorous, her hair tumbling over her shoulders.

  “I do know what’s best for you.” she said with a smug smile. “I’ll prove it to you.”

  “Be my guest, lass.” Hugo linked his hands behind his head and watched her face, enjoying his own passivity as much as Chloe was.

  “I suppose,” she said, running her flat palms over the ridged muscles of his abdomen, “I suppose you’ll want to keep control of my fortune.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we can come to some satisfactory compromise,” Hugo said, the green eyes sparking.

  “But …” Her hand moved behind her, sliding between his thighs. “But I don’t imagine you’ll compromise over my wardrobe?” Her fingers moved wickedly, deftly.

  “No …” He closed his eyes on an exhalation of joy. “That’s one area in which you patently don’t know what’s best for you, so there’ll be no compromises.”

  “Not even when I do this?” She put her head on one side, regarding him with narrowed eyes as her fingers pursued their intimate course.

  “No, you crafty little fox.” Gathering her against him, he rolled with her until she was lying beneath him. “I can be cozened just so far.” He laughed down at her rather startled expression and kissed the tip of her nose. “But don’t let that stop you from trying, lass.”

  “As if it would … as if anything could,” she said softly, no longer mischievous. She touched his mouth with the tip of a finger. “I love you.”

  “And I you, little one. With every breath I breathe.”

  Holding her gaze with his own, he moved within her until it seemed her breath was his and his hers, until their blood flowed as one, and the future purged of the past was born of the transcendent glory of their fusion.

  About the Author

  JANE FEATHER is the New York Times bestselling, award-winning author of The Emerald Swan, The Silver Rose, The Diamond Slipper, Vanity, Vice, Violet, and many more historical romances. She was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the south of England. She began her writing career after she and her family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1981. She now has over six million books in print.

  Coming soon …

  Olivia’s story…

  The third in Jane Feather’s “Bride” trilogy—

  THE LEAST LIKELY BRIDE

  Look for it now in paperback

  THE ISLE OF WIGHT

  JUNE, 1648

  It was the dark hour before dawn. Rain fell in a ceaseless torrent upon the sodden clifftops, smashed straight as stair-rods onto the churning, white-flecked sea beneath. Great waves rose in the Channel and surged around St. Catherine’s Point to curl and break upon the jagged rocks in a thundering relentless roll, sending white spray into the darkness.

  There were no stars. No moon. Only an occasional flash of lightning to illuminate the island crouching like a whale at the entrance to the Solent, its downs and valleys black with rain. The melancholy sound of the bell buoy off the rocky point pierced the rushing wind, bringing warning to the ships battling the summer storm in the seething Channel. Warning and a welcome sense of security.

  A small boat plunged into the troughs, the men at the oars grim-faced as they fought to keep the fragile craft upright. They approached the bell buoy, the boat vanishing into the waves, then bobbing up like a piece of driftwood. From the stern, one of the men hurled a rope around the buoy and hauled the boat hand over hand until it was touching the rocking buoy, and the rhythmic sound of the bell was deafening amid the roar of the water and the wind and the ceaseless battering of the rain.

  No one spoke; the words would have been torn from them anyway, but they had no need of speech. The oarsmen shipped their oars while the man in the stern held the boat fast to the buoy and one of his companions swiftly, deftly, with hands of experience, wrapped thick cloth around the bell’s tongue, silencing the dull clang of its warning.

  Then they sprang loose from the buoy and the small craft headed back to the beach. As they pulled against wind and tide, one of the men raised a hand, pointing to the clifftop. A light flickered then flared strongly into the wind, a beacon throwing its deadly message into the storm-wracked night.

  Willing hands waded into the surf to pull them ashore, hauling the boat up the small sandy beach. The men shivered in their soaked clothes and drank deep of the flasks thrust at them. There were maybe twenty men on the beach, dark clad, shifting figures, blending into the darkness of the cliffs as they huddled with their backs to the rocks, their eyes straining across the surging sea, watching for their prey.

  There was a sudden brighter flare from the clifftop, and the men moved forward as one.

  And she came out of the darkness, white sails torn and flapping from her spars, the strained rigging creaking like old bones. She came heading for the light that promised a safe haven and with a dreadful grinding and splitting she met the rocks of St. Catherine’s Point.

  Screams rose to do battle with the wind. Figures
flew like so many remnants of cloth from the steep yawing sides of the ship, plunging down into the boiling cauldron of the sea. The vessel cracked like an eggshell and the watchers on the beach raced into the foam, eyes glittering, voices raised in skirls of triumph. Desperate men, women, children, drowning in the maelstrom around the sinking ship, called to them, but they slashed with cutlasses, hammered with broken spars, finishing by hand what the sea would not do for them.

  They dragged chests, boxes, bodies to the beach. They plundered the bodies, cutting off rings and ripping away fine garments, prancing around the beach in a mad and murderous dance of greed. Above them on the clifftop the fire was quenched and all was darkness again, only the sounds of their madness competing with the wind and the rain and the sea.

  Out beyond the point, another ship wrestled with the storm. She carried no sail and her master stood at the wheel, holding her into the wind. His slender frame was deceptive, belying the hard bunched muscles, the strength in the long slim hands that fought the storm that would tear his ship from him, while he listened for the warning bell off St. Catherine’s Point.

  “The beacon’s gone, sir.” The helmsman shouted in his ear against the tempest’s roar.

  The master looked up at the clifftop where the betraying flare had shown and now they could hear the screams that were not the screams of gulls in the wild night, and under a great flash of lightning, the stark outline of the vessel on the rocks sprang out, for a second hideously illuminated.

  And still there was no sound of the bell off St. Catherine’s Point.

  A strange and heavy silence fell over the ship, its men for an instant falling still in their fight with the storm. To a man they had all sailed these waters from boyhood and they knew the hazards. And they knew that the worst danger of all came from the shore.

  “May God have mercy on their souls,” the helmsman muttered, crossing himself involuntarily.

  “She looks like a merchantman,” the master returned, his voice cold and distant. “There’ll be rich pickings. They chose a good night.”