A Lady in Love

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

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  Chapter Fifteen

  The hour had gone midnight before Sarah decided she could bear Alaric's silence no longer. She'd tried hard to see this disastrous situation from a male perspective, but images of Harcourt and Alaric dead on the stained grass in the bright morning dawn kept coming between her and rationality. That two men should face slaughter for her sake seemed horrible. She didn't know how medieval maidens withstood the strain.

  Waiting for dawn seemed beyond her powers. Sarah rose from her rock-like bed and hurried on some clothing. As Harcourt refused to hear reason, turning her aside with a laugh, and Harold only quoted from chansons de geste, Sarah knew it was time to see Lord Reyne in person. She'd gone to the inn earlier today and he'd not been there. Though she'd waited for two hours, he'd not come back, and she had to hurry off to help Harmonia deal with last-moment wedding worries.

  Carefully, Sarah avoided the squeaky riser at the bottom of the stairs. She lifted down her dark green cloak from a hook by the kitchen door and swung it around her shoulders, concealing her white dress. The latch moved easily. Sarah filled her lungs with the cool night air. An owl hooted like a conspirator concealed in the top of a tree. Sarah listened for any further sound, from outdoors or from within. Hearing nothing, not even the rush of the owl's wings coasting through the air, she slipped around the corner of the house.

  There was no moon to dim the swirling stars, thick like daisies in the meadow, each alive and individual, though all the same if seen from far enough away. Sarah thought of those flowers, smashed and bloodied, and walked on faster.

  On the main street, the white plaster of the Saddle-Bow Inn gleamed like milk behind the shadowy crisscrossing of the Tudor timbers. A single candle showed against the wave-like glass in the common room. The rooms for the guests were toward the rear, to keep all street noise from disturbing any sleepers. Sarah had come to the Saddle all her life, for teas and hunt breakfasts, as well as to find her father or the twins. Yet, she'd never entered it at night, never alone, certainly never to see a man at midnight. Her hand trembled as she reached out to the brass-bound door.

  A noise from up the street, perhaps no more than a dog noising through an ash-pile, sent Sarah scurrying inside. To be discovered in a building was one thing; discovered in the dark on a street corner was quite another. Holding the hood of her cloak up close to her face, she peered around the corner into the taproom. The tapster lay asleep on the long bar, stretched out at his ease. His snores made her fear for the antique plaster-work.

  Sarah began to cross the open archway on tiptoe. Then she stopped dead. Something—or someone—held her fast by the slack of her cloak!

  Not breathing at all, Sarah turned, her eyes screwed up against what she feared to see. “Oh, for—'’ She clapped her hand over her mouth. Then she gave a sharp tug and tore her cloak free of the loose nail in the wall. The cloth gave with a rip that sounded like the crashing of waves on the shore. Sarah dashed into the darkness on the other side of the taproom entrance. There was no change in the cadence of the tapster's rumbling snores.

  Unlike home, Sarah did not know which step at the inn creaked. So, she crept up them at a maddeningly slow pace, testing each one before putting her full weight on it. At last, she made her way to the rear of the inn. A window at the end of the hall illuminated the three doors cut into the wall beside her, allowing access to the rooms created when the newest addition had been grafted onto the inn in 1678. In the days of five to a bed, three chambers had seemed plenty. To Sarah, they seemed far too many. Which was Alaric's?

  Perhaps she could knock on each one, pretending to be a maid. No, for what cause would a maid have to come knocking at one o'clock in the morning? Of course, she could pretend to be Lady Melanie, who hung herself after her husband stabbed her lover in one of these rooms a little over a hundred years ago. Lady Melanie was rumored to walk the inn, calling her lover's name through the keyholes. Sarah wished she'd not remembered that old story; not that she believed in it.

  Afraid now to turn around—for what if some ghostly lady stood behind her—Sarah stared hard ahead. Then something impressed itself upon her vision. At the first door, a small pair of lady's slippers stood, heels together as though waiting for a dainty dancer to step right in and began a pavane. At the last two, pairs of boots stood stalwart guard, placed there by the boot boy. Sarah walked forward.

  It might have been a reverberation in the floorboard, but as she came closer, one of the boots beside the middle door toppled over, exactly as if a soldier had fallen down drunk in the middle of parade. Suddenly no longer afraid, Sarah wondered if perhaps Lady Melanie, not willing another love affair should end unhappily, had given that little sign to show her the way. Whispering, “Thank you,” Sarah pushed open the door.

  Throwing queer shadows, a candle flame swayed and nodded, drowning in its own grease. A pair of breeches hung over the back of a chair, and a tall hat gaped up from beside it. On the table, among a confusion of fobs, pens, paper and coins, stood a brandy bottle, unstoppered and empty.

  Sarah almost laughed to see it. If Alaric had been drinking, he'd not be fit to fight in but five or six hours. She thought again and shook her head. If Alaric had been drinking, he'd probably go to the meadow and be shot dead on the spot, unable even to defend himself.

  Turning toward the shapeless form under the covers of the big testered bed, Sarah started forward impulsively. However, the question she'd thus far avoided asking herself came powerfully into her mind. Which one?

  To lose Lord Reyne meant her life would become empty, worthless, useful only for suicide. But to lose Harcourt meant heartbreak for everyone she'd known all her life, and Alaric would be forced to flee the country, and once again she'd lose him. This dilemma had kept her up for two nights already. She'd doze and then start up, sweating and terrified, her sheets curled about her like the entanglements of a snake.

  The only thing to do, Sarah decided by the light of a faint candle, was to wake Alaric and attempt to sober him up. Which man would live was not in her power. Yet she could not send Alaric out into the cold dawn at anything less than his full strength. Her steps now firm, Sarah approached the bed.

  He lay on his side, facing into the shadows, his arm flung over his head. “My lord?” Sarah called softly. She could not reach his shoulder to shake it. “My lord?

  “Please, my lord. You must wake up.” Raising her voice seemed to have some effect. He groaned, muttered some words in a thick, indistinct voice, and rolled farther over on his face. Sarah called him again and poked his back with her forefinger. He wriggled down deeper into the feather bed.

  Sarah looked about her for a jug of water. She could dip her handkerchief in and wring it over his face. A basin stood beside his toiletries on the dresser. Unfortunately, the jug was missing. Sarah stood there for a moment, her hand upon the silverback of his hairbrush. Funny, she would have said Alaric's hair was darker than this rather reddish shade of blond.

  When he groaned again, Sarah flew to the bedside, her eyes open in anticipation. What she found there made her reel back in horror!

  “Pretty girl!” Lord Dudley said, making an ineffectual grab for her. He misjudged the distance and fell out of bed. Sarah closed her eyes and jerked away. Lord Dudley had retired in nothing but his shirt, too minimal to cover all that was necessary.

  Hearing no further sounds, she ventured, “Are you unhurt, sir?”

  “Fine, fine, fine!” A jovial little giggle persuaded her to open one eye and glance, ever so briefly, at the fallen peer's son. Dudley sat on the floor, his shirt caught beneath his thighs. He met her eyes. His own were rather pink.

  “Help us up,” he said, holding up his hands like a baby. Sarah almost felt like saying, “Who's a big boy, then?” as she caught his hands and hauled.

  He came off the floor about as quickly as he'd gone down. Sarah, caught off balance, was not prepared for his onrush. He caught her about the
waist. “Such a very pretty girl,” he said. His body felt flabby and hot, and the reek of alcohol puffed in her face completed the unpleasant portrait.

  “Lord Dudley!” she protested, pushing him away with an effort. “If you please. ...” Sarah leapt back out of his grasp, knocking into the table. It rocked, sending the bottle to the floor. She tried to catch it, fearing the crash, but missed. The bottle did not break, but it rang like a muffled bell.

  Lord Dudley too made a grab, but not for the bottle. Sarah let out half a scream but managed to swallow the rest. She knocked his hand away, and the table went over with a shuddering crash. Coins danced and tingled away over the floorboards.

  “Here now!” Lord Dudley said loudly. “My money! Help me pick them up.” He went down on his hands and knees, forcing Sarah to shut her eyes once more.

  Someone pounded on the wall. A muffled roar, with opprobrious phrases, sounded from the room next door. Sarah, as eager as that occupant to have silence, backed toward the door. With closed eyes, however, she mistook her direction and walked into the dresser. The mirror propped up on the top thumped against the wall.

  “Oh!” As she whirled to catch the mirror, Sarah's cloak swept the basin and sent it to the floor. Made of less stern stuff than the bottle, it crashed like a cathedral falling off a cliff. The mirror didn't fall, which was some comfort. However, the banging on the wall continued.

  Sarah knew she had to get out before someone came. Half the inn must be roused by now. As she hurried past Lord Dudley, though, he caught and held her by the ankle. “Ha-ha,” he said. “You're the blind man now. Wait till I get my handker ... handker ... my wipe.”

  “Let me go!” Sarah tried to shake him off as he attempted to reach his breeches, hanging on the chair, without releasing his prize. His hold seemed permanent, a fetter hammered closed by a smith.

  Suddenly, the door banged against the wall. “What in the bloody ... ?” Alaric stood in the opening, his hand out to stop the door from swinging shut and his face flushed with anger. He wore only breeches with an unfastened shirt tucked in.

  “Help,” Sarah said in a small voice, as she balanced on one foot, her cloak falling around her like folded wings.

  He observed everything in a finger-snap: the mess, the man on the floor, the fingers around Sarah's ankle. His sky-shaded gazed lingered longest on Sarah herself, though without expression. She opened her mouth to appeal to him again, but he no longer stood in the doorway. Before her heart could make the difficult climb up from her feet, he'd returned.

  “Here you are, old man,” he said, swinging an uncorked bottle by the neck between two fingers. “You'd better use both hands. You'd hate to drop it.”

  Slowly, Dudley opened his fingers. With a thud, Sarah put her foot down even as Dudley grasped the new bottle to his chest. “Won't you stay and ... have...” His eyes rolled in his head and he flopped down, the wine spilling on his neck.

  “Poor sot,” Alaric said. He righted the bottle, crossed the room, and tugged the blanket off the bed. Covering the inert mass he said, “He'll do till morning.” Only then did he look again on Sarah. He seemed about to speak when a sound outside the room caught his ear. “Come on; it won't do if you're found.”

  Absently, he took her hand and towed her along. Safe in his room, he stood for a moment with his ear to the panels. “The landlord and his lady are putting him to bed. Tarle's saying something about her looks, not complimentary, but what woman compares to you?”

  Sarah stood in the middle of the room, her hands clasped before her. Lifting her chin, she met his steady regard. Judging by his expression, he wondered what she did here so late at night. Sarah felt keenly the unfairness of blushing under these circumstances. It gave the wrong impression for one thing, and made her feel two feet tall to boot. “Please don't stare. Lord Reyne.”

  “I can't help myself.” He took her hand again in both of his, bringing it up to his lips. That touch confused her brain, sending it babbling.

  “My lord,” she began, “I have come to ask ...” His lips touched her cheek. She closed her eyes, or they closed themselves, as she struggled to go on. “Tomorrow you will ...” Somewhere a clock bonged once. Alaric's breath mingled with her own on her lips. Sarah gave a little gasp, which turned into a sigh as Alaric kissed her, softly but like a man who'd given the matter a good deal of thought.

  “This isn't a dream?” she asked in sudden doubt when he lifted his head a moment, merely to bring her more closely against him. He chuckled and kissed her again. No, she was not dreaming, for dreams never clasped her with strength nor looked down with lazy laughter.

  Looking up at him, trusting him, she could say what she'd come to say without a hesitation or stammer. “You mustn't fight Harcourt, you know.”

  “Are you asking me to turn tail?”

  “Yes!”

  “Impossible.” Yet, he still held her, gently refusing her efforts to stand away.

  “But you can't kill Harcourt just because he's jealous.”

  “Sarah, he is far more likely to kill me. I'm not the world's keenest shot.”

  “Oh, no!” Her arms tightened.

  “Then you must save me. After all, it was your kiss that landed me in this position.”

  “But why ... ? Why did you ... ?”

  “Kiss you? Because, Sarah, you are irresistible.” And he kissed her again.

  This time, the shock was less and the pleasure greater, swelling up from her extremities as though a warm spring had suddenly burst up through dead ground. She felt giddy, as though the spring were not water but pure champagne. If it were not for Harcourt, how easy she should find it to float away. Flinging herself out of his arms, she said, “Oh, how can you? Alaric, how dare you!”

  “Don't you know why yet? What in God's name possessed you to pledge yourself to that caper-witted farmer?”

  “Harcourt at least loves me. He's been in love with me for months and months.”

  “Ah, well, if time is of importance to you, I have loved you since time began. In the first hour of Adam's awakening, I loved you. You are Eve, you know, fallen from an apple tree.”

  “Please, Alaric, be serious,” Sarah entreated, horrified to feel herself blushing to hear him saying such things to her. She had dreamed of this, but was not fool enough, she hoped, to take him at his word. “We must talk about Harcourt. You must not fight him.”

  “Devil fly away with Harcourt, Harvey, Harriet, and all the rest of them. I love you.”

  “Oh!”

  “I love you as I never believe I should love anyone.”

  “Oh!”

  “You'd better write Master Phelps a note telling him you've made a mistake.”

  “It will hurt him.”

  “Would you rather hurt me? Please don't say ‘Oh!” Lord Reyne had taken her hands in his, pressing them against his heart. His lips smiled still, but his eyes fixed on hers quite as if her answer were all in all to him.

  “I believe you do love me.”

  “I love you,” he said, “because when I am with you, I feel so much a part of life. If not for you, I should have been well entered upon the Middle Ages, instead of feeling as young inside as I did at twenty, before responsibility and war got a hold of me.” He drew her near once more.

  Sarah hid her eyes against his shoulder, strangely humbled she could touch him so deeply that he could speak to her without the least trace of embarrassment. “I don't know why I love you,” she said in answer. “I only know that I do. From the moment I saw you ...”

  “As quickly as that? Maybe it was the same for me ... if so, I wasn't aware of it until Lillian told me.”

  “Miss Canfield?” For a moment, Sarah's jealousy flared.

  “Yes, if she hadn't opened my eyes to the truth of this situation, I might still plan to marry her, instead of you.”

  In listening to the thudding of his heart, Sarah heard only a word or two of this statement. “I forgot about Miss Canfield. When you marry her, shall I be your light
-of-love?” She felt a chuckle run through him. “Why do you laugh?”

  “You know, I think you shall be. But first, I suggest we marry. Lillian has given me the go-by. She says love commands the heart. You have certainly commandeered mine.”

  “I'm sorry you're not going to marry her,” Sarah murmured. “I think she'd have made you a very good wife.”

  Alaric held Sarah out at arms’ length. “Sarah East, you're going to marry me.”

  “Yes.”

  “That wasn't a question.”

  “No.” How easy it was to be complacent, when acquiescence brought such quick rewards! Kissing someone was easy, Sarah thought, when that someone was Alaric.

  He lifted his head to listen. Distantly, Sarah heard raised voices but she paid no attention. She made a sound, somewhere between a cough and a murmur, to remind him he held her still in his arms. “Alaric?”

  He couldn't resist the invitation of her softly curving lips, not when he knew already the delights they promised him. But when she opened them to him, and pressed her young yet lush body against his, he was forced to raise his head. “My dearest, it's a scandal your being here, and if you do not leave, there'll be a greater scandal yet.”

  “But I don't want to leave you.” Protected by the circle of his arms, she dared to press closer to his body. A new excitement surged through her as Alaric groaned and brought his lips down to taste her throat. Her breath grew short and fast as though she'd been running. She dared to cling to him as she felt herself becoming part of her beloved.

  With a self-control she did not appreciate, Alaric managed to push her away. He was not angry, however, though his smile was tense even as it was tender. “My darling, you must leave.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there is a bed in this room, and if you do not go, we shall undoubtedly use it.”

  “But I'm not tired.”