‘Surely a highwayman will be patrolling the coaching road and I mean to explore the byways. I shall not see him again.’
Charity was not sure she really believed that and even less sure that she wanted it to be true. Betty tried again.
‘You might meet your father.’
That thought was much more alarming. Charity wondered if she had been wise to confide so much about her past to Betty, but the maid had proven herself a good friend over the years. However, Charity would not be dissuaded.
‘I doubt it. And as long as I stay this side of the county line he cannot hurt me.’
Betty frowned, her usually dour countenance becoming positively forbidding.
‘He must know by now that you are in Allingford. Someone will have told him that Charity Weston is appearing at the theatre.’
‘Mayhap he will think it a mere coincidence that an actress has the same name as his daughter.’
‘And mayhap he is planning some mischief.’
‘Nonsense, Betty. It is more than a dozen years since I left Saltby. Phineas has probably forgotten all about me.’
‘Not he, mistress. From all you have told me of the man, he will not rest while you are in Allingford. Your success will be like a thorn in his flesh.’
‘Well, that is a pain he will have to bear,’ said Charity stoutly, ‘because I am not going away.’
Nevertheless, she made sure that when she travelled north or east she kept within the bounds of Allingford, although she felt confident enough to venture farther afield on the other side of the town, and one sunny March day she set out to explore the land to the west. The air was bracing and a covering of snow on the distant hills told her that winter had not yet gone for good, but the blue sky lifted the spirits and Charity was glad to be out of the town. At a crossroads she stopped, debating whether to explore further or to go back to Allingford. After all, it was the first night of a new play tonight and she would need to prepare.
While she was making up her mind, a pedlar came round the corner, leading his donkey laden with leather packs. The gig’s pony snorted and shifted nervously. Charity quieted the animal and pulled a little to the side to allow the pedlar to pass.
He tipped his hat, his bright, beady eyes alight with curiosity.
‘Good day, missus. Hast thou lost tha’ way?’
‘No,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘I am exploring and cannot decide which route to take.’
‘Ah, well, then. I tek it tha’s just come from Allingford.’ He stopped and pushed up his hat to scratch his head. ‘If tha’ teks that road to yer right, you’ll reach Kirby Misperton. The way to the left leads to Great Habton. And that track there—’ he pointed to a wide lane bounded on either side by ditches ‘—it looks best o’ the lot, but leads to nobbut Wheelston Hall.’
‘Thank you, that is most enlightening.’
With a toothless grin the pedlar touched his hat again and went on his way. Charity looked at the three lanes before her. She had an hour yet before she needed to turn back. Kirby Misperton, Great Habton—the names were intriguing, but Wheelston.... She frowned slightly, wondering where she had heard the name before.
Then she remembered the quiet stranger who had attended the opening night reception only to leave after the briefest of words with her. Ross Durden. He had said he lived at Wheelston. Of the three lanes before her, the track to the hall was by far the widest and had been well made, but showed signs of neglect with the ditches overgrown and hedges straggling untidily on either side. A prosperous property, perhaps fallen on hard times? She remembered Lady Beverley’s words. There was clearly some sort of mystery about Mr Durden. She set off again.
You cannot drive slap up to someone’s house just because you are curious!
Charity ignored the shocked voice of her conscience and turned the pony. She had set out to explore, so why should she not go this way? The crossroads had no signposts, so it was not unreasonable for her to take the most interesting route.
After what felt like a good half mile she was beginning to wish she had listened to her conscience. An accumulation of cloud had covered the sun, making the air very chill, and a sneaking wind cut through her fur-lined pelisse. The unkempt hedges hid her view and had overgrown the road so much that it was too narrow for her to turn the gig.
‘I shall turn round in the next gateway,’ she said aloud, causing the pony’s ears to prick. ‘Yes, I know,’ she addressed the animal. ‘You want to go back to your warm stable. And I confess that I, too, am beginning to think longingly of my fireside and a hot drink.’
No convenient gateway presented itself and she was obliged to drive on around the bend, only to find herself at the entrance to a substantial property: Wheelston Hall.
It was a rambling, many-gabled house built of grey stone, with a simple portico over the wide door. A curving drive swept around the front of the building, but it was heavily rutted and covered in weeds. Without waiting for Charity to guide him, the pony turned onto a narrower path leading around the side of the house. It was in much better condition and Charity made no effort to restrain the animal as it trotted towards the numerous outbuildings.
Charity found herself in a large cobbled yard; in the far corner someone was chopping wood, but he had his back to her and was unaware of her presence. She guessed from the man’s size and the curling black hair that it was Ross Durden. Despite the icy wind, he wore only his shirt, buckskins and boots, the shirtsleeves rolled up high to display his muscled arms.
He picked up a large log and placed it on the chopping block, then raised the long-handled axe and brought it down on the log in one smooth, powerful arc. She was struck by the fluid grace of the movement, the slight shift of legs and hips, the flutter of his billowing white shirt as his arms circled, the flash of the blade as it cleaved through the air and the satisfying crack as the wood was split asunder and the pieces fell onto the cobbles. One of the logs had rolled behind him, and as he reached around to pick it up, he spotted the gig. He straightened slowly and turned. Tossing the wood into the basket, he began to walk towards her.
For a brief moment Charity wanted to flee, but she fought down her panic. Not only would that be very cowardly behaviour, she doubted she could turn the gig and whip the little pony to a canter in time to get away. The man looked so much larger, so much less civilised than he had done at the theatre. Untamed and rakish was her impression of the man, but that was curiously at odds with his appearance in the green room.
Another memory nagged at her brain, but it was elusive; she could not quite catch it. She forced herself to sit still and watch as this large gentleman with his wild hair and dark, dangerous eyes approached the gig.
‘Mrs Weston.’
The words, uttered deep and slow, sent a quiver running down her spine. There was neither welcome nor enquiry in his tone. It was a mere statement of fact that she was here.
‘Mr Durden. I, um...I was exploring and took this lane quite by chance.’ She gave him a bright smile, but nothing in that harsh, dark face changed.
Foolish girl. You should have stayed away.
She gathered up the reins. ‘I am very sorry. I did not mean to intrude—’
He put out his hand and gripped the pony’s head collar.
‘It is no intrusion, but you are a long way from Allingford.’
Again the quiver ran down her spine. He was pointing out to her how vulnerable she was.
‘You are cold,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would like to come in and warm yourself by the fire?’
No! It was not to be thought of. May as well enter a tiger’s cage.
He turned and called to someone in the stable, his voice echoing around the yard, then he stepped up beside the gig and held out his hand.
‘Jed will take care of the pony until you are ready to leave. He will lead it int
o one of the empty barns, where it may wait for you out of the cold.’
Her conscience clamoured with warnings, but they went unheeded. With his eyes upon her and his hand held out so imperiously, she felt obliged to let him help her down and escort her into the house. The old wooden door opened onto a short corridor and from there into a large kitchen, at one end of which a fire slumbered in the range. A large shaggy dog jumped up and came to greet them, wagging its tail and sniffing at Charity’s skirts.
‘Easy, Samson, don’t frighten our guest.’
Charity leaned down to scratch the animal behind its ears.
‘I am not frightened. Is he a gun dog?’
‘Gun dog, sheepdog, companion. Whatever is needed.’
He snapped his fingers and sent the dog back to its box in the corner.
‘How useful,’ murmured Charity, stripping off her gloves. After the chilly air outside, the kitchen was blessedly warm. He waved towards an armchair beside the fire.
‘Sit there while I make you tea.’ He stirred up the coals and swung the trivet holding a large kettle over the fire. ‘I presume you would prefer tea to ale? I’m afraid there is nothing else here suitable for a lady.’
His voice was perfectly serious, but she noticed the disturbing glint in his dark eyes when he looked at her. Again she had a flash of memory, but he was expecting an answer and she must concentrate on that—and the fact that she was alone with him.
‘Yes, tea, if you please. I confess I am a little cold now.’
‘I, on the other hand, am quite warm from my exertions. I hope you won’t object if I take a mug of ale?’
Without waiting for her reply, he turned away and picked up the blackjack sitting on the table. Charity heard the kettle singing merrily and was a little reassured by the familiar sound. She knew she should keep her eyes averted, but could not resist glancing up under her lashes as her host filled a mug with ale and drank deeply. She watched, fascinated, as he swallowed, watching the muscles of his throat working, noting the strong lines of his neck, the hard, straight jaw and lean cheek. There was power in every line of his body and it seemed to call to her, an attraction so strong she found it difficult to keep still.
As he lowered the mug and wiped his hand across his mouth he met her eyes, holding her gaze with his own near-black eyes. Charity’s heart began to pound and her hands gripped the arms of the chair. The space between them seemed charged, like the heavy air that preceded a thunderstorm. Surely he must hear the thud of her heart, or even see it, since it battered mercilessly against her ribs.
She should say something, but her breath caught in her throat. She was in thrall to that dark predatory gaze, unable to look away. Unwilling to look away. She had to acknowledge that the perilous attraction was all on her side, the man before had not moved or spoken, so how could she blame him for the danger she felt now?
Was it the rattle of the kettle lid and sudden hiss of steam that broke the spell? Or was it the fact that she was no longer subject to that dark stare? He turned to the fire and proceeded to make the tea. With a conscious effort Charity made herself release her grip on the chair arms. She watched as he lifted a rosewood tea caddy from the shelf and spooned leaves into a silver teapot before pouring in the boiling water. She was desperate to break the silence, but when she spoke she almost winced at the inanity of her words.
‘Tea making is more commonly a woman’s role, Mr Durden.’
‘Since my housekeeper is not here it falls to me,’ he said shortly. ‘I could ask you to do it, but I am not in the habit of making my guests work.’
Charity thought his manner suggested he was not in the habit of entertaining visitors at all, but she did not say so. Instead she watched him fetch out of the cupboard a beautiful teacup and saucer.
‘I do not have much call to use these,’ he remarked, as if reading her thoughts. ‘There is sugar, if you want it?’
‘Just a little milk, if you please.’
His strong hands were remarkably gentle with the fine porcelain.
As if he was caressing a beautiful woman.
A hot blush raced through Charity at the thought and she sat back in her chair, away from the direct heat of the fire. She took the cup from him with a murmur of thanks, but did not look up, conscious of an unfamiliar ache pooling deep inside her.
He refilled his tankard and drew up a stool for himself. It was a little lower than her chair, she noted, and thought she would be grateful that he was not towering over her, but when he sat down his face was level with her own, which was somehow even more disturbing. Desperate to avoid his gaze, she looked about the kitchen. The room was large and high ceilinged, big enough to accommodate a cook and at least half a dozen servants. She recalled Lady Beverley’s comment that Mr Durden had no money at all. However, even with a lack of staff, the long table was spotless and on the dresser the copper pans gleamed.
‘I beg your pardon, madam, for bringing you into the kitchen, but it is the only room in the house with a fire.’
‘Oh, no, no, I am very comfortable, I assure you.’ She smiled, forgetting her unease in her eagerness not to be thought critical of his hospitality. ‘I was merely thinking how much work there must be, maintaining a house like this.’
‘It would take an army of servants to do so,’ he replied frankly. ‘Most of it is closed up until I have the funds to restore it. I have an excellent housekeeper in Mrs Cummings, but she can only do so much. She insists on keeping one parlour tidy for me, and my study, but I spend very little time indoors so there is no point in having a fire anywhere but here during the day.’
‘Very sensible.’
Charity sipped her tea. It was good. However poor he might be, her host did not buy inferior bohea. Sitting by the fire, with a hot drink to revive her, she began to relax a little.
‘I enjoyed your performance in The Rivals.’
‘Thank you. It was very well received.’ She gently replaced her cup in its saucer and would have got up to put it on the table, but he forestalled her, reaching out to take the saucer, his fingers brushing hers as he did so.
It was as much as she could do not to snatch her hand away. She was so aware of him that her skin burned at his touch and little arrows of excitement skimmed through her blood. It was like the heady excitement of a first night, only worse, because she had no idea how to deal with this. Nervously she began to chatter.
‘We open in a new play tonight, The Provok’d Husband. Do you know it? I am very much looking forward to it, because I play Lady Townly. Hywel—Mr Jenkin—is to play my long-suffering husband. We have played it together before, but not for many a year. Perhaps you will come and see it.’
‘No, I won’t.’
His response was so blunt she blinked at him, but it also made her laugh.
‘Fie upon you, Mr Durden, I did not expect quite such a strong rebuttal.’
‘I beg your pardon. What I meant was that I rarely go into Allingford, save when there is business to attend to.’
‘Of course, and pray do not think that I shall be offended if you do not come. I am not so conceited as to think people cannot go on quite well without attending my performances.’ Smiling, she rose to her feet. ‘I have taken quite enough of your time and must be getting back. Thank you, Mr Durden, for your hospitality.’
He grimaced. ‘Such as it was.’
Sympathy clenched at her heart. She did not think him embarrassed by his straitened circumstances, but he was most clearly aware of how it might look to others. Impulsively she put her hand on his arm.
‘A warm fire and a warming dish of bohea—I would ask for nothing finer, sir.’
He was staring at her fingers as they rested upon his bare forearm and Charity wondered if he, too, felt the shock of attraction. She could almost see it, a dangerous current rippling around them. Careful
ly, she removed her hand and began to pull on her gloves. The dog had left his box and was looking up at them, ears pricked expectantly. Glad of the distraction, Charity smiled down at him.
‘Goodbye, Samson.’
Embarrassed by the nervousness that had her addressing a mere animal, she hurried to the door, biting down on her lip as Mr Durden reached past her to open it. He was so close that if she leaned towards him, just a little, their bodies would meet. Stifling the thought and the heady excitement that came with it, she swept past him along the corridor and opened the outer door herself.
Charity was almost surprised to step out into the cobbled yard. Some part of her—the part that remembered her upbringing, she thought bitterly—had almost expected to find the door opened directly into the fiery jaws of hell. She welcomed the chill air; it gave her something to think of other than the presence of the man beside her. She buttoned her pelisse and smoothed her gloves over her hands while he called for Jed to bring out the gig. Anything to fill the awkward silence. Her eyes fell upon the basket and the large pile of unsplit logs by the chopping block.
‘I interrupted your work, sir, I—’
‘It is no matter, the break was very welcome.’ The words were polite, his tone less so. He handed her into the waiting gig and shook out the rug before placing it over her knees. She held her breath, not moving lest he think she objected to his ministrations when in fact it was quite the opposite. A strange, unfamiliar awareness tingled through her body as he tucked the rug about her. She did not want him to stop.
‘It looks like rain.’ He glanced up at the sky before fixing her with his dark, sober gaze. ‘Go directly to Allingford, Mrs Weston. No more exploring today!’
She tried to smile, but her mouth would not quite obey her, not while he was subjecting her to such an intense stare. With a slight nod and a deft flick of the reins she set off out of the yard. The track was straight and the pony needed little guidance. She could easily look back, to see if he was watching her.... No! She sank her teeth into her lip again and concentrated on the road ahead. It was a chance encounter, nothing more. To turn and look back would give Mr Durden completely the wrong idea.
At the Highwayman's Pleasure Page 5