by Jo Beverley
Cyn accepted that there would be no coy gesture, and on the whole was glad of it. He didn’t know what would come of this situation, but he wanted more from his damsel than a burst of lust.
Doubtless she was sleeping after all, and so should he. He put his mind to it. During years of campaigning, which often provided unsatisfactory sleeping quarters, he’d developed the ability to bring on sleep regardless.
The room settled into somnolent tranquility.
Chapter 9
Chastity woke to the gray light of an early morning, and the distant clatter of the inn. For a moment she wondered where she was and why she was sleeping in her clothes. Then it all came back.
Verity, Winchester, Cyn…
She opened her eyes a crack and looked up at the bed, but from the low pallet she could not see the occupant. She gingerly slid from under her blankets, anxious to be done with her toilet before he awoke. She eased to her stockinged feet…
… To see Cyn sitting by the window, feet up on the sill, watching her. “I was about to wake you, lad,” he said easily. “I’ve ordered breakfast. We must be on our way.”
“Right,” said Chastity, and scuttled behind the screen. Did a woman pissing sound different? She hoped not.
She put on her second layer of clothes, her wig, and her hat, and emerged fortified. He looked her over as if he would make a comment, but before he could speak, the innkeeper and a maid bustled in with a hearty breakfast. He shrugged and gestured her to the table.
Adventure must sharpen the appetite. Chastity found she could do a hungry youth’s justice to the ham, eggs, kidneys, and fried bread.
“We should reach Maidenhead today, shouldn’t we?” she asked as they both mopped up the last of the food on their plates.
“If all goes well and the weather holds. Let’s be on our way.”
Within the half hour they were trotting out of Winchester. The hired horses were hardly prime bits of blood, but they were sound enough, and seemed built for endurance. This was as well, for they would have to carry their riders more than thirty miles this day.
The air was sodden and Chastity gave thanks for her double layers of clothing and heavy riding cloak. The sun lurked behind sullen clouds, making no attempt to brighten leafless trees and skeleton hedges that stood stark against dark plowed earth. She hoped the gloomy day was no predictor of their luck.
Cyn, however, was bright-eyed. Did nothing ever cast the man into the blue-devils? “Cheer up,” he said. “The day’ll be better yet. We’ll find Frazer and put an end to Verity’s problems. Then we can look to yours.”
Chastity jerked on the reins so that the horse jibbed. “What?”
“Have a care. His mouth’s doubtless like iron, but that’s no reason to rasp it. I can hardly send you back to your cottage-prison without making a push to help. I’m a devoted knight-errant, don’t you remember?”
“I’m hardly a damsel in distress.”
He looked at her almost seriously. “Still, I’d like to help. What crime caused you to be sent into exile?”
“Disobedience,” said Chastity bleakly.
“You have a deuced strict father.”
“True enough.”
“And how long is your punishment to last?”
Chastity could not bear this. The temptation to pour out her woes to him was too great. She looked at him coolly. “My petty problems are none of your concern, my lord. Let us but settle Verity and I will return to Nana’s, and you’ll be free of us both.”
He accepted it, but she didn’t much like the intent look he flashed her before speeding the pace.
A good canter drove the chill from her bones, but did little for the chill in her heart. They were racing toward the end of their association.
She resolutely put past and future out of mind, and set to enjoying these brief hours of Cyn. Laughter bubbled at the sound of that, and she let it out. He grinned at her and she grinned back. The day rapidly improved.
Again he showed his gift for geography. They frequently left the busy road for country bridle paths, heading always northeast toward London, but cutting across the main routes, for Maidenhead lay to the west of the city.
He didn’t push the pace, but Chastity gave thanks for the many hours of riding astride she’d put in during her exile, for otherwise she’d never have been able to keep up. As it was, when they halted at midday to feed themselves and the horses, she could swagger into the inn with just the right air.
They ate in the common room, sharing a table with a carter, an elderly medical man, and a pasty-faced clerk. Chastity wondered why Cyn risked eating in public when they could have hired a private room, but she enjoyed the experience. She’d never eaten in such company before. She soon discovered why Cyn had chosen a public room. Gossip.
“Lot of military men about,” said the rotund carter, eyeing Cyn’s uniform. “French trouble, is it?”
“Not as far as I know,” said Cyn. “There’s some concern that the current war might encourage the French and Jacobites to try again, but hardly here on the south coast. Ireland more like.”
“Troublemakers,” said the carter, and spat, though whether he referred to Jacobites or Irish wasn’t clear. “Still and all, I’ve been looked over by patrols all along the London road. Sommat’s up.”
“I can tell you what,” said the pinch-faced doctor, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. “A poor lady is wandering witless. Widow of a gentleman, and that man’s heir along with her.”
The carter frowned as he masticated a huge mouthful of beef. “A hell of a lot of redcoats for one mort. I’ve never seen so many, not even during the ‘45.”
“You exaggerate,” said the doctor. “We could scarce move without being questioned at that black time. Not that I objected. If I had my way, every Stuart sympathizer in the land would be done to death. It offends me deeply to know that there are still those going free who would have flocked to the banner of Charles Edward Stuart. But now we even have a Scot as the king’s right-hand man!”
The clerk interjected at this point to state that his mother was Scots, and that not all Scots were traitors. Soon heated politics became spice for the meal, with the doctor continuing his tirade against Jacobites and Lord Bute.
When the doctor left, the carter spat again. “That man’s the sort who’d hand his granny to the hangman and call himself a good man. Especially if there was a farthing in it.”
“But it is our duty to oppose treason,” remarked Cyn.
The carter eyed his uniform uneasily, but said his piece. “Aye, but opposing treason always brings out those with an ax to grind, and those who like to see others brought low. Many a fortune changes hands in hard times.”
“That’s true enough,” said the clerk sourly. “And some of the gainers no doubt as treasonous as the losers if the truth were told. Take the Campbells, for example.” He too rose to his feet and dusted himself off. “You should keep your eye out for the missing lady, though, Captain. I intend to. There’s a handsome reward offered, and that wouldn’t be blood money, for she’ll be the better for being found.”
“Aye, that’s true enough,” said the carter. “But with the hunt so thick up near London, she’d need to be a fairy-woman to be north of here. ‘Tis a pity to say, but she’ll likely be fished out of a river one day soon, baby and all.” He rolled out to assemble his eight-horse rig and continue his long, slow journey into Somerset.
Cyn and Chastity too went to order their mounts. As they waited for their horses, Cyn said, “Did I detect some sympathy in you for the Jacobites? Is your heart touched by Bonnie Prince Charlie and his gallant highlanders? If so, we are on opposite sides.”
“No, I’m no Jacobite. But from what I hear the highlanders were brave and true to what they believed. The reprisals were too harsh. So many families ruined, and whenever I drive under Temple Bar and see the heads still rotting there…” She shuddered. “As our friend the carter said, there are doubtless many traitors who’ve avoided de
tection—the sneaky ones who waited to see which way the wind would blow, while the brave men paid the price.”
Cyn mounted. “You’re too rosy-eyed, lad. A good many Jacobites just hoped to be on the winning side. The sorry truth is that most men are out to gain from what they do.”
As she checked the girth and swung into her saddle, Chastity said, “Even knights-errant?”
Cyn gave her a hooded look. “Even them.”
As they cut north over the Exeter road the sky clouded over again in a way that threatened a downpour. Dusk came early in November, but it looked as if it would be earlier still today.
“Doesn’t look good,” said Cyn with a glance at the sky. He urged his mount faster and Chastity followed suit.
Not long after, his horse cast a shoe.
Cyn let loose a string of vivid, multilingual oaths. “I’ll have to lead him to the next village,” he said, “and hope there’s a smithy. There’s a spire over there that looks promising. Come on.”
A drizzly rain began to fall, and they both pulled up the hoods of their cloaks.
“I doubt we’ll make Maidenhead tonight,” he said with irritation. “With a storm threatening, we’d be better not to try.” Then he shrugged. “In fact, it’s no great loss. If we stop for the night in some out-of-the-way village, we’ll be less noticeable than if we turn up late and bedraggled in Maidenhead, where doubtless the net is tightest.”
He looked up, as if wondering at her silence.
“Yes, you’re right,” said Chastity. Another night on the road. Oh, Lord.
By the time they came into the village of East Green, Chastity’s head was throbbing with tension. They stopped at the Angel, a plain square building on the main street, with a small coaching yard beside it. The door opened to spill warm light and pleasant chatter into the yard. The hearty innkeeper assured them there were rooms to be had, and a smithy just down the road. His ostler would take the horse down and have it seen to.
There was no obvious watcher here, but the first thing Chastity saw inside the Angel was a notice nailed to a post—missing, reward. And below it a creditable line drawing of Verity. It had been done from the portrait painted just after her marriage. It was a good likeness, but very much of a great lady, with high-piled hair, low-cut bodice, and diamonds around her neck. Chastity suspected that Verity in her present guise, even as the proper matron rather than the sluttish servant, could stand by the poster and not be recognized.
Cyn caught Chastity’s eye and winked. She winked back, relieved to know the search was so handicapped.
And the innkeeper had said rooms. She wouldn’t be tempted to foolishness.
It was going to be all right.
They were discussing the rooms and dinner with mine host when a voice boomed. “Cyn Malloren! It is you! By the Lord Harry, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I thought you’d snuffed it!”
They turned to see another officer emerging from the taproom. He had a jolly look to him, with round cheeks and big blue eyes, but he was also well over six feet and built like a stone monument. When he grabbed Cyn, Chastity half expected the smaller man to break.
“Gresham!” declared Cyn with every evidence of delight, despite the embrace. “What are you doing in the back of beyond?”
“Ah ha!” declared Gresham. “This is your lucky day, boyo. No need of rooms,” he said to the innkeeper. “Captain Malloren’ll be up to Rood House with me.”
“Rood House?” queried Cyn. “Your place?”
“No, Heather’s.” He wrapped an arm around Cyn’s shoulders and steered him toward the taproom, throwing back over his shoulder, “More of that punch, landlord, and quick about it!”
Chastity rolled her eyes and followed. Was Cyn Malloren known and loved the length of England? The two officers sat at a table by the fire, draining the last of a bowl of hot punch. Chastity sat on a bench close by. Apart from one quick glance to check her location, Cyn appeared to ignore her as he and his friend caught up on the news.
A handful of local residents sat in the tap, addressing the Angel’s home-brewed. They eyed the young officers with mild, good-humored interest, then resumed their gossip and dominoes. The click of the tiles soothed Chastity’s nerves.
The landlord bustled in with a new brimming, steaming bowl. Chastity regarded it with some alarm. Had this giant already drained one of those? If she was any judge, it contained mostly rum and brandy. In no time at all they’d both be under the table.
Gresham showed no sign of wear as he filled two glasses with the stuff. Nor was he unobservant. “He yours?” he queried with a nod at Chastity. “He want some?”
“Yes on both counts,” said Cyn, sprawled at ease in his chair. “But don’t feed him too much. It’s a tender sprig not long from its mother.”
Chastity grimaced at this description but enjoyed the delicious, spicy drink. She felt the hot spirits weave into her blood and relax her. She leaned her head against the wall and refused to worry about anything for the moment.
Lord, to have peace, and friends, and ordinary days…
She listened with half an ear to the conversation, but heard only war news and anecdotes about people she didn’t know. The two men laughed uproariously at things that didn’t seem the least bit funny to her.
She began to feel left out, cut off from Cyn’s real world. She even sniffed back a tear. At that she sat up with a jerk and stared suspiciously at the drink in her glass. ‘Struth, was she becoming a maudlin drunk?
At that moment two more men erupted into the taproom. “Fear not,” one declared dramatically. “We are arrived to carry you from this dull spot unto Elysium!” This dark-haired gallant was not in uniform but in a magnificent, if disordered, suit of green satin, richly trimmed. It became clear this was Heather—Lord Heatherington—owner of Rood House. His companion was Lieutenant Toby Berrisford.
It was Toby who said, “Cyn! I’d heard you were recovered, but I’m glad of the evidence of my own eyes!”
Lord Heatherington, who was visibly drunk, focused his gaze with difficulty. “It is, by gad, the mad Malloren himself. What blessed day! Our festivities have yet another cause!”
The scene degenerated into pandemonium. The locals grinned at the young men, but Chastity scowled. Could Cyn Malloren not keep a serious task in mind once revelry was available? Perhaps there had been good reason for her to accompany him after all.
When everything was sorted out, it appeared Cyn was going to spend the night at Rood House, to help Lord Heatherington celebrate the death of his grandfather, which long-anticipated event had finally put the viscount, an ex-captain, in possession of a fortune.
Cyn took Chastity aside. “It would cause more talk if I refuse. You had best stay here.”
“No!” said Chastity. Lord knows when he’d emerge, and in what state.
“You’ll be safe enough. This place is off any main route.”
“You need someone along who’ll keep a sober head.”
“If I know Heather, it’ll be wild up there,” said Cyn with crisp authority. “You stay here.”
Before Chastity could react to the order, they were interrupted.
“Odso! What have we here?” Lord Heatherington asked with drunken bonhomie. “Your man? Where’s Jerome?”
“Resting,” said Cyn. “His leg’s bothering him. This is just a local lad acting as groom. He may as well stay here.”
“Not at all! Room for all, and my staff are having the devil of a party as well. Come along, lad. We’ll put hairs on your chest, and starch where you need it most!”
Chastity found herself swept toward Lord Heatherington’s coach. She threw an alarmed glance at Cyn, but he merely shrugged, though she thought he looked vexed. It was as he said, however—to make a fuss would just raise questions. Toby Berrisford, for example, might recognize the young man who had been with Mrs. Inchcliff, and thus start thinking about Mrs. Inchcliff and a baby.
They were cramped with five in the coach, especially as both Gre
sham and Heatherington were large men.
“Should have left Charles to ride on the box,” said Cyn, and pushed Chastity down on the floor in such a position that her face was hidden against her knees. “Stay down there, lad, and keep out of everyone’s way.”“
Chastity grimaced to herself but knew she had to be careful. Berrisford was no fool and didn’t appear to be drunk. At least, she thought stoically, the carriage had a thick, luxurious carpet on the floor, not lousy straw as would be the case with a hired one.
As the carriage picked up speed, Heatherington burst into song and the others soon joined in.
Oh, here is a ditty, in praise of a titty, That’s pretty as pretty can be. Tra-la! Come give me a titty, my sweet little pretty, And you’ll have your jollies of me. Tra-la!
Chastity glanced up between knee and hat-brim, wanting to share her amusement at this silly song with Cyn. He wasn’t looking at her at all but taking a healthy swig from a bottle between verses. He seemed thoroughly in tune with his company, rot him.
The men seemed to have an unlimited store of similar songs. The tunes were monotonous, the words lacked any claims to poetry, and the subjects were all lewd. Chastity would have received a first-rate education in bawdy matters if she understood any of it.
She frowned over it. “Nether hole” she feared she did understand, though the song which involved it made no sense. But what did drinking from the nether cup refer to? The obvious interpretation was too ridiculous.
It all sounded ridiculous anyway.
The men roared their approval of being tied up, tied down, eaten—eaten!—and having five women in a row. Chastity was distracted by the logistics of this. Did that mean actually lined up, she wondered, or one after the other?
They roared their approval of smooth shoulders, round buttocks, and enormous breasts. Chastity thought sadly of her own modest ones. They’d hardly spill out of anyone’s hands.