Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  She brightened. “Yes! Or perhaps they decided to go to Steep Drummond and ask the General for help after all.”

  “Very likely. Do you have any notion how many men were in the boats you saw?”

  “About twenty in each, I should think.”

  He was silent, frowning slightly.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Charity. “You are thinking that even if my brother and the rest of them did ride to Steep Drummond, Claude could afford to split his men!”

  He said dryly, “No one could accuse you of being dull-witted, Miss Strand.”

  “Then why do we go so slowly? It will be dark soon, and this is Saturday, Mr. Redmond.”

  He pointed ahead. “That is why,” he said simply.

  Looking where he indicated, Charity gave a gasp. Gone were the gentle hills. Before them lay an increasingly rugged landscape with jutting crags and boulder-strewn ravines. The white plume of a waterfall shot out from a steep bluff a mile or so distant, the sunlight awakening a small rainbow about the descending spray. Below them, a hurrying stream sparkled, and the lesser slopes were rich with trees and shrubs and the royal carpet of the heather.

  Watching her thin face, Redmond saw her lower lip sag a little and the great greenish eyes take on an awed glow. “Oh, how magnificent,” she breathed.

  “I doubt the horses would agree,” he said with brusque impatience, and started his chestnut forward again. “If we’re to reach Dumfries before dark, ma’am, we must go along as steadily as we can without overtaxing these poor hacks.”

  “Before dark?” she echoed anxiously. “Good heavens! I’d fancied we were almost there. How far have we to go?”

  “About twenty miles.” He added, “As the crow flies.”

  But they were not crows. The terrain became ever more difficult. There were no paths now, and he could only be on the lookout for the few landmarks the crofter had told him of. They had to dismount often and lead their horses, clambering over rocky and uneven ground. Charity, her balance not good at best, followed Redmond’s mare, stumbling often and glad he did not see her clumsiness. As the miles slowly slipped past, she began to tire again, but she persevered doggedly, refusing to look ahead, struggling to keep pace, and determined not to allow exhaustion to overpower her.

  She soon discovered that going up was dreadful, but that going down was worse. They were leading the horses, another waterfall booming to their left, when her boot turned on the slippery surface and she could not restrain a shriek as she fell. An arm of iron whipped around her. She was slammed against Redmond’s chest, her nose buried in his cravat. Shuddering, she clung to him for an instant, then pulled away, panting out her thanks.

  This time when she looked up at him, he did not evade her glance but scanned her face narrowly. “Are you all right? I’m a clod for not remembering that you were ill for a long time.”

  “No, really. I’m perfectly … fine, now.” She fought to regain her breath and—ignoring the catch in her side, her stiff aching muscles and sore feet—summoned a smile. It faded when it was returned by a scowl. Her heart sinking again, she faltered, “I am slowing you dreadfully … am I?”

  A reluctant smile dawned. “You are doing splendidly. All this clambering about and no word of complaint. How fortunate I am that you are no pampered beauty, else I do not doubt I’d have been dealing with the vapours long since.”

  He was surprised that these kind remarks should have produced such a stormy look. Guessing (wrongly) at the reason, he admitted, “I should have kept to the main road, I suppose. But it seemed safer not to do so. And the crofter told me we could lop ten miles from the journey by following this route. Cheer up, ma’am. We will rest for a moment. The horses—”

  “Are doing very well,” she put in with a determined little nod. “Mr. Redmond, you must not think of me as a woman. I am simply a—a comrade in arms!”

  It was unfortunate that at that moment of nobility she should stumble again. Steadying her, Redmond’s eyes began to twinkle. “So that’s what is meant by that term,” he said, his arm about her waist.

  Mortified, she pushed him away. “You mistake it! I had not the least intention— I mean, pray do not suppose I want, er, I mean—”

  He released her as though her touch burnt him. “But of course. I am not to think of you as a woman. Very understandable.” And with his faintly sneering smile he said, “En avant, Monsieur Mulot.”

  “Fieldmouse?” expostulated Charity, indignantly.

  “I am told not to think of you as a woman. I must think of you as you requested—a comrade. A male comrade. And fieldmice are small as is my comrade. Also, they have very bright eyes.” He shrugged. “Now, if you are done with this frivolity, miss—monsieur, perhaps we might continue?”

  He took up his reins and walked on.

  Following, Charity muttered, “Fieldmouse, indeed!”

  Soon, they left the rugged passes and came out into more open country. Redmond seemed relieved and, suspecting he had been lost, Charity asked if he knew where they were.

  “Still in Scotland,” he replied noncommittally.

  She sniffed. “How very illuminating.”

  The corners of his lips quivered. He slanted an amused glance at her. “Wildcat!”

  “Do not confuse your creatures, sir. I am the fieldmouse, remember?”

  “True. Very well, monsieur. Prepare yourself. We must travel faster now, else we’ll be caught out all night.”

  “How fortunate that I am not a ‘pampered beauty,’” she retorted dryly.

  So that was what had irked her. With a furtive grin he said, “Yes, indeed,” thereby further infuriating her, and spurred to a gallop.

  Unaccountably, tears stung Charity’s eyes. She had pushed back the hair from her perspiring forehead so many times that she was very sure she had a dirty face. And if her coiffure had suffered as badly as she suspected, she must look a fright. But she had managed to keep up, and all he could do was speak scarcely a word for hours and then be horrid. Spurring so as to come up with him, she thought, “I wonder if Claude is near?” Shivering, she glanced back. The hills rose green and peaceful and majestic, with no sign of pursuing riders.

  * * *

  “Monsieur Mulot, wake up!”

  The voice was far away but there was an urgency about it that demanded a response. Opening heavy eyes, Charity saw something dark and hairy within an inch of her nose, and she sprang up with a small shriek.

  It was dusk and cold, and she was still mounted on the poor hack. Mitchell Redmond stood at her left stirrup, looking up at her. Reality burst in upon her, and her mouth drooped.

  “Bad dream?” Redmond enquired mildly.

  “I thought it was a great spider,” she said foolishly. And then, overcome by guilt, “Oh, I am so sorry! What a widgeon I am.”

  He stared up at her, his smile fading.

  Stung, she thought, “He might at least have denied it!”

  “Where are we now?” she asked, and added a pithy, “Or do you know, Mr. Redmond?”

  “We are coming into Dumfries. See the lights yonder? But your horse has thrown a shoe, I think, and you cannot ride through the town with your skirts hoisted up over your knees. Although they’re pretty knees, I grant you.”

  “How dare—” Her gaze flashed downward. Aghast, she saw that he was perfectly correct, but when she instinctively made to tug at her skirts, her hands refused to move.

  Redmond said, “If you will dismount now. Monsieur Mulot…?” His voice hardened. “I assure you I mean only to lift you down.”

  “Yes. I heard you. But I—I cannot seem to move.”

  Frowning, he reached up and began gently to unpry her fingers. They were icy cold and white from the sustained effort of holding to the reins. “Poor fieldmouse,” he said in a very kind voice. “At least tonight should see the end of this for you. There—lean to me, now.”

  She obeyed, but when he set her down, she could not walk and would have fallen if he’d not continued to hold he
r. She thought no more of it than that she was stiff from the unaccustomed exercise, but Mitchell, recalling that she’d been without the use of her legs for three years, was terrified. Having not the least notion of that fact, she wailed faintly, “How stupid!”

  “Nonsense,” he said gruffly. “But you shall have to endure my touch, I’m afraid.”

  She glanced at him sharply, but he was looking around the rough moorland rise whereon they had halted. He carried her to a small boulder nearby and sat her on it.

  “Here we go,” he said, and whipped up the skirts of her habit.

  With an outraged shriek, Charity sprang up. Redmond straightened also and made a lunge for her.

  With all her strength, she slapped his face and tottered back. “Beast!” she screamed. “Horrid, womanizing, cowardly beast!”

  Even in the dusk she saw his face whiten. Then he was upon her. Ignoring the little fists that clawed and beat at him, he swung her into his arms, carried her back to the rock and slammed her onto it once more. He flinched as her nails raked his cheek, and he seized her flying fists, holding them so tightly that she was powerless and crouched in helpless fury, glaring up at him.

  “Had you an ounce of common sense, madam,” he snarled between his teeth, “you would know my only thought was to restore the use of your limbs as quickly as possible. Certainly not to roll you around in the grass for a jolly interlude!”

  Her cheeks flamed, and her eyes fell before the fierce blaze of his own. He muttered something furiously, but she made no further demur as he pulled up her skirts again. He began to massage her legs, his hands firm and strong and efficient, until she began to fear the frail stuff of her lacy chemise would rip under his ministrations. Soon, the blood was coursing through her legs so painfully that she could scarcely keep from weeping. Somehow, she kept silent, sitting there feeling beyond words ridiculous with her legs stuck out and her flaming face averted, until he sighed and drew back.

  He said with cold but meticulous politeness, “There, ma’am. See if you can stand now.”

  Without a word, Charity took his hand and stood. She gasped as she began to totter about, but she did not fall.

  Redmond said judicially, “That’s better. We’ll walk a little way, and then you can ride my horse. We shall have to get yours shod, but with luck we can ride these hacks again after we find some food for all of us.”

  Charity’s attempt to answer was foiled by the refusal of her voice to obey her wishes. She felt sunk with shame that she had behaved in such a way, but also horribly embarrassed that Mr. Redmond had seen her undergarments and had touched her legs. Yet she knew also that he did indeed regard her as an object, not as a woman. And that his intentions had been so far from what she’d imagined that he must think her a total henwit.

  Looking at her averted face, he said scornfully, “Lord, are you still trembling, then? I do assure you, Monsieur Mulot, that you’ve no least cause for such maidenly fears. This—coward—will never lay hands upon your, er, limbs again.”

  She heard the brief pause before he said “coward” and the harsh bitterness with which it was ground out, and her heart thudded into her shoes. Why ever had she called him so? How could she have used that word after what had transpired in Claude’s war room? How could she have been so thoughtless and so cruel? Wretchedly, she stammered, “No, I did not mean— That is, I—I know you were trying to—”

  “Here,” he said impatiently, “mount up, and we’ll be on our way. You can ride sidesaddle for this last leg—er, I mean, for this last part of the journey—if you can manage.”

  Meekly, she allowed him to boost her into the saddle. She could have wept when her blistered bottom struck the leather, but she clenched her teeth, clung to the pommel, and endured.

  Redmond stalked ahead, leading her hack. Charity watched his ramrod-stiff back. He had behaved disgracefully with Claude, at first. But he was no coward, for a coward would never have walked alone into Tor Keep; besides, once freed of the menace of the whip, he had fought bravely and well.

  Glancing up miserably, she saw the lights drawing nearer. Puzzled, she called, “Mr. Redmond, I had thought it a larger town.”

  He hesitated, then said, “I believe it is built on hills. We likely only see a portion of it, but I fancy there will be an ordinary where we can get some supper after we find a smithy.”

  Charity hadn’t known how hungry she was until he said “supper,” but the suggestion of an ordinary was confusing. “Could we not eat in the inn, or wherever you mean to pass the night?” she asked.

  Again, he did not at once reply. Then, “It should be fairly bright later,” he said. “The skies are clear now, as you see, and the moon should be nearing the half.”

  Charity, whose thoughts had dwelt with unutterable yearning on a bed—if only a blanket on the floor where she might stretch out and sleep—said bravely, “We will go on then, after we eat?”

  In the darkness, Redmond’s lips quirked to the sound of that wistful little voice. He said, “I shall go on, monsieur. You will—”

  “Oh no!” She spurred the tired hack until she was level with him. “You would not leave me?” She reached down to tug at his sleeve. “Please, please! I know I am a—a nuisance, but—”

  “Not at all. I merely think you will be safer here with the stalwart Scots than you would be in the wilderness with a nefarious individual such as—”

  “But I did not mean it! You know I did not! You are a brave gentleman, and I was tired and did not think before I—”

  “Foolish mouse.” He patted her hand gently. “You are so weary you’re all but asleep at this very minute. How could I ask you to go on? Be sensible.”

  “If you leave me, Claude will find me! I know it! I beg you, do not!”

  He frowned up at her. “You have little faith in your brother, ma’am. What if he finds you first?”

  “How I pray he will. How I pray they all are safe! But what chance is there that they should come to this town and stop in the very same locale as we? Mr. Redmond, you cannot desert me.”

  He turned away, and because he was troubled and shared her fears, he said jeeringly, “Here is very much concern for ‘I,’ my staunch patriot.”

  Charity stiffened. “Oh, but you are horrid! Were the truth told, I doubt I have delayed you by one instant!”

  “And even had you not, how do you feel, ma’am? How does that soft little derrière of yours—”

  “Oh! How dare you!”

  “I’d dare more than that to convince your stubbornness. Good God, woman! Don’t you realize that if you’re stiff and sore now, you will be scarce able to move tomorrow? A sheltered gentlewoman such as yourself could no more ride at the gallop for three days and nights than—”

  “Juanita Smith was a sheltered gentlewoman,” she flung at him, “and she not only rode at the gallop, but forded rivers and froze in the snow and—”

  “And climbed the Pyrenees beside her husband,” he interjected. “Aye—and she is as brave as she’s lovely, but—”

  Forgetting her resentment, she asked eagerly, “Were you in the Peninsula then? How splendid! Have you met her?”

  “Her husband was a Brigade Major with the Ninety-fifth Rifles. My brother was with the Forty-third Regiment. Both Light Division. They served together, so that it was my honour to meet Juana after her husband sailed for America. And, no, ma’am. Another of my many failings. I was not with the army.”

  She frowned at his back. His head was very high against the night sky. “Lord,” she thought, “but he is eaten up with pride! Foolish creature!” Still, part of what he said was truth. She was so weary it was all she could do not to sleep where she sat, and there seemed not an inch of her that was not cold and aching. She would be better after she had eaten and rested, though. And tightening her lips, she vowed fiercely, “He shall not leave me!”

  They were coming to the first straggling dwellings of the town now. Lamplight gleamed from cottage windows; the delicious smells of wo
odsmoke and cooking hung on the air. A dog barked at them and then trotted alongside companionably, and somewhere two cats traded shrill feline insults. At once, Charity was reminded of Little Patches, and her shoulders sagged forlornly.

  “Wake up!” called Redmond impatiently. “Look, a smithy!”

  A bright glow lit the night ahead; a sturdy barn, the doors wide, the brazier pulsing with brilliant coals and leaping flame. Despite the chill of the night air, several men were gathered by the doors, chatting amiably, and the smith, his broad features lighted by the fire, stood with sooty hands on hips, watching Redmond lead up the limping horse.

  “Well, now,” he said in a deep North Country voice. “Be ye and yer lady coom fer me services?”

  Staring at Charity, one of the men chuckled and dug his neighbour in the ribs. Redmond scowled at him. “I amuse you, sir?” he asked, well aware that Charity’s dishevelled state had inspired this insolence.

  “Och, but the feisty cockerel will spit me wi’ his claymore, belike,” said the offender, then flung up a hand as Redmond tossed the reins to Charity and started towards him. “No offense, y’r lordship. ’Tis aw in guid clean fun, y’ken?”

  There was certainly no ill will in the broad grins turned upon him. “They’re all bosky,” thought Redmond, pausing. “That damnable Scotch whisky, I’ll warrant!” And with a sigh for some of that damnable stuff, he turned about and reached up to lift Charity from the saddle.

  Again, her knees betrayed her and she sagged against him. Stifled giggles arose from the onlookers as Redmond was obliged to hold her for a minute, and he cursed under his breath.

  “I’d not interrupt ye, sir and ma’am, but y’r nag’ll need a new shoe,” the smith pointed out redundantly. “And ye’ll likely want the pair fed and watered, eh?”

  Looking at him over Charity’s pert little hat, Redmond demanded, “How long is all this going to take?”

  “A wee bit, er, pressed, are ye?” asked the smith, reducing his friends to convulsions. “Where might you and the lady hale from, sir?”

  “We might hale from Timbuctoo, but—”

  “Mr. Redmond is from Hampshire and London,” Charity intervened wearily, stepping back from his supporting arms. “And I am from Sussex.”