Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  “Married there?” finished Redmond. “I wonder was his bride such a prattlebox as mine.”

  Charity turned to him indignantly, but with a lazy grin he closed his eyes and settled into his corner. Charity opened her mouth for a rejoinder.

  “Go to sleep, you little wretch,” he murmured.

  She told him with some vehemence that it would likely be quite impossible for her to do so since he snored like three Minotaurs.

  “Minotaurs,” he pointed out, yawning, “do not snore any more than I do.”

  “Wherever did you read such a thing? I believe you are making it up. You do tell the most awful whiskers, Mr. Redmond.”

  “And have some, eh?” He opened his eyes again and felt his stubbly chin. “I shall have to take the time to shave when we reach Warrington, else I’ll be arrested for my unkempt appearance. As for my snoreless minotaurs, ma’am, I did not read about that trait. Rather, I observed it firsthand.”

  “First … hand? Oh, come now! They are purely mythological creatures!”

  “No such thing! I have two perfectly healthy specimens at Moiré Grange. In point of fact, before I left I promised to return with some dainty morsel for them to consume. My jaw-me-dead wife is the”—he yawned again—“the prime candidate.”

  She laughed, but he really did look very tired. In fact, she had not noticed until now that there were dark smudges under his eyes and deep lines beside his nostrils. With a twinge of unease, she wondered if he had been able to sleep at all when she herself had done so, and she said no more, settling back and closing her eyes. At once, her thoughts turned to her brother and Leith and Devenish, and she prayed fervently that they might have escaped and that poor Guy might not be desperately hurt. Her fingers were turning the ring on her finger. She looked down at it, then took it off so as to inspect it more closely. The wide band was intricately carven into a design of intertwined roses and hearts, with a solid section at the back. Turning it this way and that, she thought to see something engraved inside. The letters were so faint as to be almost undecipherable, but she made out the words at last. Amor vincit omnia. She stared at the beautiful sentiment that had been engraved there so long ago.

  “‘Love conquers all things,’” Redmond murmured.

  “You are supposed to be asleep, sir.”

  “How can a mere man sleep when your brain spins so noisily?” He stretched and eyed her with faint amusement. “At what was it puzzling this time?”

  “I was wondering,” she said slowly, “if love did conquer all things for them, whoever they were.”

  “Does it ever?”

  “Cynic! Have you never seen two people so attached that they seemed not complete if fate parted them? Have you never seen a devotion so deep that you longed for just such a happy state?” Her voice dropped to a murmur. “My grandparents on my mama’s side had that kind of marriage. They were wed forty years and knew much sorrow, but sometimes when they looked at one another, even when they were old, they would smile as if … as if they shared a lovely secret.”

  She was silent, dreaming, but becoming aware at last that Redmond had not responded, she looked his way, expecting to find him fast asleep. Instead, he was watching her. He wore the strangest expression. A look almost of regret.

  * * *

  Charity slept at last and awoke to the feel of a gentle but persistent tugging at her hair. Redmond was bending over her. She could smell rain, but she was warm and dry and, darting a quick glance around, saw that they were in a stable and that she lay on a pile of hay, her cloak wrapped around her and Redmond’s coat spread over her. “Good gracious!” she exclaimed, starting up. “I do seem to have become a prodigious heavy sleeper.”

  He smiled. “It’s all the fresh air.” He helped her to her feet and in response to her question told her they were in Warrington. “Are you hungry? I’ve sent the ostler up to the tavern to bring us some food.”

  It seemed to her that it would have been simpler for them to go to the tavern themselves. The chaise and the postboys were gone. “I didn’t even hear them leave,” she said in astonishment. “Did they lift me from the carriage, sir?”

  “Of course not. That is my privilege, for the time at least. Besides, you deserved your sleep.”

  “And what of you?” She looked at him searchingly. He looked as though he’d not slept at all, but when she asked if he had, he teased her, saying he wondered he was not scolded again for his snoring. The troubled look refused to leave Charity’s eyes, and he went on, “Jove, but I can see there’s something to this marriage game, after all. It’s rather nice to be fussed over.”

  “Was I fussing? I’d not meant to. It is only that—that it disturbs me to think you feel obliged to stand watch over me.”

  Embarrassment made her colour rise, and she looked down, making quite a business of brushing haystalks from her habit.

  Redmond took her by the shoulders. Startled, she lifted her face. He was gazing down at her, a tender smile curving his lips and his eyes very soft. “Of all my wives,” he said caressingly, “you are the one I most enjoy watching over.”

  A terrible thing was happening to Charity’s lungs. She could scarcely breathe, and her heart was hammering madly. It was very odd, because when her dashing brother-in-law put his arm about her or gave her a hug of greeting, it did not cause her such a spasm. Nor had Devenish’s embrace created havoc in her breast. Redmond was bending closer. She wondered vaguely what it would be like to be kissed by such a famous rake and, quite sure she was about to find out, could think of no reason to object.

  Redmond could, apparently. He jerked back his head, his face suddenly bleak. “My apologies,” he muttered. “I forget that I am a gentleman and you a lady who is not really my wife. Now where in the devil has that ostler—”

  A shadow crossed the rainy doorway. Glancing past Redmond as he stepped back, Charity saw a brutish grin and coarse, familiar features. “Shotten!” she screamed.

  Redmond hurled her aside and spun about, dropping into an instinctive crouch, one hand flashing for the pocket of his coat where he had carried a pistol. But he had spread his coat over Charity and even as he faced Shotten the big man leapt forward, heavy club upraised. Redmond sprang to one side and aimed a lightning left at that heavy jaw. Shotten grunted and collapsed like a sack of oats, but another came running, and another behind him; big men, their faces alight with a savage eagerness that spoke of the price that had been placed on his life.

  Charity saw him whip off his jacket and wrap it around one arm and, wondering, saw the glitter of a knife. A terrible fear plunged through her. They were both rushing him. He fought with skill and practised timing, but he was outnumbered and Shotten was already stirring. Charity made a dart for the fallen club and swung it upward. Shotten’s bullet head raised. He saw Redmond and began to clamber to his feet. Charity brought the club down as hard as she could bring herself to strike, felt the shock, and Mr. Shotten slept once more.

  Redmond had felled one brute, but as she turned to him he reeled and went down and his remaining opponent swung back a large boot and sent it smashing into his ribs. A red haze obscured Charity’s vision. She was vaguely aware of such a fury as she had never known. Her club swung light as a feather in her grasp. She saw a triumphantly grinning, dirty face lift to her, and then Mr. Shotten’s club hit home and the man was hurled backwards.

  Without an instant of regret, she ran to bend over Redmond, who lay doubled up, his arms clasped about his middle, his face contorted with pain. With a sob of terror, Charity ran to the door. Just outside, a rainbarrel was almost full, the raindrops plopping in busily. She plunged her handkerchief into it and flew back to kneel beside Redmond.

  He was gasping, his face livid. “Oh, Mitchell! Mon pauvre! Mon pauvre!” she whispered, and began to bathe his face gently. The long grey eyes opened narrowly. “Go! For the love … of God!” he gasped out. “Go! One of us must … get there!”

  Imperceptibly, the light dimmed. Two men peered in at
the wide-open door.

  “’Ere!” gasped the plumper of them. “Wot you gone and done, missus?”

  “Horses,” cried Charity, still holding the wet handkerchief to Redmond’s brow. “Quickly! Please—please hurry!”

  “Not till I knows what’s to do.” The plump little man walked inside, surveying the carnage. “I’m Joseph Miller, the proprietor of this establishment. Your man been and killed they three?”

  Charity bent over Redmond. “Are you stabbed, sir?” she asked urgently.

  He shook his head weakly. “Boot—merely. Be … all right. Go. May be—may be more.”

  “There ain’t no more,” said Mr. Miller. “You done for the lot. Jem, you run for the constable.”

  “No!” Constables meant talk and notes and more talk. Charity cried desperately, “Help us, I beg of you. These men are from my uncle. My husband’s father has died, you see. The news was kept from us, but we just learned that if he does not appear at the funeral on Wednesday, my uncle inherits the fortune, and we will be left penniless! They tried to murder him just now. Please! Please help us!”

  Mr. Miller’s jaw dropped at this dramatic tale. “Why, them dirty villins!” he exclaimed indignantly. “Here, Jem, let’s put ’em where they can’t cause no more trouble. Bring the wheelbarrer.”

  And so Jem and the obliging host disposed three limp and groaning rogues into the muddy wheelbarrow and trundled them ignominiously into the rain.

  Charity returned her attention to Redmond. He was breathing hard still, his pale lips tight-gripped, but he eyed her with awed astonishment and whispered, “Jove! What a splendid tale!”

  She tried to move aside the arm that was clamped across his ribs. “Never mind that. Let me see.” She began to unbutton his shirt.

  “Good heavens, woman! Must you always be … striving to undress me? Not content with cutting my breeches off—”

  “Mit-chell!” She tugged at his wrist. “Will you be sensible and let me—”

  “No, little mouse.”

  She glanced up, surprised by the gentle voice. He was smiling at her in a way that reduced her knees to blancmange.

  “If you will just be so good as … to bring me the brandy.”

  She thought numbly that it was no wonder he was so successful as a rake, but after a stunned second she recovered her sensibilities and sped to take up his coat. Removing the flask, she cried, “Oh, Mitchell! The pistols were here all the time and I never had the sense to…”

  “You were marvellous,” he said, gritting his teeth as he struggled to sit up.

  She hurried back to kneel beside him and hold the flask to his lips. He took a mouthful, coughed, and gasped. For a moment his head sank onto her shoulder. She held him close, her cheek against his rumpled hair, her heart aching for him. “Oh,” she whispered, “if only I could help you!”

  He did not answer, but reached for her hand. She thought it was the wrong hand and that he wanted more brandy, but instead, he pressed her fingers to his lips.

  Something about that gentle, civilized gesture proved her undoing. All the terrors and dangers, the constant anxiety for her brother and her friends, the endless effort, and now this terrible fight overwhelmed her. Reaction caused her to tremble violently, and tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Mitch … They—they almost—”

  His arm was about her. He said in a steadier voice, “Almost killed me. And would have done but for you, my so intrepid fieldmouse. Now, listen, Madame Mulot, if I should be downed, you must take Diccon’s notebook. I carry it in a clumsy sort of pocket I’ve fashioned inside my coat lining. You must—”

  “No, no! Do not even think such a dreadful thing! You will not be downed!”

  He smiled. “Very likely not with you to aid me. Gad! When I think of how well you wield spears and clubs, I wonder—”

  “I see as the lady was properly done up when you driv in, sir,” said the host, returning to peer anxiously at Charity. “And no wonder! Be blowed if ever I heard of such wickedness. How far you got to go, might I henquire?”

  “Brighton,” Mitchell answered succinctly.

  “What? By Wednesday?” The round face was dubious. “Best report it to the law, sir. Two days ain’t much time. Not with your lady alongside—”

  Redmond reached out. “Help me up, there’s a good fellow.”

  The host obliged. Charity scrambled to her feet, clinging anxiously to Redmond’s other hand. His eyes closed briefly, but then he recovered himself.

  “Oh, you are so tired! You must rest!” she cried.

  “Rest … and lose my fortune?” Incredibly a whimsical grin was slanted at her. “I’ve not much reliance on your law, host,” he went on. “Rather, saddle us your two best horses and we’ll be off.”

  The man shrugged. “Like as not, you’re right. Precious little law we got.” His voice rose in a sudden raucous howl that made Charity jump. “Wal-ter!”

  Redmond said fondly, “Can you gather our things, m’dear?”

  Her heart leaping, Charity hastened to do his bidding as an ostler hurried in and was instructed to saddle up Mr. Pitt and Short-and-Sweet.

  “We named the bay arter Mr. Pitt, ’cause he’s all fire and brimstone,” explained Mr. Miller, helping Redmond to where he might lean against a feed bin. “Short-and-Sweet will do nicely for your lady. Was you intending to rent ’em sir? I’ve a friend down to Stoke-on-Trent as will return ’em do you wish to pay the fees. Then you could rent another pair from him.”

  Redmond completed the negotiations, then asked, “Where did you put our rogues?”

  “In the smokehouse, sir. Quite safe they’ll be there till morning, never you fear. Here, let me help you, though I’m thinking ’twould go kinder on you was you to take my best room ’stead of riding in your condition.”

  He boosted Redmond into the saddle, then helped Charity mount the black mare. Patting the animal, he said, “Be gentle with her mouth, if you will, ma’am. A rare little creature she be.”

  Charity nodded, promised to take care of his horse, added her fervent thanks to Redmond’s, and followed her husband into the rainy afternoon.

  For a little while Redmond walked the horses along the wet lane. Then he drew closer to Charity. She asked anxiously how he felt. “Oh, I shall do nicely, thank you. The thing is”—he hesitated, regarding her with grim intensity—“we’ve to make a dash for it now. There will be others, you see. And they know where we are. Charity … I wish you will stay here. I could find you a—”

  “No. I must keep with you.”

  He smiled faintly. “My faithful wife. I shall manage, I swear. I’ll not fail this time.”

  She knew he was thinking of Sanguinet and that hideous interrogation in the war room at Tor Keep. She said calmly, “I am quite sure you will not. But I must stay with you for as long as I can without being a hindrance.”

  “Hindrance!” He reached over to clasp the hand she at once stretched out to him. “Lord! The way you swung that club! What a fighter you are, my mouse!”

  Her eyes glowed with joy. “And you,” she said warmly. “How you managed to fight off all three, I shall never know. I am very sure no other man could have done it.”

  Incredulity touched him. After a wondering moment, he said, “Come then, Madame Mulot. We’ll do our damnedest.” He paused, then added, “Together.”

  Charity nodded, smiling resolutely into his grave eyes.

  Already they were out of the village. Redmond urged his big bay to a canter. The black mare at once kept pace. They rode on along muddy lanes, the rain becoming heavier, driving into their faces, the horses sending up sprays of cold water as they splashed through puddles. A grey mist hung over the fields, and the afternoon settled into a sullen wetness. Charity began to be very cold. She scarcely noticed it. Had she been given the choice, she would have been nowhere else in the world.

  Chapter 17

  “Take it off!” Redmond’s voice was a snarl.

  Her teeth chattering, Charity said, “Very w
-well. B-but turn your naughty back, sir!”

  Water trickling down the sodden locks of hair that plastered against his forehead, Redmond scowled, but did as he was asked, fixing his gaze sternly on the deplorable green chickens of the wallpaper in the grubby bedchamber of this deplorable hedge tavern. After a moment, a wet habit was thrust at him. He took the garments and eyed them, his heart contracting. So small. So cold and soaked. A hand was on his arm. He looked up. Her great eyes were scanning him worriedly. His gaze flickered down the chemise that clung revealingly to her thin shape, and a great ache of longing surged through him.

  He strode to whip a blanket from the bed and wrap it about her, then carried her to a chair by the fire. “Sit there!” he said raspingly.

  Charity watched as he draped her habit over two wooden chairs to dry. Steam curled up almost at once. She began to feel a little less freezing, but, oh, how she ached. And she had blisters, dreadful raw blisters, where no one should have such fiendish annoyances. Starting to nod, she forced her eyes open. Redmond had taken off his coat and set it on a third chair beside her garments. His jacket was just as sodden.

  As gruffly as possible, she said, “Take it off!”

  His tired eyes flashed to her, and at once a grin lit them. “Hot-blooded wench,” he said. But he took off his jacket revealing a shirt that clung wetly against his lean body.

  Charity said a sympathetic, “Oh, my poor dear. You are soaked through!”

  His smile died. A look of yearning tenderness crept into his eyes. He came to her as if irresistibly drawn. And the weariness, the ache, the hopelessness of striving against impossible odds, were as nothing. Charity saw only his ardent gaze, the sensitive face, the tall lean manliness of him. She tore the blanket away and stood as he advanced on her, and her arms went out.

  She was clasped in a strong but contained hold. His head bowed, his mouth seeking hers. And she lifted her face, yielding her lips with a willingness, an eagerness, that some distant part of her mind marvelled at. After a dizzying eternity of heaven, Mitchell left her mouth and began to plant a trail of kisses down her cheek, down her throat, lower yet, until she gasped to the thrill of his lips upon the curve of her slight breast.