Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  She responded to that challenge, of course, and with Ellie's assistance changed into her habit and in a very short time took up her fur-lined pelisse and gloves and hurried to the stairs. Halfway down she paused as a roar of rage sounded from the music room. To her astonishment, a very large and ugly dog, somewhere between a bloodhound and a wolf, shot into the hall, sent rugs flying as it scrabbled wildly on the polished floors, and floundered with total ungainliness into the dining room. Hawkhurst, face flushed, raced into view. "Where in the devil did that miserable brute go?" he snarled.

  "Brute… ?" echoed Euphemia innocently, pulling on one of her gloves.

  "The Gains mongrel!" He marched to the library and flung the door wide. "I'll have its ears, by God!"

  "It must be very well trained."

  He darted a black scowl at her.

  "To be able to unlatch a closed door," she smiled.

  "That worthless flea-carrier, madam," he observed acidly, "has, for some ridiculous reason, a predilection for lumbering five miles across my preserves and creating havoc wherever it lays its clumsy feet. It tears down young trees, uproots plants and shrubs, jumps into the ornamental water and devours all the confounded goldfish! And having performed these acts of vandalism, it adds insult to injury by trailing its mud, slime, and vermin across my rugs! I warned Gains! And by heaven, I shall—"

  A loud crash sounded from the dining room. With a triumphant cry, he sprinted across the hall. Her heart in her mouth, Euphemia followed. A shout, a thud, and she jumped aside in the nick of time as The Flea-Carrier, tongue lolling, ears back, tail high, panted past and gamboled disastrously towards the kitchen. A muffled groan made Euphemia's nerves jump. She hurried into the dining room. Hawkhurst lay sprawled on his back on the floor. With a little gasp of fear, she sped to kneel beside him. He looked dazed and oddly youthful and tried to raise his head, but it fell back, and he gasped out, "Damnable… brute. Ran between my… legs."

  "Are you hurt?" she asked, battling the urge to laugh.

  " 'How…' " he quoted faintly, " 'are the mighty… fallen… in the midst of—' "

  It was too much. She broke into a peal of laughter. Lying there, the breath knocked out of him, Hawkhurst wheezed along with her. He came to one elbow, grinning up into her merry face, until he saw beyond her a small crowd of servants with an awed disbelief on every countenance. "Are you all blind as well as deaf?" he demanded, well knowing what had brought about those amazed expressions. "That blasted hound of the Gains has been at its depredations again! Get it the devil off our grounds!"

  The doorway cleared in a flash. Hawkhurst clambered to his feet and, taking Euphemia's elbow, assisted her to rise. Her eyes slipped past him. The exquisite Han Dynasty vase from the corner display cabinet lay in fragments on the floor. Following her horrified gaze, Hawkhurst groaned and muttered something under his breath. The oath was not quite inaudible, but she could scarcely blame him.

  "My goodness!" Euphemia patted the glossy neck of the big black horse admiringly. "He is magnificent! Wherever did you get him?"

  "Gift from a friend," said Hawkhurst. "He's called Sarabande, and you'd do well not to stroke him when Manners ain't holding his head. A bit inclined to be playful."

  "So I see." She stepped back as the black danced, his eyes rolling to her. "My, but he's full of spirit. How I should love to try him."

  "He's not broke to side saddle, ma'am. Nor ever likely to be, for I need no more lives on my conscience!" His eyes were grim suddenly. "Now, may I throw you up!"

  She rested her booted foot in his cupped hands, and he tossed her easily into the saddle, then mounted Sarabande and led the way from the yard at a sedate trot. Once in the open the black strained and fidgeted, fighting his iron hand. Hawkhurst's jaw set, and Euphemia smothered a smile and murmured, "My, how invigorating this is."

  He slanted a suspicious glance at her, saw the dimple beside her mouth, and chuckled. "If you will pardon me a moment, I'll take some of the edges off…"

  He was away, leaning forward in the saddle, the great horse stretching out in a thundering gallop. Euphemia looked after him appreciatively. He had a splendid seat. She suspected, however, that it would take more than a moment to cool the fire in that spirited animal, and it had been a long time since she'd enjoyed a gallop. She kinked her heels home, and the mare's ears pricked up eagerly.

  Thus it was that Garret Hawkhurst, setting Sarabande at a low wall which concealed the stream beyond it, landed neatly on the far side, allowed the black to gallop a short distance, and, swinging back, was in time to witness Miss Buchanan soar over wall and stream and canter towards him. "Oh, well done!" he exclaimed impulsively, but as she came up with him, frowned, "And very foolish!"

  "Yes," admitted Euphemia, flushed and breathless. "I'd no idea the stream was beyond. Fortunately the mare did. How is she called?"

  "Fiddle," he said rudely and, seeing her brows arch, explained mischievously, "Because after a while she tends to become diverted by such mundane items as grass and shrubs."

  She laughed and drew her hood a little closer. Heavy clouds were gathering, and together was the smell of snow in the air. She wondered suddenly if they would reach Meadow Abbey in time for Christmas—exactly two weeks away.

  'Too cold for you, ma'am?" asked Hawkhurst.

  "Not as cold as I would have been in your curricle, thank you, sir."

  "Oh, I'd have bundled you up. And I begin to think you'd have been safer."

  "Indeed?" she said indignantly. "I'll have you know that—" But she saw his lips twitch and finished in a milder tone. "I collect you would have driven at a snail's pace."

  "But, of course."

  "From what I have heard, Mr. Hawkhurst—"

  "I make no doubt of what you have heard!" His eyes pure ice now, he went on, "If you will turn about, ma'am—"

  "I shall not," she intervened coolly. "And, as I was about to say, I have heard you—ride, Mr. Hawkhurst. On the night you went for Dr. Archer, I was quite sure you would be borne home, slain."

  A slow flush darkened his cheeks as he met her level gaze. "My apologies. I thought you referred to another matter. However, I was three parts drunk that night and probably rode with very little of common sense."

  "And I suppose you will say you were three parts drunk when you came to our rescue." His gloved hand made a short gesture of dismissal, but she went on, "It is quite useless, dear sir. I have every intention to thank you for all you have done. And—"

  "Your brother has thanked me. It only half killed him, I gather. And now, if you will kindly turn about, Miss Buchanan…"

  He had spoken roughly. She sensed that he was trying to put her off-stride and, wondering why, protested, "But we only just came out!"

  Hawkhurst's movement was very fast. Before she had a chance to resist, he gripped the bridle, and her mare was turned. Unaccustomed to such high-handed methods, her eyes flashed fire.

  He shrugged. "You have been here nigh two weeks and not yet properly seen the exterior of my home."

  She looked up eagerly and was speechless. They had been riding steadily uphill and, from the elevation whereon they now sat their horses, were able to view Dominer, spread magnificently on its own hill below them. The red brick mansion, a uniform three storeys, was built in a wide semicircle, the north and south wings reaching backward, and the ground floor widening at the centre of the house, front and rear, to accommodate the full circle of the Great Hall. The white columns of a portico dignified this central curve, and the enormous double doors and all the wood trim were also white. The terrace was edged by a low balustrade, opening to steps that led up to the entrance. Extensive pleasure gardens were threaded by paved walks, dotted with benches and statuary, and shaded by tastefully placed trees and shrubs. The flowerbeds were bare now, the ornamental water, both front and rear, edged with ice, and the fountains not in operation, but Euphemia could picture it all in the springtime, and murmured softly, "I had heard how very lovely it was."

  H
e made no answer, and, glancing up, she found him watching her. She was seldom discomfited, but something about that piercing scrutiny set her pulse to fluttering. The frozen breath of the wind ruffled the fur that edged her hood, but her shiver was not for that chill touch.

  "Thank you," he said, slightly frowning.

  She was flustered and, attempting to conceal it, looked about her and remarked, "Oh, what a very pretty bridge that is! May we ride that way?"

  "We may not. The bridge is being rebuilt and is unsafe." He saw her brows lift a little at his gruff tone and went on, "Come now, it's too cold to sit here and since you enjoy a gallop…"

  He led the way at a spanking pace, up the hill and across a stretch of turf, avoiding the icy paths. The mare was taxed to the utmost, but Euphemia was sure Hawkhurst had held the big black in, and the stallion was scarcely blowing when he was reined back to a canter, and then to a walk.

  "You ride very well," Hawkhurst acknowledged. "Learned in Spain, did you? I heard you were right up with the best of 'em when they forded the rivers over there."

  She glanced at him in some surprise, wondering how much else he knew of her. "Yes. But you did not bring me out here to talk of Spain, did you?"

  He smiled rather sardonically at this direct approach and guided her down a slope, then followed the winding route of a stream. Sarabande snorted and sidled at the rustle of a patch of reeds and shied when a flock of fieldfares soared raucously upward a short distance away, but, ignoring these idiosyncrasies, Hawkhurst said mildly, "My sister has taken a great liking to you, ma'am."

  Euphemia, who had been admiring his superb horsemanship, thought, Aha! So that's it! and replied, "A liking I return, I do assure you. She is the dearest girl and has been of so much help with poor little Kent. Indeed, it seems that each time I turn around there is something else for which I must thank you."

  She had hoped that this would irritate him away from the subject, and sure enough one of his hands lifted in that autocratic gesture of impatience. "Nonsense. I am only sorry you had so terrifying an experience," his eyes turned to her thoughtfully, "while on my land."

  Euphemia answered his unspoken question at once. "We were trespassing, I know. Dominer is featured in my guidebook, you see, and, since we would pass through Down Buttery on our way to Bath, I begged my brother to let us detour just a little way so that we might actually see it."

  "I'll warrant you had to beg hard," he said cynically. "Buchanan's no admirer of architecture. Nor of me."

  "To the contrary. He told me Dominer was magnificent." A small frown came into her eyes. "And you must think him a sad case if you fancy him ungrateful for all you have done. The way you went down that cliff after the boy was—"

  "Damned foolish," he intervened curtly and, seeing her mouth opening, added a hurried, "Speaking of the boy, may I ask why he is called only Kent? Is he a foundling?"

  "Very much so. I found him in my sister's chimney." He directed a curious glance at her, and she recounted the sad story. By the time she finished, he looked very grim indeed. "Poor little devil," he muttered. "No wonder he's mute. Probably scared half to death. It happens to some of our men who are in the worst of the fighting, you know. I've a good friend, in fact, who may never be able to speak again."

  "You—you could not mean Lord Jeremy Bolster?"

  Hawkhurst had been staring rather blankly at his horse's ears, but the incredulity in her tone brought a glint of anger to his eyes, and he snapped, "Yes. But pray do not let the secret out—it would quite ruin the poor fellow! Now, as to my sister. I am told you intend to… er, make a beauty out of her."

  He was not pleased, that was very obvious. Making a recovery from her astonishment that he could number so fine a young man as Bolster among his friends, Euphemia began, "I merely hoped to—"

  "Gild the lily?" he sneered rudely. "Why? Not all men like painted, perfumed, and posturing females."

  Flabbergasted, she fought to remain outwardly calm, even while wondering how that arrogant face would look with claw marks down it. "Nor had I intended to make her into a replica of myself, sir," she riposted, with saintly humility.

  Briefly, he looked taken aback, but refusing to acknowledge that his deliberate insult had been flung back in his teeth, he compounded the felony. "I am glad to hear it. Stephanie is happy and has no need to cultivate a lot of foolish affectations to no purpose."

  For an instant Euphemia could scarce believe she had heard him aright. Then, she was fairly dizzied with rage. Never had she met such a crude barbarian! "Foolish affectations" indeed! She clung to the memory that he had saved their lives and was thus enabled not to betray the anger that she sensed would gratify him. Entering the lists with grace, but with her lance poised, she murmured, "Ah, but is she happy?"

  "The devil! Why would she not be?" He flung out one arm in an irked gesture that startled Sarabande into a sideways leap, a dance, two bucks, and a whirligig. Euphemia clapped her hands and laughed aloud. Hawkhurst rode it out in magnificent style, but was flushed and tight of lip when at last he reined the black to her side. Perhaps because he knew her mirth well-warranted, he snarled, "I collect country life would seem dull to someone who has jauntered about the world as you have done, ma'am. But I assure you my sister desires no such flibbertigibbet existence. She is a shy, quiet bookworm. You were charitable enough to describe her 'beautiful.' That, she ain't! She has far more important attributes—a heart of gold, and the disposition of an angel. If some bright young Buck could only see beyond the end of his nose, he'd grab her up fast!" Really furious now, Euphemia attempted to respond, but up went his hand again, and, looking down at her as from Mount Olympus, he decreed, "She would no more fit into that frippery round of empty-headed entertainments and empty-headed people in London Town, than—"

  "Stuff, sir!" she flashed, goaded beyond endurance. "Oh, you may scowl and droop your haughty eyes at me if you must! I shall have my say! Your sister, Mr. Hawkhurst, is a young and lovely girl. She should be happily shopping with friends for fashionable gowns and bonnets and ribands and reticules, and all the little pieces of prettiness you, I have no doubt, designate 'nonsense,' but that are dear to the heart of any lady! And had she the disposition of a saint and the face of a goddess, much good would it do her so long as she is cooped up here all year round! How may she meet her 'bright young Buck,' sir? I've seen few callers since we came. And none any gentleman would wish to introduce to a loved sister! Stephanie should be going to balls and routs and parties and 'frippery entertainments,' meeting other young people, and eligible young men!"

  "Well… she… shall… not!" he grated between his teeth.

  "Indeed? Then what is your intention for her, dare I ask? To keep her hidden away so as to share a lonely old age with you?"

  He froze, whitened, and reached out to seize her bridle, once more pulling the mare to a halt. His eyes glittering, he rasped, "You certainly speak your mind, Miss Buchanan!"

  The black minced and pranced, and suddenly their mounts were close together. Hawkhurst's scraped forehead was almost healed now, the bruises faded, but his sudden pallor accentuated them, reminding her of the accident. Perhaps it was the aftermath of her anger that was causing her to tremble in so odd a way, but she was shocked as much by the depth of that anger as by her unforgivable outburst. "Yes," she said meekly, "I am famous for my hasty tongue. I know that was unpardonable, but—forgive me, I beg you." His lips remained set in that tight, harsh line. She placed one hand on his arm and smiled up into those glinting eyes, and the rage faded from them. For one brief second she thought to see a very different expression, but then the lids drooped, and, drawing away, he started onward, saying coldly, "Very well, Madam All-Wise, what would you have me do?"

  "Allow me to… to show her how to dress her hair more becomingly," she said, still strangely shaken. "And perhaps, if there is time, she could come into Bath with me, and we could shop a little and find her—"

  "Oh, spare me!" Hawkhurst was riding slightly ahead now
, since the path had narrowed, and over his shoulder said a bored, "Never bother with an itemized list, ma'am! I'm all too well acquainted with the lures you ladies throw out to catch yourselves a husband."

  Euphemia usually found it downright child's play to wrap gentlemen around her little finger and certainly had never in all her days been blatantly insulted. He was unique! But he'd not get the best of her this easily. "I am very sure you are," she said sweetly. "In fact, dear sir, I pray you will enlighten me, for there is so much I've yet to learn."

  The path widening again, he waited for her to come up with him, his eyes searching her face narrowly. "From all I hear, you have rejected more offers than most of our acknowledged Toasts."

  Euphemia was convinced now that he sought to come to cuffs with her and that her well-meant interference with his sister had thoroughly enraged him. Her demure silence did not improve his mood appreciably, for he added a sneering, "What's the difficulty, ma'am? Has no mere man measured up to your expectations?"

  It would not, she thought, be quite polite to take off one's boot and cast it into a gentleman's teeth. She was very tempted to tell him that she hoped to snare one who had come "hosed and shod" into the world, but to do so would be to betray Stephanie's confidence, so instead she sighed, "Alas, that is true. The man of my heart did not offer for me."

  Hawkhurst was taken completely off his stride. Horrified, he sought frantically for something to say that would mitigate his savage attack. But she looked so very saintly that suspicion seized him, and, albeit uncertainly, he said, "And I suppose this paragon is some fashionable fribble, appropriately tall, dark, and handsome?"

  "Yes, he is." She heard a disgusted snort and, beginning to enjoy herself, appended outrageously, "And so dashing in his uniform!"

  "Oh? A Gentleman's Son, no doubt? How those military rattles dazzle the ladies in their scarlet!"

  "True. But my admired gentleman did not wear a scarlet coat."