“I am leaving, Mr. Goodfield!” She strained not to shout. “Good day to you!”
Her father was pacing nervously about the entry hall when she stormed out, and a brief argument ensued when he tried to urge her back to the drawing room.
“I’ll have none of yer damned impertinence! I’ll decide when we’ll be leaving!” he snarled as he jabbed his thumb against his chest. “An’ it won’t be ’til we’ve settled on this matter o’ marriage.”
Erienne’s face was a stiff mask as she fought the anger that churned within her. Slowly but emphatically she answered her parent. “The matter is already settled!” She took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm the raging tides that swept through her being. “The only way you can keep me here is to bind me hand and foot, then you’d best find a way to silence me, for I’ll scream enough insults at that filthy old man that he’ll throw us both out. I have had enough of that lecher’s pawing hands.” She threw open her cloak and displayed her torn gown. “See what he’s done! My best gown, and he’s ruined it.”
“He’ll buy ye ten more!” Avery cried in desperation. He couldn’t allow her to go, not with his freedom at stake. What did a torn gown matter when the man wanted to marry her? The little twit was just being difficult. “If ye leave this house, I warn ye ’twill be by foot. Mr. Goodfield was kind enough to see us here in his carriage, and we’ve no other way to return.”
Erienne held her chin high as she stalked toward the door. “Perhaps you are not yet ready to leave, Father, but I am.”
“Where are ye going?” Avery demanded.
“As I said,” she flung over her shoulder, “I’m leaving!”
Avery was in a quandary. He hadn’t thought she would go off without him, not in a strange place. The suspicion grew in his mind that she was only testing him and really had no intention of leaving on her own. He gave a derisive snort. He would show her that he was a man of his word. “Ye’ll see yerself back to the inn without me, girl. I’ll be stayin’ with Mr. Goodfield…”
The door slammed in his face, leaving him sputtering in astonishment. He started to charge after her, intending to drag her back, but Smedley’s cane thumped imperiously in the drawing room, demanding attention. Worriedly Avery hurried toward the sound as he sought to find some excuse that would explain his daughter’s actions and soothe the merchant’s outraged vanity. Never had Avery’s thoughts churned so frantically in so short a time.
Erienne stalked down the path that led away from the merchant’s mansion. Her mind was in a turmoil, and her whole body was rigid with the anger she felt. It was enough that she was forced to bear the attentions of a seemingly endless procession of overly eligible men from every corner of England. It was enough that the only qualifications her father recognized in the suitors was the size of their purses and their readiness to defray his debts. It was enough that her own father had to use her as a tool to placate the creditors who had become anxious about their money. But now! Being commanded to please a doddering ancient lest he become offended…It was just too much!
Her skin crawled as she remembered the pawing hands of the many eager candidates, and their oh-so-endless ploys: the accidental brush of her bosom, the stealthy caress of her thigh beneath a table, the bold press of heated loins against her derrière, and the simpering leers that knowingly answered her questioning glares of anger.
Halting, she stood with clenched fists and grinding teeth. She knew all too well what the evening would bring if she returned to the Lion’s Paw. Her father would come mewling in with Smedley Goodfield at his side, and he would press her to reach some compatible arrangement with the merchant. Of course, Smedley would sit fidgeting at her side, seizing every opportunity to lean against her, to caress her hip, or to bend close with his crooked, gap-toothed grin and whisper some lewd or vulgar comment or story in her ear, then cackle in glee when she reacted in horror, or if she didn’t, to take her calmness as encouragement for more.
A spasm of pure disgust wrenched through her and caught her stomach into a tight knot. She was aware that her father feared debtors’ prison, and it was the last place she wanted him to go. But she also had come to the realization that she could not bear to debase herself in the manner he proposed.
Erienne’s panic was born small but rapidly grew as she thought of the aged merchant waiting at the inn with his nervous, ingratiating smile. She saw again the narrow face, the red-rimmed eyes that moved quickly like a rat’s, the bone-thin, clawlike hand that had ripped her gown in his fevered haste…
A stone obelisk carved with an arrow pointing north to Mawbry caught her eye, and an idea began to flit through her mind. Wirkinton and the Lion’s Paw lay to the south only a few miles away. The path to Mawbry presented a longer walk, a journey that would take the rest of the day and some of the night to complete. The wind was brisk and the air was growing increasingly chilly, but she wore her warmest cloak, and there was naught at the inn that she needed. Indeed, anything there would only be a burden, and if she returned, she’d only be tender bait for the likes of Smedley Goodfield.
Erienne made her decision, and her desire to reach Mawbry before midnight gave impetus to her haste. Her slippers were ill suited to the pebble-strewn lane, and she had to stop often to remove the invading stones. Still, an hour on the road saw her fairly well along, and she felt no regret at having avoided another meeting with Smedley. It was only when clouds began to darken and churn close overhead that the first twinge of doubt pricked her. An occasional droplet of rain struck her face, and with the pressure of the ever-building wind, her cloak wrapped about her legs and seemed determined to impede her progress.
Stubbornly Erienne labored up another hill but paused at its brow when she saw a pair of roads joining together and each stretching out endlessly before her, one trailing off in one direction, the other lane winding off in another. Nothing was familiar, and the worry that she might take the wrong road greatly undermined her confidence. The lowering clouds were becoming a tumbling, indistinct mass, snuffing out the sunlight and lending no hint of the direction she should take.
The wind whipped the hilltop with an ever-deepening chill that made her shiver, but its icy breath gave her a small measure of assurance that it came from the north. Clenching her gloveless fingers against its frosty nip, she set her jaw in grim determination and struck out again on what she dearly hoped was a northerly trek.
“Marriage!” she scoffed beneath her breath. She was beginning to detest the word.
She bent to pick another pebble from her shoe, but when she glanced casually over her shoulder, she stopped and slowly began to straighten. Paused on the hill behind her, silhouetted like some evil wizard against the black, turbulent vapors that seethed behind him, a man sat astride a dark horse. The wind whipped his cloak out wide about him, lending wings to his form, and staring at him, Erienne knew a sudden, bone-chilling fear. She had heard innumerable tales of murder and ravishment done along the roads and byways of North England, of highwaymen stripping their victims of valuables, virtue, or life, and she was sure this man posed a threat to her.
She began to back away, and the rider urged his steed forward. Fighting the bit, the animal pranced sideways for a moment, giving her a good view of the pair. Erienne caught her breath, and her trepidations rapidly vanished as she recognized that magnificent, glistening stallion and the man sitting astride him.
Christopher Seton! The very name scalded her being with hot indignation. She felt an urge to scream in utter rage. Of all the people who could have come over that hill, why did it have to be him?
Her attempt to scramble from the road made him kick his horse. The stallion was long-legged and quickly closed the distance between them, flinging up clods of dirt as he followed her into the soft, rock-strewn turf beside the road. Grinding her teeth in frustration, Erienne dodged the pursuit, lifting her skirts well above her knees as she darted in the opposite direction. Christopher was not to be outdone, for he flung himself from the stalli
on, and in two long strides was upon her, swooping her up in his arms.
“Put me down, you pompous oaf! Put me down!” Erienne kicked her legs and pushed at the broad chest in a frenzied effort to gain her release.
“Be still, little minx, and listen!” he demanded, his voice sounding harsh and angry in her ear. “Do you not understand what could happen to you on this road? The bands of thieves and miscreants who roam this countryside would see you as a most tempting morsel. You’d be sport for them for a night or two…if you lasted that long. Did you give a thought to that?”
Coldly rejecting the logic of his warning, Erienne jerked her face aside. “I insist you put me down, sir.”
“Only when you’re willing to listen to reason.”
Mutinously she glared up at him. “How did you know where I was?”
The green eyes sparkled with unbridled humor. “Your father and that twisted excuse for a man with him came back to the inn looking for you. The mayor raised quite a furor when he couldn’t find you.” Christopher laughed shortly. “After seeing Smedley, I decided you would run off before facing him again, and I was right. You left a clear set of tracks in your haste to flee.”
“You’re conceited, Mr. Seton, if you think I welcome your protection, or your company.”
“You needn’t be so formal, Erienne,” he teased with a devilishly wicked grin. “You may call me Christopher, or my dear, or my love, or any endearment of your choice.”
Erienne’s eyes struck sparks of fiery indignation. “My desire,” she said flatly, “is to be put to the ground immediately.”
“As you wish, milady.” Christopher withdrew his arm from beneath her knees, letting her limbs slide against him until her toes barely touched the moss-covered slope. The full shock of his firm, hard body went through Erienne with the effect of a searing bolt of lightning. Almost as quickly, a vision was conjured up, one bathed by the pinkish rays of the dawning sun with a lone figure of a naked man silhouetted against its light.
“Unhand me!” she commanded, trying to hide her burning cheeks with rage. No proper lady would allow such a vision to take root and flourish in her mind. “I am quite capable of standing on my own feet.”
Placing his hands about her slender waist, Christopher lifted her onto a boulder that formed a small, flat plateau beside the road. “Stay here,” he enjoined, “until I return with my horse.”
“I’m not a child you can order about,” she protested. “I’m a grown woman!”
He cocked a handsome brow as he gave her a lengthy inspection. Even through the cloak, his eyes seemed to burn her. “Now, that’s the first real truth I’ve heard you say.”
Erienne blushed profusely and pulled the garment tighter about her. “Has anyone ever told you how detestable you are?”
His white teeth gleamed behind a lopsided grin. “Thus far, my dear, every member of your family.”
“Then why don’t you leave us alone?” she snapped.
Laughing, he stepped away to fetch his mount and commented over his shoulder as he gathered the reins. “The way things are going, Erienne, I’m beginning to think your father will never get you married off.” He led the stallion back to her. “I just would like some assurance that I’m not going to lose out completely on my investment.”
“Do you honestly think you have some claim to me?” she jeered. “Some right to annoy and bore me with your presence?”
His shoulders moved in a careless shrug. “As much as your other suitors do. Indeed, with the two thousand pounds your father owes me, perhaps more. I wonder which of your gallant beaux will want to part with such a sum.” His laughter mocked her. “You might as well be put on the block and let them bid for you. ’Twould save your father considerable time and effort in his attempt to find you a generous husband.”
Erienne opened her mouth to voice her objection to such a suggestion, but she was abruptly silenced when he swept her up and placed her onto the back of his horse. Swinging up behind her, he gave her no choice but to accept his company.
“This is outrageous, Mr. Seton!” she stormed. “Put me down!”
“If you’re not aware of it, my sweet, we’re about to get soaked.” Even as he spoke, raindrops began to pelt them. “Since I can’t leave you here alone, you’ll have to come with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!” she cried.
“Well, I’m not going to sit here in the rain and argue with you.” He kicked the stallion, squelching her protest as the animal leapt forward into a full gallop. She was flung back hard against the stalwart chest, and for safety’s sake, she had to submit to the arm he laid about her. Though she would have openly denied it, she was grateful for its security and for the nestling seat his thighs provided her.
Whipped by the wind, the rain rapidly soaked through her cloak and ran in cold runnels down the front of her torn bodice. Erienne squinted upward toward the frenzied sky, but the large, splashing droplets forced her to turn her face away and seek shelter against his chest. Looking down at her, Christopher pulled his cloak about her to provide more protection, but in the next moments it seemed that a whole torrent of water was unleashed upon them. Icy sheets slashed down upon them, wetting their garments until they became dead weights that hindered movement. The wind and frigid rain were relentless, assaulting them from every angle.
Through the heavy downpour the vague shape of a structure became visible in the distance. Urging the steed off the road, Christopher rode through the trees toward it. The barren limbs provided no protection from the storm but snatched at them, snaring their clothing as if seeking to prevent their passage.
As they neared, the building became recognizable as an old, abandoned stable. A tumbledown cottage stood beside it, but without a roof it left serious doubt that any but the smallest creatures would find shelter within its crumbling walls. The doors of the stable gaped wide, though one hung askew on a lone stiff, rusty hinge. Leafless vines entangled the edifice, and a decaying log lay on the ground across the entrance. Despite its dilapidated state, the barn offered considerably more protection than the cottage.
Christopher dismounted in front of the doors and reached up to lift Erienne from her place. The wind billowed beneath her wet cloak, sending a piercing chill through her as its frigid breath touched her soaked gown. She shivered uncontrollably as Christopher carried her across the log and into the dark interior. He set her to her feet, then peered about into the shadows.
“Not as cozy as the Lion’s Paw, but at least it will give us some shelter from the storm,” he stated. Discarding his sodden cloak, he glanced down at her and arched a dubious brow. “You look like a drowned rabbit.”
Erienne’s trembling chin raised to a lofty level as she eyed him coolly. A violent shuddering made it difficult to retort with effective rancor, but she tried. “I s-suppose you t-think Claudia would look b-better at a t-time like this.”
Christopher laughed at a mental vision of Claudia trying to look elegant in a wide hat that flopped dripping wet about her ears. “You needn’t be jealous of her,” he responded glibly. “ ’Twas you I followed to Wirkinton.”
“Aha! S-so you d-do admit it.”
“Of course.”
Erienne stared at him blankly, finding her argument suddenly deflated by his acknowledgment.
Christopher chuckled and went back to lead the stallion through the doorway. Erienne huddled in her dripping clothes as he untied a covered roll behind the saddle. Producing his redingote, he tossed it to her and turned back to strip the saddle from the back of the steed, advising over his shoulder, “You’d better put that on before you take a chill.”
She gripped her own water-weighted cloak about her and turned her face away, not wishing to shred her pride by removing the outer garment and revealing her torn gown. “Keep your gallant offering for yourself, Mr. Seton. I have no use for it.”
Christopher arched a brow as he peered at her over his shoulder. “Are you trying to convince me how foolish yo
u are?”
“Foolish or n-not, I won’t wear it.”
“You’ll wear it,” he stated flatly, giving her cause to wonder if he threatened her. Doffing his own sodden coat and vest, he flung the garments over the boards of a stall. “I’ll try to make a fire so we can get dried out a bit.”
He prowled about the stable, contemplating the several large holes in the roof. Without a doubt he had his choice of chimneys and a good supply of kindling; it would just be a matter of getting the fire started. Toward that end the tinderbox he carried with him would suffice.
Erienne’s shaking limbs gave way beneath her, and she slowly crumpled to her knees. She was aware of Christopher moving about the stables gathering and breaking wood from the stalls, but the idea of a warming fire seemed so distant. She sat in abject misery with her hair hanging in wet strands down her back. Her cheeks and hands were numb and icy, her nose red and cold. Even her shoes were soaked.
A Rose in Winter Page 10