“Get away from me, you lout!” She swung the mare around until the reins were well out of Timmy’s reach, then glared at him over the steed’s neck. “Poachers and their mongrels are not welcome on these lands. Get off!”
Timmy sucked his lacerated hand as his eyes bore into her. “For a wench ’oo was sold on the block, ye’ve gotten high-minded since ye married his lordship.”
“Whatever my circumstances have been, Timothy Sears,” she retorted, “it has always been well above your kind. ’Tis your wont to trod ruthlessly over people, and you have trespassed on my husband’s lands far too often.”
“ ’Twill be more’n his lands I’ll be havin’ me fun on this time, yer ladyship.”
Tiny shards of fear pricked Erienne’s spine while a coldness congealed in the pit of her stomach. She had heard enough tales about Timmy Sears to know that he could be a dangerous, unruly scamp. Driven by self-preservation, she spun the mare around. Timmy was prepared for her attempt. He kicked his mount forward and was beside her before she could flee. He seized the bridle, preventing her escape, but the quirt was still in Erienne’s hand, and she used it with vicious intent, bringing it down across his arm and slashing his face.
Howling a curse, Timmy swung his arm back in violent reaction, landing a blow across her shoulders. The breath was nearly driven from Erienne, but she fought to stay in the saddle as the mare danced away. Timmy reached out to grab her, tearing her sleeve at the shoulder as he tried to pull her from the saddle. Erienne struck out with the whip again, now more enraged than she was afraid. She was determined not to be bested by this boorish fellow. The quirt caught his cheek, and as she drew her arm back, she brought the whip down hard on the mare’s flanks, making her rear. Timmy was nearly torn from his saddle before the bridle was jerked from his hand. As his grip loosened, Erienne drove her heel into her mount’s side, sending her into a full-out run.
“Ye bitch!” he roared, charging after her. “I’ll see ’at ye pay!”
Suddenly a shot rang out, filling the air with a deafening crack. Startled, Erienne leaned low in the saddle, thinking that Timmy was firing at her. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw another horse and rider racing from the woods into the clearing, and she recognized Bundy. He was loading his musket as he came.
“Come on, ye bastard!” he shouted. “Come on, and let me fill yer hide with shot!”
Timmy Sears saw the man jerk the ramrod from the barrel and knew the weapon was almost ready to be fired again. He did not pause. Turning tail, he leaned low over the saddle and whipped his horse’s flanks with his hat in a frenzied effort to escape the shot that he knew would be forthcoming. Another loud crack pierced the air, and Timmy was relieved a second later when he heard the echoing boom. He cackled in glee as a loud curse was bellowed after him, but knowing that the man would be quickly reloading, he did not waste a moment throwing back a jeer. There’d be another time when he could spend his lust upon the wench, and he vowed he would make her pay dearly.
Erienne reined her mount about to observe Timmy Sears’ flight. The last she saw of him was his coattails flying out behind him as he passed over the top of a hill. She sagged in relief, taking air into her lungs in small gasps.
Bundy halted his horse beside hers and urgently questioned, “Are ye all right, mum? Did he harm ye?”
She had begun to shake in nervous reaction and could only nod.
“He’s an evil man, that Timmy Sears,” he stated, then glared off toward the hill over which the red-haired man had disappeared. Bundy let out his breath in a disappointed sigh. “His lordship wouldna missed.”
Erienne was unable to form a question with her trembling lips.
“ ’Tis a good thing the master and me came back when we did, mum.”
“Lord Saxton is back?” she finally managed.
“Aye, and when he found ye gone, he sent me lookin’ fer ye. He won’t like it when I tell him what happened. He won’t like it at all.”
Chapter Eleven
THE high, bright moon cast a silver halo around the ebony clouds and sent a fleeting, whimsical, ever-changing array of shadow and light across the hills. A seaborne breeze wafted over the land, rustling treetops and swooping with an airy rush over the moors. A few meager cottages huddled here and yonder, fading to blots of darkness as lamps were snuffed and shutters were barred for the night. There was a sleepy stillness beneath the sighing wind, a quiet assurance that all was well. None heard the thundering hooves of the fierce black stallion or saw the ominously cloaked and hooded rider who guided the steed on its breakneck race. The animal sped along, matching the wind over the narrow road that trailed through the valley. His hooves flashed like quicksilver in a brief spot of light, and his coat glistened as the muscles beneath it rolled and heaved. Flared nostrils and blazing eyes gave him the look of some dragon beast closing in for the kill, and the silent figure on his back added to the illusion that this foray was a hunt to the death. The flying cloak gave wings to the image, yet bound to the earth they were, and ever onward did they ride, never slacking the pace, never slowing for the sake of man or beast.
Some distance away, the oversized mistress of a small cottage stumbled from her sagging bed, unable to sleep beside her loudly snoring husband. She tossed a few clumps of dried peat onto the fire and stood back to watch the progress of the flames. Disturbed by the anxiety that filled her, she shivered and glanced about. There was a coldness within her stout belly, a churning of apprehension that something dreadful was about to befall them. She crossed the dirt floor, her slippers flapping loosely at her heels, and poured herself a draught of strong ale, then returned to the hearth to settle her bulk beside a rough-hewn table, laying a flabby arm upon the planks as she sipped the brew and stared into the golden flames.
Half the contents remained in the mug when she canted her head to listen, confused by the low, distant rumble. Was it thunder she heard? Or just the wind?
She lifted the mug to drink again but paused, this time to concentrate intently on the sound. It was growing louder and more consistent…and regular…like the drum of a horse’s hooves.
The tankard was slammed down, and as fast as her generous frame could move, she ran to the window to throw open the shutters. A small, trembling cry came from her throat as she saw the black apparition skimming along the shadows of the trees. The cloak flapped out behind him, and horse and rider appeared to swoop down upon the cottage. Her mind was frozen with fear, and she gaped in slack-jawed awe as the horse was reined to an abrupt halt before their door. The black reared in a terrible display of temper, pawing the air with flashing hooves as he shattered the stillness of the night with an angry whinny.
The woman sobbed and stumbled back from the window, her hand clutched to her throat, her face a mask of terror. The deep hood of the cloak hid the face of the rider, but she was sure she had seen a grinning skull and that this was the angel of death come to take them.
“Timmy! He’s back! Timmy, wake up!” she blubbered. “Oh, Timmy love! I never doubted ye fer a moment.”
Timmy Sears struggled up from the pillow, blinking his bleary eyes until he found his wife. The look of horror on her face brought him to full awareness. Grabbing his breeches, he stuffed his legs and the tail of his nightshirt into them before scrambling to the window to see what had given her such a fright. His heart jumped as he viewed the object of her fear.
“Timmy Sears!” The eerie voice sent cold shivers down the man’s spine. “Come forth and die! Ye’re a murderer, and hell waits for you!”
“That’s what I saw!” Timmy cried. “But what is it?”
“Death!” his wife replied with conviction. “He’s come after us!”
“Bolt the shutters! We can’t let him in!”
“Timmy Sears,” the droning voice called. “Come forth and die!”
“I ain’t comin’!” Timmy bellowed and slammed the shutters closed.
An horrendous laugh tore through the night. “Then stay and bu
rn! Stay and burn, ye devil!”
“He means ter set a torch ter us!” Timmy’s voice hit a high pitch.
“He wants ye! Not me!” his wife screamed. She threw open the door, and before her husband could stop her, she fled the dwelling, shouting back over her shoulder, “I ain’t burnin’ fer no murderer!”
Timmy seized an ax and bolted through the door, considering the torment of fire far worse than a quick slaying. He had seen a man die in flames once, and though it had amused him at the time, he would just as soon avoid that same end. But then, death had to catch him first, and he had always been rather handy in a fight.
“Stand yer ground, ye blackhearted whoreson!” he roared. “I ain’t dyin’ easy!”
Booming laughter rang through the valley. “Timmy Sears! For murder I’ve come to avenge! Ye’ve killed more than once, and ’tis only fair that yer dyin’ be slow.”
A sword sang from its scabbard and whipped the air, flashing with a cold glint of steel beneath the moonlight, then death dismounted with the easy grace of a nightborne shade.
“What be ye after?” Timmy demanded in a squeaky croak. “I’ve done naught ter ye!”
“Aye, but ye have, Timmy. Ye’ve killed and laid the finest low, and ye shall pay yer due.”
“Who are ye? Who are ye?”
“Remember the torch ye laid to the manor, Timmy? Remember the man ye saw burned?”
“Ye’re not him!” Timmy shook his head in terrified disbelief. “He’s dead! He’s dead, I tell ye! I saw him die meself! Burned he was! Screamin’ as he fell into the flames. There were others who saw him, too!”
“And who were they, Timmy, that ye can say they saw me, too? Am I not here standin’ before ye and claimin’ that ye were the man who did the deed?”
“Only a ghost could’ve escaped those flames.”
“Now ye know, Timmy. Now ye know.”
“Good Lord, ye are him! Ye even sound like him!”
“I’ve come to take ye, Timmy, down into hell with me.”
“Ye’ve no right ter single me out! I can name ye a full dozen and more who were there!”
“Aye, and I’ll be hearin’ from ye now while I sharpen my sword on yer ax.”
Timmy cringed and sobbed as the blade flicked all around him, nicking him here and there, and he could not meet or halt it with the clumsy ax.
“Tell me now, Timmy, before it’s too late. Ye’ve not much time here on earth.”
Death was all around him in a swirling black cloak, filling the night with laughter, and though the air was chilled, Timmy could already feel the tongues of branding fire that would scorch him in hell. He fell to his knees and began to blubber, pleading for his life and saying things he had never dared recall before.
The fragrance of roses pervaded the chamber as steam from the scented bath drifted up and dissipated in the air. The water was warm and soothing to Erienne’s sore muscles, and she relaxed in the tub, leaning her head back against the rim as she dribbled droplets from a sponge across her shoulders, those same that Timmy Sears had bruised only the day before. Her mind drifted back to that moment when she had entered the manor and found her husband waiting anxiously before the hearth. On hearing her approach, he had faced about to greet her with her name on his lips, but the syllables had died as he took in her torn habit. Bundy had been a step or two behind her, and it was the servant who had answered while Erienne watched the gloved hands tighten into taut fists. Lord Saxton had muttered a low, savage curse, vowing that Timmy Sears would be dealt with, and when he turned to her again, she had braced herself to hear all manner of chiding accusations. Amazingly none came. Instead, he had shown a gentle concern for her welfare and bade her take a chair while he poured a dainty draught of brandy. As she sipped the calming brew, he had hovered close, speaking in muted tones of inconsequential matters until she began to relax. Later he had come to her chambers as she was preparing for bed, but his visit was brief, and he had left with a casual promise to return in the morning.
The chamber door opened, causing Erienne considerable consternation until she recognized the quick, energetic footsteps of Tessie, then Erienne relaxed, thankful that the hour of his visit was not at hand. The footfalls were muffled as the girl came across the rug that had been recently placed in the room, and the arras swayed as she entered the small bathing chamber. A light bundle of clean, fresh-scented towels was carried in over her arm, and she placed them beside the tub before setting out a light perfumed oil in preparation for the grooming.
Erienne yielded to Tessie’s penchant for methodical orderliness and rose from the bath. The maid was there immediately to pat her skin dry, using several of the linen cloths and tossing them away as they became slightly damp. Tessie began to lightly massage the attar into her back, and Erienne lifted her arms to secure her fallen tresses lest they become saturated with the oil. Her pale body, still rosy from the brisk toweling, gleamed with a soft luster in the morning light. The perfection of the slender limbs and full, ripe bosom was not lost on the one who watched.
Suddenly Tessie gasped, and Erienne looked around to see what had startled the girl and found the dark form of her husband filling the opening provided by the velvet hangings. His unheralded entry never failed to unnerve her, and her heart began a quick, solid thumping.
“Good morning, my love.” A subtle hint of humor was evident in the rasping whisper.
Erienne gave an indistinct nod as she cast a surreptitious glance about for covering. The towels lay in a discarded heap near his feet on the floor, and her robe had been left on the bench in front of her dressing table, well out of her immediate grasp.
Casually Lord Saxton entered, crossing to that same bench and lowered his weight to the cushion, entrapping the garment beneath his hip. Erienne quickly gave up the idea of retrieving it and attempted to appear unaffected as Tessie sought equally as hard to continue with her task. An increasing nervousness overtook the girl when the featureless mask turned directly to face her. The master’s awesome presence contrasted sharply with the stark nakedness of his mistress, and it proved too much for the young maid to bear. Murmuring a flustered, indistinct excuse, she hurried from the room.
Soft laughter echoed from the mask as the door slammed, and then the overwhelming gaze came to rest on Erienne. Her modesty chafed beneath the bold spur of his unrelenting regard. A deepening scarlet crept downward to the delicate pink of her breasts, yet her attempt to cover herself with her arms was met with another chuckle.
“Actually, my love, until you blushed, I was watching your face.”
Not really knowing what to do with her hands, Erienne stared at him, fighting a deepening embarrassment. It was impossible to see behind the mask, but the heat of his gaze burned her to the core.
“Not that I would ignore everything else you seek to hide.” Amusement softened the harsh edge of his voice. “Indeed, madam, were you to crook your finger in the slightest of welcome signs, I would in avid lust bear you to the bed and fulfill the requirements of a husband.”
“Milord, you…you jest with me,” she stammered, clasping her hands together lest he take some minor gesture for a sign.
“Would you test me?” He half rose from the bench. “A simple yes will do.” He waited until Erienne forgot her modesty and spread both hands in front of her as if to ward him off.
“Milord, I…” The words of denial caught in her throat.
“I thought not.” Sweeping her robe aside, he sank to the seat again and tossed the garment to her.
Clutching it close in grateful relief, Erienne looked at him hesitantly, feeling as if she had just betrayed a friend. “My lord,” she murmured softly, seeking to assuage her own guilt, “I rest myself on your patience and understanding.”
“Madam, have you considered that a thing dreaded is better done and put behind you?”
She managed a meager nod. “I know that, milord, but…”
He swept a hand to dismiss her statement. “I know! ’Tis hard for
you to face that moment.” He braced an elbow on his knee and leaned forward, and Erienne caught the hard, gleaming light behind the eyeholes as he regarded her. “Are you sure you can ever face that moment, madam?”
“I…I will…”
“If you had been able to choose,” he interrupted, “can you name me a man whom you might have wished to marry? If there is such a one, then perhaps I could go to him…”
“There is no one, milord,” she murmured, forcing the image of Christopher Seton from mind. She was certain that what she felt for him was only a passing fascination, and in a short time she would forget he ever existed. At least she hoped she would.
“Very well, madam.” He straightened as he continued. “I did in fact come here on another matter. I have business in London with the Marquess Leicester, and I have made arrangements to take you with me.”
“The Marquess Leicester?”
A Rose in Winter Page 26