To be sure, Erienne Saxton was as gracious a lady as any they had ever known. Mothers watched with pleased smiles as she touched this child and bent to kiss that one. She doled out bits of sweets to the gamins and often paused to coax the younger ones to come to her. The women were soon abuzz with how she actually held a wee babe in her arms and cradled it close against her. It was even told how the lord himself chuckled at the babe’s delight and held out a black-gloved finger for the lad to play with.
Fears softened as the day wore on, and there grew out of it a pleasant feeling of contentment. Even if this present lord had the appearance of being born in the fires of hell rather than merely having been tested by them, the tenants were settled on the fact that they were far better off for having him as their lord and his lady as the mistress of their lands.
For some at least, that idea was reaffirmed when the mayor of Mawbry decided to join his son for a visit to Saxton Hall. While the younger Fleming’s interest turned to a contest of skills with firearms, the elder displayed his relentless fascination with wagering. It took on many forms and aspects, from the hiding of a pebble beneath a thrice of cups, to a little game with cards. After all, it was only for a tuppence or two, and perhaps ’twas the best the tenants could afford, Avery reasoned, but come summer they could earn enough to make up for the loss. Still, he was careful to carry on his activities well out of eyesight of his host.
As the day wore on, the mayor became so completely engrossed with his purpose that he failed to notice his daughter eyeing him quizzically from nearby. He was surprised when he heard her calling him. Hastily gathering up his winnings and concealing them in his coat, he excused himself from the small collection of men and swaggered toward his daughter, as if the idea of cheating had never so much as entered his mind.
Erienne tilted her head as she looked at him curiously. “Father, I hope you have remembered that you’re a guest here and have not taken advantage of the fact that you are related…in some manner.”
Avery drew himself up and flapped his wings in the manner of an outraged rooster. “What do ye mean, girl? Do ye think I don’t know how to conduct meself at an outin’ such as this? Here I am with most o’ me life behind me, and ye tryin’ ter give me counsel at this late date. Why, I’ve been with dukes and earls and higher lords than the Saxton name has borne. Now ye’re worryin’ about me conduct with a few simple peasants. A pox on ye now!”
“A pox on you,” Erienne returned in an angry whisper, “if you’ve been cheating my husband’s people. If I hear one word about you working your shifty ways here today, I’ll see that you never bring your shadow on these lands again.”
Avery’s face took on a deep hue of vermilion. Leaning toward her, he spoke through gnashing teeth. “Why, ye little turntail snip. Ye’d rather take the word o’ some mindless folk and condemn yer own father without allowin’ him a word in his own defense. Just ’cause ye be wearin’ fancy skirts now and ye got yerself a high title, ye don’t need ter be actin’ so grand with me. I know where ye really come from.”
“One word! Remember it!” Erienne warned crisply. “I will not see you cheating these people.”
Avery’s eyes flared as he drew back his hand to threaten her. “Ye keep a civil tongue in yer head, girl! I’ll not be called a cheat by the likes o’ ye!”
In his rage, he was deaf to the shocked gasps of the peasants, and he never saw the black face of the mask turn their way, but of a sudden his raised hand was seized by the wrist in a grip that he could not break. He glanced to see who held him, and the bottom fell out of his stomach. He gulped, ready to run and hide, but his feet were frozen to the turf and wouldn’t obey his urging. He stood with quaking limbs as he faced the masked countenance of his lordship, Saxton.
“Is there ought amiss here?” the harsh, rasping voice demanded. The cold, ebon shades of the eyeholes riveted the man where he stood.
The mayor’s mouth opened spasmodically, but it was too dry to allow words to form. There was no possible way he could extract himself.
Erienne watched her father’s futile attempts at speech and took pity on him, though she could not fully understand why. He had never been extravagant in his mercy toward her. “The argument is an old one, my lord,” she answered for her kin. “It fairly vexed us both.”
Lord Saxton’s gaze never wavered from the man. “I suggest, Mayor, that henceforth you consider the delicacy of your mortal body before you again tempt the Fates this sorely. Your daughter now falls under my protection, and you have no further right to abuse her.”
Words failed to come from Avery’s throat as they were bidden, and he had to suffice with a hesitant nodding of his head.
“Good!” Lord Saxton released his hold. “Henceforth, I shall expect you to give my lady proper respect and to be careful when dealing on any of my lands. Otherwise, the consequences shall be laid at your feet.”
Avery stood mute, rubbing his aching wrist as the master of the manor led Erienne away. He knew if word got back to either of them how he had cheated the peasants, he might lose far more than he had gained. Still, it was only a threepence or a farthing here and there, and even if he wanted to give the coins back, he had no idea who had actually lost to him.
Just before dusk of the following afternoon, Erienne stood at the tower entry and watched the landau pull away from the manor. She was curious to know just how far it would go in its journey and was as equally perplexed by the secrecy surrounding the cottage and the magnificent black steed that was kept concealed. Many questions had begun to plague her. The accusations of Lord Talbot and the sheriff concerning the night rider played on her mind. Despite her avowed trust, she could not fully escape the mental vision of Ben lying sprawled in his own blood with a masked, black-garbed form standing above him with bloodied knife. The thought frightened her and fairly shredded the faith she had laid to her husband.
An urge grew strong within her as the landau disappeared from sight. She had to see for herself if it would stop at the cottage. Perhaps if she found her husband there, he might tell her what game he was playing, and then hopefully her fears could be set to rest. She longed for assurance. In any form! Anything!
Once again, she fetched a lantern and her woolen shawl before entering the passageway. The different quirks and crannies of it were already becoming familiar to her, and she pressed on to the bend with more confidence. A light shone from the area where she had met Christopher, and becoming more cautious, she put out her own lantern and moved with more stealth around the corner. The passageway was empty, but just as she was stepping into the light she heard a low scrape outside the door and saw the handle begin to turn. Moving back into the shadows, she pressed close against the wall and held her breath as the portal swung open. She almost gasped as Christopher came striding in, dressed in the same dark clothes he had been wearing when she last saw him. He seemed sure of his purpose, for he went directly to the locked chest, knelt before it, and fit a key into the lock. Hardly daring to breathe, she watched as he drew forth a pair of pistols and a long saber enclosed in an elaborate sheath. He snugged the belt bearing the scabbard about his narrow hips, then tucked the pistols into the leather band. Almost as quickly, he locked the chest and disappeared through the doorway again, leaving Erienne to sag slowly against the wall in relief.
Her mind began to fly in a chaotic frenzy. No good could come of the weapons he had taken from the chest. Indeed, the sight of them was a portent of a dangerous conflict. But with whom? Another Timmy Sears? Or a doddering old drunk?
Then a sudden coldness gripped Erienne’s heart. The night rider wore black and took to ground when it was dark, doing his murdering by way of a sword and leaving his victims’ blood spilled upon the turf. Christopher had a saber, and he was dressed in black. Hidden below was a powerful black steed that could fly like the wind. The combination of man and beast could be a most formidable one.
Erienne stepped out of the shadows and set a flame to the wick of her lantern, t
hen hurried back along the passageway. There was little time to waste if she wanted to see what Christopher was up to. If she went to the cottage by foot, he and the stallion might be gone by the time she got there, leaving her questions unanswered. She had to see for herself if her fears had any basis.
It was only when she had reached the interior of the stable and had led forth the mare Morgana that she realized to go venturing out at night dressed as a woman was most foolhardy. As she debated her next course of action, her gaze fell on several garments hanging over a short line stretched in front of a stall, undoubtedly spread to dry after a washing. A shirt, a short-cropped coat, and a pair of boy’s breeches were among the brief assortment and near enough to her size to be serviceable. They obviously belonged to Keats, but in consideration of the fact that he would suffer as much embarrassment as she would if she asked to use them, she thought the best thing to do was to borrow them without his knowledge. Snatching them off the line, she ran into the corner of an empty stall and hurriedly doffed her gown and chemise. The cold air touched on her bare skin, sending shivers along her flesh, and in desperate haste she yanked on the clothes. She had no time to lace the shirtfront, though it gapped open well past her bosom. She covered it with the coat and took a silk sash from her gown, tying the sash about her waist to secure the breeches in place. They reached to just below her knees, leaving visible a shocking display of calves smoothly clad in white silk stockings. Her slippers had a reasonable heel and posed no problem, but her hair, having been left free to flow down her back, had to be tucked in a filthy tricorn she found. She grimaced as she tugged it on, wondering what kind of vermin she was inviting.
Ignoring her sidesaddle, she chose one fit for a man. With the help of an empty keg, she mounted to the seat and adjusted her position for a few moments. Being in almost direct contact with the saddle was an entirely new experience for her and not one she was sure she could long endure. Either she was too soft or the seat was too hard, but whatever the cause, it did not lend toward exceptional comfort.
Thumping her heels against the mare’s side, she left the stables and cut a wide path away from the house, heading in the general direction of the cottage. Dusk had left the countryside bathed in a deep hue of magenta, but the oncoming shades of night were greedily nipping away at the dull light. It was only by chance that she caught sight of a dark-clad rider on a black horse already on the road and some distance ahead. Finding little doubt in her mind that it was Christopher Seton, Erienne gave chase. She had no thought of overtaking him, nor did she believe she could if it came to a race. Her intention was merely to see what he was up to and if she had any real reason to suspect that he was the fearsome night avenger.
The sphere of the moon severed its bond with earth and rose higher in the heavens to cast its silvery glow over the countryside, lending just enough light to show her the dark shape ahead. Over dale and hill, through brook and puddle, Erienne followed, sometimes only catching a glimpse of her quarry on a far-off rising. The distance between them extended, and when she lost sight of him, she began to worry that he had increased the lead. The road curved and wound its way around a shallow stream. Determining that the latter provided the straighter course, Erienne prodded the mare into the water, seeking to gain some ground. The hooves clattered along the rocky bed of the brook, echoing through the tunnel of trees that lined the way. It was an act of pure folly, for the one she followed had paused further ahead in the shadows.
Christopher’s head came up as he heard the rattling hooves of an approaching horseman. He had been aware for some time that someone was behind him and decided the game had gone far enough. Whirling the black stallion about, he paralleled the road for a ways. He knew of a special place where he could properly greet the fellow.
Erienne guided the mare carefully up the slope from the stream, then urged it in a fast canter back to the road. She had lost sight of the dark rider, and the thought that he might have taken another direction make her push the steed even harder. She was passing a small embankment crowned with low trees when suddenly a black shape flew out at her from the brush. A scream was jolted from her as a hard body slammed into hers, and she was swept from the saddle.
Christopher realized his mistake on contact, for the one he carried with him was much too light and soft to be anything but a woman. He twisted in midair, taking the impact of the fall upon himself to save the frailer body. At the same time an angry whinny pierced the night air as the reins were jerked from Erienne’s hand and the bit tore into the horse’s mouth. Christopher had barely come to a halt in the dust of the road when he looked up to see the thrashing forefeet of the rearing mare. Recognition jolted through him at sight of the white stockings, and he knew at once who his unwilling guest was. Thinking the steed was bent upon some distraught vengeance, he threw himself across the twisting she-cat he held. The spritely mount leaped over them in a graceful arch, and in a rattle of hooves was gone, racing back in the direction she had come.
Christopher’s attention was brought back abruptly to the little wild thing he had caught. In a frenzied effort to gain her release, she clawed his face with raking nails and sought to tear the hair from his head with grasping fists. He was hard pressed to defend himself until he caught the flailing arms firmly in his grasp and pressed them down, using his greater weight to subdue the Lady Saxton.
Erienne was trapped, held firmly in the middle of the dusty road. Her outraged struggles had loosened her hair and disarranged her clothes to the point that her modesty was savaged. Her coat had come open in the scuffle, and their shirts were twisted awry, leaving her bosom bare against a hard chest. The meager pair of breeches made her increasingly aware of the growing pressure against her loins. She was pinned almost face to face with her captor, and even though the visage was shadowed, she could hardly miss the fact of his identity or the half-leering grin that taunted her.
“Christopher! You beast! Let me go!” Angrily she struggled but could not influence him with her prowess.
His teeth gleamed in the dark as his grin widened. “Nay, madam. Not until you vow to control your passion. I fear before too long I would be somewhat frayed by your zealous attention.”
“I shall turn that statement back to you, sir!” she retorted.
He responded with an exaggerated sigh of disappointment. “I was rather enjoying the moment.”
“So I noticed!” she quipped before she thought, then bit her lip, hoping he might mistake her meaning.
He didn’t. He was most aware of the effect her meagerly clad body had on him, and he replied with laughter in his voice. “Though you may choose to fault my passions, madam, they’re quite honestly aroused.”
“Aye!” she agreed jeeringly. “By every twitching skirt that saunters by!”
“I swear, ’tis not a skirt that attracts me now.” Holding her wrists clasped in one hand, he moved his hand down along her flank and replied in a thoughtful tone, “ ’Tis more like a pair of boy’s breeches. What? Has my ambush yielded me a stable boy?”
Erienne’s indignation found new fuel that he could so casually fondle her, as if he had a perfect right. “Get off, you…you…ass!” It was the most damaging insult she could think of at the moment. “Get off me!”
“An ass, you say?” he mocked. “Madam, may I point out that asses are to be ridden, and at the moment you are bearing my weight. Now, I know women are made to bear—usually their husbands or the seed they plant—but I would not suggest that you have the shape or looks even approaching an ass.”
She ground her teeth in growing impatience at his wont to turn the simplest comment into an exercise of his wit. She could not bear the bold feel of him against her another moment. “Will you get off me?!”
“Certainly, my sweet.” He complied as if her every wish was his command. Lifting her to her feet, he solicitously dusted her backside.
“Enough!” she cried. The breeches had lost much to old age and use and seemed far too light a layer to protect her
from the familiarity of his hand.
He straightened, but his gaze did not raise to meet hers. Rather, it was directed downward, and her eyes followed quickly to find her breasts gleaming pale and bare between the gaping, plunging neckline of the shirt. With a shocked gasp, she snatched the wayward garments closed and struggled to secure the lacings. Then his attention dipped even farther, and he stared in rueful amazement at her lower half.
“Why are you wandering about in this outlandish garb, pray tell?”
Petulantly Erienne moved away from him and resumed dusting herself, having solved the problem of the shirt. “There are those,” she answered sharply, “who would set upon a woman in the night, and ’twas my thought to pass unnoticed as a lad. I didn’t know you were wont to leap out at passersby like a witless madman.”
A Rose in Winter Page 45