Erienne’s mind rebelled and just as quickly was snatched by another thought, one that took her breath with the suddenness of its assault.
Seton! Saxton! Cousins? Or brothers? There had been two sons born of the Saxton family. Stuart was the elder, but what of the younger? Could he be in truth the one she knew as Christopher Seton? What better way to weave a trap for the rascals who had burned the manse than to let one take a place as lord while the other played out a masquerade? If they were brothers, perhaps they worked together to avenge the scarring of the one. Christopher, being the more mobile of the two, brandished his sword and pistol in the name of justice as the nighthawk, while the older brother established fear in the hearts of the brigands by his mere existence. The ones responsible for the burning of the manse had hoped to kill him but had to be frustrated by their failure.
A wry smile touched her lips as she grew firm in that newfound belief. Christopher had free access to the manor and knew it well, as if he had been born here.
She perched on the foot of the bed, and though she stared hard, she saw nothing. Her mind spun in an aimless, racing whirlwind. There was something else here, something that wavered just beyond her grasp. The suspicion that something was not quite right had not left her. She rubbed her hands, and almost as quickly a coldness began to grow in her as she remembered that moment when she had reached for the bandage. Her right hand caressed the palm of her left, gently, as if it were Christopher’s back, and suddenly she knew what she had touched. A puckered scar on his shoulder. A night not too long past she had felt that scar on Stuart’s back when he had brought her to a height of passion.
A strangled cry of denial escaped her lips as the full realization dawned on her. Her husband had sent another to her bed in his stead! In a slow-moving vision, she recounted the intimacies they had shared, when her hands had moved over his body to appease a wifely curiosity and when his knowledgeable caresses had brought sighs of pleasure from her lips, just as Christopher had done in the carriage.
Erienne could no longer face the mocking windows and, twisting about, buried her face into the coverlet of the bed. Her half-choked, wailing sobs were muffled in the bedding. The ache in her breast was unbearable, and there was no ease from the scalding shame she felt. She had been used! Duped! Agonizing hands, formed like clawed talons, gathered the fabric, and as she wept, she curled in a knot and slowly slipped to her knees on the floor. She clutched the coverlet over her ears as if to shut out the laughing voice that echoed in her head. She had been used! They had made a game of her! Fool! Fool! Fool!
Erienne could not shut out the ridicule that raked her, and then it came to her like a blast of winter air. She clutched the quilt to her belly and, as she rocked back upon her heels, raised her face to heaven and slowly scrubbed with the blanket as if to cleanse her loins, but there was that in her which had been given her and she could not rid herself of it. Their betrayal tore at her.
She huddled there and sobbed in the coverlet. What right had they to bargain for what was hers and hers alone to give? To pass her off from one to the other without any regard for her own desires and honor?
She came to her feet, a flare of rage heating her heart. She would face the rogue, and were her husband here, she would face him also and have the whole thing out and done with. This multitude of masquerades was done! Her gloom was forgotten. She had a task before her and held no doubt that she would perform it well.
With that resolve burning through her, she smoothed the bedcovers and, pouring water from the ewer into the basin, washed the bloodstains from her hands. The dirty water went into a bucket, and she poured afresh, this time wetting a cloth and laving her face. Beneath the cooling strokes, some meager understanding of her husband’s reasoning dawned. If Stuart had been injured by the fire to such a degree as to be rendered incapable in the duties of a husband, then by letting his brother have her, he could at least have been assured that any offspring she bore would be in part his blood. Still, it was not enough to salve the pain she felt. They had not comported themselves with any compassion for her pride or feelings.
A sound came from the corridor, and she stepped close to the door to listen. It was Bundy and Aggie leaving the master’s room, and their voices were subdued as they passed her chamber. The roué was alone now and could not flee, and she would not let him again evade the questions. She took the resolution upon her. This time would do as well as any.
She was down the hall in a trice and through the door of the master’s chambers, locking it behind her to forbid interruption. Deliberately removing the key, she dropped it into her bodice as she turned to face the one she had come to confront.
Christopher was propped up in the bed sipping from a steaming mug of brandy and honey, a potion prescribed by Aggie to ease the discomfort of the new bandage. He had watched Erienne’s entry over the rim of the cup and now lowered it as his amused gaze raked her.
“Do you think it safe there, madam?”
There was enough of a smirk in his question to spur Erienne’s ire higher. Still, she forced herself to breathe calmly and, with leisured purpose, crossed the room to stand at the foot of his bed.
“I have a matter or two to settle with you, sir.” Her tone was almost flat, and his brow raised at the lean seriousness of her manner.
“And I with you, madam.” He smiled and lifted the glass for another sip of the heady brew.
“I know who you are,” she stated bluntly.
His arm paused, and he looked up at her in surprise, his lips parted to receive the brim.
“I know you and Stuart are brothers.” Now the subject was broached, she rushed into it headlong. “I cannot understand the why of it, but I know of you. You seem to be much more the creature of the night than even I had realized until this hour. For whatever his reasons, my husband has let you come to pleasure me in his stead. I don’t understand why you were here in this bed the first night, but since then, you have always come to me and, hidden in darkness, have put a bastard babe within my belly.”
Christopher choked abruptly, and the cup twitched in his hand before he set it aside. He coughed to clear his throat and cocked a brow at her as he struggled to find his voice. “Madam, your news is most dear to my heart, but I urge you to be more gentle in the telling of it. You have nearly strangled me.”
“Gentle!” she railed, forgetting her composure at his offhandish humor. “Were you gentle with me when you played your game with me?!”
“Now, Erienne, dearest love…”
“Don’t you ‘dearest love’ me!” she flared. “You debaucher! You sneak thief of a woman’s virtue! You used me! You took me when I thought you were another!”
“My love,” he cajoled, “I can explain if you will just let me.”
“You will indeed, sir! And that is why I have come! To hear your explanations! Go on! Tell me the reason you tricked me!”
He opened his mouth to speak again, but a thunder of feet in the hall and a heavy pounding on the door halted him.
“ ’Tis urgent I speak with ye!” Bundy roared through the panel.
Erienne’s brow darkened angrily, and a stubborn determination rose. “I will not let him in,” she gritted.
Bundy’s fist beat upon the panels again. “The sheriff is coming!”
Christopher began to slide toward the edge of the bed. “Erienne, my sweet, open the door. We will speak of this matter later…in private. You have my word on it.”
Seeing the necessity for yielding, she fumbled in her bodice until she retrieved the key. Thrusting it in the lock, she opened the door.
Bundy swept past her with a half-mumbled apology. “Yer pardon, milady.”
“Where are they?” Christopher questioned curtly.
Bundy halted by the bedside and panted, “Only a mile or so away. Keats was out exercisin’ a horse and saw ’em comin’.”
“Damn!” Christopher muttered and grimaced as he tried to move.
“You must hide him, Bundy,”
Erienne said urgently. “Take him to the passage.”
“She’s right. I cannot be taken,” Christopher declared. “Parker would see that I didn’t last out the week, and I doubt that even Lord Saxton could fetch help that fast. My clothes, Bundy. At once!”
He threw off the covers and stood to his feet with a grimace, ignoring the fact that below the bandage he was stark naked. Erienne could not. The sight of that tall, lean-hipped, broad-shouldered form brought a scalding hotness to her cheeks. Whirling on a heel, she ran from the room, slamming the door behind her. She was abashed that he could treat her so outrageously casually in front of a servant, and she could not halt the return of mortifying shame. Her thoughts again in a flurry, she entered the doubtful shelter of her chamber and paced about.
A mild panic seized her at the realization that in the absence of Lord Saxton she would have to meet the sheriff herself. Christopher’s safety depended on how well she could hide her distress and not give away the game. Making an effort to calm her flighty thoughts, she drew a deep breath and conjured an image of a regal lady, holding it firmly in her mind until she grew comfortable with it. Her chin raised a notch. She was Lady Erienne Saxton, she told herself, the mistress of her husband’s manor, and she would not be intimidated in her own house.
Once again she opened the door and retraced her steps to the master’s chambers, only to find it deserted except for Aggie, who was hastily arranging the bedcovers and tidying the room. It came to her as she paused in the portal that the housekeeper probably knew more about the manor and its occupants than anyone else outside the family. She decided to settle one of many questions right here and now.
“Aggie?”
The woman turned quickly. “Aye, mum?”
Erienne swept a hand to indicate the tome that lay on her husband’s desk. “You once told me that book held an accounting of every birth and death that happened here in this house and on these lands. If I were to look into it, would I find Christopher’s name entered as the younger brother of the Saxton family?”
Aggie twisted her hands in sudden consternation and glanced away nervously.
Erienne read the answer in the woman’s manner and sought to relieve her obvious anguish. “It’s all right, Aggie. I understand your loyalty to the family and do not ask you to reveal anything that I haven’t already guessed.”
“Please, mum,” the housekeeper pleaded, “hear the master out ’fore ye think ill o’ him.”
“Oh, I intend to hear him out,” Erienne assured her, but as far as the other she feared she had already begun to have some very doubtful thoughts about the master of the manse.
Erienne left the woman and made her way to the stairs, intending to await the visitors in the common room. Paine was on station at the front door, and she gave him a gracious nod as she passed. She swept through the archway leading into the great hall and then froze. Her dignity dissolved, and consternation raged in its wake, for seated calmly in his usual chair beside the hearth was Lord Saxton, the right leg gathered behind the good one, the gaze behind the blank helm fastened on the doorway, and his gloved hands folded atop his walking stick. Though crippled and scarred, he was in truth a most formidable figure of a man.
Erienne stammered a jumbled apology. “My lord, I did not…I was not informed you had returned.”
“Our guests are nigh.” The hoarse whisper was not unkind, only flat and emotionless. “Come here and take a seat beside me.” His left hand briefly indicated a chair before it returned to rest on the cane.
She crossed to the proffered chair and sat erect on its edge, but the position left her knees to tremble all the more. Her nerves were as taut as the strings of a harpsichord, and she rose to stand close beside him, half behind his chair, her hand resting on the top of the ornately carved back. They waited thus in silence, a regal lord and his pale, stiff lady, while the tall timepiece in the great hall ticked the moments away with maddening slowness.
Erienne started slightly when a rattle of many hooves sounded outside, coming up along the front lane to cease beside the tower door. Paine turned the knob, but before he could open the portal, it burst wide at the inward rush of Sheriff Parker followed closely—indeed, too closely—by Haggard Bentworth, that worthy ever-ready-for-battle crony. A whole flock of fellows came at their heels and crowded into the entry. Seeing the open door of the common room, the sheriff brushed arrogantly past Paine, then stepped spritely aside as the naked blade that Haggard bore prodded him in the backside. He yelped and whirled, swatting the harrying sword down with his hand and causing it to rake the sheepskin vest and closely threaten his manhood. It was only when the danger had passed that Allan dared release his breath, then a menacing glare came into his eyes and bored into Haggard, who fumbled sheepishly with the weapon.
“Put that thing away, you fool!” Parker snarled through gnashing teeth. “And this time not in me!”
Good Haggard eagerly nodded and thrust the weapon into its sheath with a vengeance, then flinched and sucked his left thumb where a small droplet of blood welled up.
Paine raised his chin and sniffed loudly, managing to speak without a hint of a smile. “Lord Saxton awaits in the common room.”
Allan Parker snorted once at Haggard and, mumbling beneath his breath, strode angrily through the tall, welcoming archway. He advanced a pair of paces into the room and, with an officious frown, surveyed the scene that met his eye, giving the master and mistress of the house a curt nod before he turned and beckoned a man to him.
“Sergeant, set the men to searching the house and put a guard on this door. Then see that those outside are…”
His words were halted by a loud double click, and both he and the sergeant turned warily to face their host. They found themselves returning the unwinking gaze of a pair of oversized pistols and could not find the courage to doubt their priming and loading. Lord Saxton’s skill with weapons was a well-known fact throughout the countryside, and neither of them wished to test it at a close range.
“No man searches this house but on my word or the King’s.” Lord Saxton’s rasping voice resounded through the hall. “I have issued no such directive, but if you have a warrant from the other, then I would see it.”
Both men kept their hands carefully away from their sidearms while Parker, with a decided change in manner, made haste to apologize and explain.
“Your pardon, my lord.” He doffed his hat as he acknowledged the presence of the lady and nudged the sergeant with his elbow until that one followed suit. “I have no warrant from the Crown, but ’tis my good intent to seek your permission for a search. We are looking for the night rider. A dastardly crime was committed several days ago, and we have proof that one Christopher Seton is that rogue, the very same who laid Squire Becker in his grave, brutally slew his coachmen, and kidnaped the young daughter.”
Erienne stepped forward, her hand raised in hot denial, but her way was suddenly blocked by a gloved hand bearing a pistol. She looked down at her husband in angry urgency. “But ’tis not…”
“Shush.” His subdued whisper came for her ears alone. “Control yourself, my love. Trust me.”
She returned to her position, but when her hand came back to the chair, she gripped it until her knuckles were white.
The sheriff continued as he regained Lord Saxton’s attention. “The man is also wanted for the murders of Timmy Sears and Ben Mose, not to mention a host of lesser crimes.” He rubbed the back of his bandaged left hand. “ ’Twas said in town that he was some kin of yours.”
“Are you sure of your facts, Sheriff?” The hollow voice chuckled lightly. “Christopher Seton and pistols, that I can believe, but he seemed too clumsy an oaf to be well skilled with a blade.”
Parker slipped his left hand into his coat and shrugged. “Skilled enough at least to best a drunken sot and a brawling lad untutored in the matter of blades.”
A bitter laugh came from the blank mask. “Or an aging squire who would defend his daughter?” The low, co
arse voice took on a note of concern. “Your hand, sir? Have you hurt yourself?”
The sheriff reddened a bit and stumbled over an excuse. “I…I cut it. ’Tis little more than a nick.”
Lord Saxton lowered the hammers and tucked the pistols away. “I will allow your men to search. Only tell them to be quick about it. My housekeeper will not take kindly to all these muddy boots tramping through the place.”
“Certainly, my lord.” Parker jerked his head at the sergeant. “Attend to it.”
A Rose in Winter Page 51