“What are you saying, madam?” Allan feigned amazement. “We are well within the law. Christopher Seton is the murderer, and you are his mistress.”
“You are part of the murdering band that has laid waste to this country for years!” she accused irately.
His brows lifted in a tiny shrug. “A man must survive, madam.”
“Survive! Do you call this surviving?” She looked about in derision. “Hiding out like frightened rabbits?”
“Only until the hawk is caught, my lady,” he answered easily. “We have felt his claws much too often not to be wary of him, and we have the bait we need to bring him to ground.”
“Christopher will never be snared by your trap! He knows it would mean his death and no doubt my own. You could not long tolerate either of us in your midst.”
“Seton, certainly not! But you, fair Erienne, are quite a different matter.” He brushed a hand over her tumbled hair but dropped it again when she jerked her head away from his fondling. “I bid you consider your predicament. Lord Talbot will return in a few days, and I think his persistence will prove most trying to your reserve. Even I cannot deny him. His power extends to areas beyond these climes. And there are others.”
Erienne raised a brow in mute question.
“The men below,” he explained. “They believe a woman has but one task, and they pursue that talent diligently. They have a tendency to be rough, and though stalwart fighters, they make less than worthy lovers.”
“So I am caught between a lascivious, mincing lord on one hand, and a pack of lusting wolves on the other.” She scoffed. “I cannot perceive which would be the lesser of evils.”
“There is another port of escape, my lady,” he assured her, and met her searching gaze with a smile. “Given the incentive, I can provide Talbot with a lusty wench who can exhaust his appetites to such a point that he will be hard pressed to stay out of her reach. As for my men, they will not dare step beyond the bounds I set. You need only yield to me what you gave Seton. I might point out that if I so desire, I can take what I want from you.”
Erienne tossed her head in a sardonic gesture. “Aye, I saw the way you prepared the Becker girl.”
Surprise briefly touched his face, but he waved away her comment with a flip of his hand. “My men become overzealous in their lust. Of course, she would not have lasted out the night. Nor would you if I were to give you to them.” His smile came back. “You ought to be thankful that I want you for myself.”
Erienne gave him a scalding glare that could have sundered the largest ice floe in the North Sea. “And you think you are man enough to take Christopher’s place?”
“I have proven myself with many other ladies,” he answered casually. “I have no doubt as to my abilities. I can be most caring of one with your charm and grace.”
“Your care!” She laughed in disdain and swept her hand toward her cheek. “If this be a sampling of it, Milord Sheriff, I would not want to taste of your anger.”
“My apologies for that, dearest Erienne. Fenton was warned that your escape was not a tolerable condition. In his zeal, he chose the rudest but simplest path to assure his duty met. If you would only speak of your wishes, I would heartily strive to see them served…in recompense, of course.”
“Oh, kind sir,” Erienne mocked, “your concern touches me. My needs, of course, are legion. A bushel of rags to stuff the windows, a cloth or two to wash with, and a basin. A broom, brushes, and a shovel to move aside the debris.” She cast a hand about to indicate the leaves and dirt which rounded every corner of the floor and lay in duneline ridges across the stone. A staff of servants could clean the place in a fortnight or two, but despairing that, I would apply myself to the task. A clean blanket and some linens would not be beyond consideration either.”
“I shall do what I can, dear lady,” he said, laughing. “In between time, is there a possibility that you will consider what I have suggested?”
“Aye, a possibility.” Nodding slowly and turning, she stared out the window, then sneered over her shoulder. “As much possibility as there is of a man soaring to the moon and bringing me back a piece of it.”
Allan Parker regarded the Lady Saxton’s rigid spine for a moment, not without a certain appreciation for the shapeliness of it, and was of the firm opinion that she would change her mind in due time. After all, he was the best of the choices presented her. “I can wait for your answer. I’m sure after Lord Talbot arrives, you will come to a different frame of mind.”
Erienne tossed a glare toward the door as it slammed shut behind him and heard the solid lowering of an iron bar across its planks. She paced the room for a while but could find no relief from the anxiety that filled her. She prayed that Christopher would ignore their challenge and remain safely hidden in the guise of Lord Saxton. She would not want to live without him, and while she knew he was free, she’d carry the hope that somehow she would escape and join him.
In want of something better to do to settle her mind, she tasted the stew, but the venison was too fresh and lent it a gamey taste that did not appease her pallet. She ate only out of necessity to keep up her strength and for the wee babe resting within her. For several months to come, she would carry her precious burden and take comfort in the fact that she had a part of Christopher with her. She grew wistful as she thought of a tiny girl or boy with her husband’s reddish-brown locks and eyes that caught the light of every flickering taper or burning lamp. She would nurture the babe against her breast and be filled with memories of how his father, so boldly a man, had dared to snatch her from beneath the noses of all those who had hated him.
Would he do it again? Her head came up as a thought struck, and her serenity of the moment was shattered. She could expect him to come. It was just his way.
“Oh, please nooo,” she moaned. “Please don’t let him come. Please! I could not bear it if I lost him!”
She stumbled back to the bed and curled into a knot upon its straw tick, not wanting to face the thought of losing him. She sought sleep to block out the worry in her mind, but an hour or so passed to no avail. The key turned in the lock, and she came up from the bed with a gasp, expecting to see the sheriff enter with more of his demands. She was as much surprised to see Haggard.
“Yer pardon, milady.” He bobbed his tousled head. “The sheriff sent me ter fetch ye some stuff.”
In wonder she watched him stuff rags in the window and move aside some of the debris. He was well meaning when he took up a well-worn broom and applied it to the floor, but the dust he stirred soon had her coughing and begging for mercy. Chagrined, he wiped his hands nervously on his breeches and departed.
Another bowl of the same venison stew and the other half of the loaf were brought for the evening meal. She had been effective in making her cell more presentable, though it was far beyond the help of any immediate repair. She received from Haggard a half-dozen short, thick candles and a tinder box by which to light them. Darkness was settling across the land by the time she finished her repast, and she managed to light two of the candles, placing one on the table and the other atop one of the headposts of the bed. They gave the ancient chamber an eerie, shifting light as the night gained hold and a last magenta glow waned in the west. A subtle chill invaded the quarters, and Erienne took to the bed, wrapping herself in her cloak and the single blanket.
The sharp assaults of loneliness and despair thwarted sleep. She struggled to lift her mood with childhood games of the mind, but they were only half remembered and ineffectual. There was little to hold her attention away from her fears, and slowly, inexorably, her thoughts turned inward. She closed her eyes and imagined her husband’s arms about her, his kisses touching her and bringing to life her passions. She shivered and pulled the blanket tighter about her as she relived the fortnight of undisturbed bliss they had shared. She yearned for the gentle caress of his hands and the heat of his body next to hers, warming her, rousing her.
Like a dark demon in the night, doubt a
nd dread rose up to haunt her, sapping the strength of her will. Tears came in a copious flow, and a slow sobbing racked her as her spirit searched frantically for any shred of hope, however remote. Then she felt a calming touch in the back of her consciousness, and like the ebbing of the tide, her burden lifted. While there was life, there was hope.
Exhaustion and the stress of the day overcame her, and slowly, step by step, a kinderinvasion took place, and her defenses crumbled as slumber mercifully put her to rest for the night.
Lord Saxton sat at his desk and with mechanical precision dispensed his duties as master of Saxton Hall. He felt a helpless impatience as he waited for some word of his wife’s whereabouts to come. None did, and the lord of the manse sat silent at a lonely evening meal as Aggie wrung her hands and fretted because he made no effort to eat or to converse except to answer curtly and briefly when questioned directly.
Bundy returned, and for a while Christopher’s mood lifted, only to plunge again when it became clear that the man bore no news. The servant reported that all had been completed as the master had ordered. In despairing loneliness Christopher bade the man to take a seat and partake of the meal, but what followed was a stilted, silent charade. Although they had shared food before under many varied circumstances, Bundy was agitated with his own inability to relieve his lord’s ill-concealed distress.
The time proved painful for them both, and as soon as he had taken enough to satisfy politeness, Bundy excused himself and departed to make a late check of the watchers and seekers for word of the Lady Erienne. He returned to the manse near midnight and, seeing the dim light in the lady’s chamber, knew the master agonized in his own frustration. The very stones of the manor house seemed to groan in sympathy.
There was nothing Bundy could do. He could not bear to face his master again and tell him there was no hope, no word, that all their searching had yielded nothing as yet. He put away his horse and, seeking out his pallet, laid his weary body to rest.
Christopher Saxton stood alone in the middle of his wife’s chamber, finding no relief for the heaviness in his chest. He saw her combs and brushes neatly laid to one side of her dressing table and knew the wealth of soft, gleaming tresses that fell in long, luxuriously thick cascades and fairly begged for a touching.
“How deeply has this wench entrapped me?” he mused. “She has snared my spirit and my soul. Like a hawk, she has snatched them in full flight.” He shook his head. “But unlike the wild bird, she harmed them not. Nay, rather took them to her breast and breathed new life into them, and they have been so blissfully refreshed, my heart is nigh to bursting. Before I came to these shores, I would have sworn my ships would ever be my love, for no maid had so captivated me as the thrill of skimming the seas beneath billowing sails.
“Then on the path of revenge which I sought for my brother, I stumbled on that fair one who denied me every way and gave me no quarter, yet her beauty bound me ever closer to her side until she became the essence of my joy. Without her near, the day is empty, and all things pointless ploys.”
He leaned a shoulder against a post of the bed and drew to mind the moments of bliss they had enjoyed therein. In a sudden flare of anger he jerked the draperies shut, closing off the view of that feathery, silken nest of pleasure. His eyes roamed wildly and came to rest on the tub beyond the arras. He envisioned again the curve of her bosom and the beckoning warmth of her smile as she welcomed his caress and kiss. He ran a shaking hand through his hair as he fought the urge to kneel in despair and sob out his agony. The ache in his chest became a physical thing, and he strode about the room to ease its tightening grip.
“She haunts me!” he flung at the dark shadows in the corners. “Damn! She haunts me every moment! How can I touch the thought of life without her? The mere idea of it chills my heart and sets my fears to flight within my head, like great, black bats harrying my peace!”
He could stand the place no more and fled to pace the hall. There was no one to share his roweling disquiet. Farrell was gone to Wirkinton. Bundy would share, but punished himself for his inability to solve the thing. Aggie would fret and grow distraught. He roamed the house goaded by his dilemma until the clock chimed the hour of two. He sought out his chamber, but even there her presence mocked his helplessness.
He flung himself back upon the bed and stared at the canopy overhead, not daring to close the velvet hangings lest his imagination refresh his torture. Slowly, imperceptibly, Morpheus soothed his plight with dreams of dark, silken tresses against his cheek, of pale arms entwined about him, of a kiss as light as thistledown, and finally the mercy of an ebon rest.
The slanting rays of an early sun lit the chamber, and Christopher roused and then came to his feet, glaring about him for some foe to attack. Reason flooded back, and his sense of rage was subdued beneath a firm grip of will. He stripped off the wrinkled clothes he had slept in and, after a quick ablution, garbed himself in fresh raiment. Aggie brought the morning meal to his room and, after a brief worrying glance, refused to meet his gaze. She puttered about in nervous embarrassment, as if something burned in her mind, then bobbed a quick curtsy and left.
Christopher donned the garb he had grown to detest, and Lord Saxton made his way slowly down the stairway to enter the routine of Saxton Hall. He signed a handful of papers and waited for word of his wife.
He inspected the grounds with Bundy and the gardener, approving several proposed changes, and waited for word of his wife.
He heard the arguments of a dozen or so conflicts among his tenants and passed judgments he hoped would benefit all sides…and waited for word of his wife.
He ate a lonely lunch, and a messenger brought a letter from Farrell. The young man stated that he would accompany the Cristina north when she sailed. The ship would have to beat a laborious, tacking path northwestward against the winds and should arrive offshore some time in the late afternoon of the morrow.
Christopher sought activity to fill the hours of the afternoon and wished they would have moved as slowly when he had held Erienne in his arms. His mood grew snappish and sharp as evening approached, but an understanding staff had compassion and gave him room to exercise his dismay at the continued absence of any news, good or bad.
For Erienne, the day passed on much the same. The notable differences were tied to the continued state of her incarceration. She stacked the dishes neatly on a tray after a breakfast of the same stew, this time served with a poor, half-burned excuse for bread, and swept the room. She bathed as well as she could from a bucket of cold water, using a shallow pan and no soap. She worked her fingers through her hair to relieve the tangles and restore some semblance of order to it, then swept the room again. She fretted when the evening meal was brought and again it was the same venison stew, only this time much thicker, as if it had spent the day simmering above the fire.
She watched the day die through one of the few intact panes that still filled a leaded molding. Tears swam in her eyes as she wondered whether Christopher also viewed the same magnificent hues. It settled in her mind with a firmness that could not be set aside that he was thinking of her, just as she was of him.
“Oh, my love,” she said, sighing and wiping at the tears, “I would be brave for your account, but your babe rests in my womb. ’Tis said the unborn are marked by trials such as this, and I would have this one free of any hatreds I bear.”
She recalled a day long passed when she had wielded a phantom blade and made bold threats, albeit in privacy. She faced the room at large, standing straight and bold, and steadied the airy sword at her side. Casting up her hand in the best rhetorical stance, she spoke to her audience of none.
“Were I an argent knight sworn to mete out justice in the name of right, I would set upon this nest of knaves who seek to revile your name. I would test them all with the might of arms till the end and bid them bend a knee and beg forgiveness ere I smite their heads loose from their shoulders and claim the victor’s truth.”
She paused in he
r diatribe, and slowly her arm sagged. The flair was gone. The tears fell unheeded now. She knelt beside the straw-filled bed and wept upon it.
“Oh, Christopher, my dearest love,” she whispered, “were I that knight, I would never have known your touch, your tenderness, your arms enfolding me, your kiss upon my lips, your warm, sweet flesh on mine, your babe.” After a while she sat around and watched the last light fade in the crystal pane. “I must be brave.” She sniffed and dried her cheeks on her skirt. “Be the babe a lad, I must be strong for him, or a girl child, I would have her know the strength of true love.
“My darling Christopher,” she brought her hands together in a prayerful pose, “I would not have you risk yourself, but find a way to free me and slay my beast forever. I have found my rose in winter. You are my own precious love, promised to me evermore. Come, my love, the beast can only flee the two of us together.”
Christopher viewed the irresistible approach of the day’s end with total abhorrence. He knew the specters the dark would bring, having met a host of them the night before. He stood at the end of the western hall and ran his finger over the leading of a window his grandfather had put in place, and Christopher watched the fading light of the sunset dwindle in a few low-hanging clouds. Its reddish-purple shade brought not fear but dread at what his own mind could set against him.
A Rose in Winter Page 58