Lovely Lying Lips

by Valerie Sherwood

  The other letter in the box was also addressed to Sir John and it was the most surprising of all. It had come from Devon and was written in a hasty scrawl:

  Although we have never had occasion to meet, I have had word of how you feel about Hammond’s marriage to Anne, the letter began. But the child is not to blame, whatever her mother has done. I feel that you should know that my brother Brandon was on his way to marry Anne Cheltenham when he died. (Brandon,thought Constance. My real father was named Brandon. Brandon Archer.) And consider that it was your son’s love of Anne, the letter continued, that caused him to marry her even though he well knew she was with child by my brother. It has come to my attention that not only are the child’s true parents dead, but your son as well, and I have a solution to what you must consider a difficult problem. If you will send the child to me, I promise to care for her as if she were my own. You may write to me at Tatter sail House, Dartmoor.

  It was signed with a flourish Margaret Archer.

  Obviously there had been no reply. Or at any rate a negative one. Sir John had preferred to keep his shameful secrets on his own doorstep. He meant to hide me away forever! Constance thought with a shiver. Her eyes glistening with unshed tears, she looked up at Dev. “You’ve had these all this time? Why didn’t you show them to me before?”

  He flushed scarlet. “I thought that if I showed them to you, you might leave,” he admitted sheepishly. “And I couldn’t have stood that.”

  She understood in that moment how very much she meant to him and was silent as it all sank in.

  Dev loved her, had always loved her.

  “You can see that this—changes everything,” she said quietly.

  “Does it?” His suddenly wary glance never wavered from her face. “You don’t have to stay,” he urged. “I’ll take you away from here—to Devon if you like.” He didn’t point out the obvious—that Margaret Archer’s letter was undated, it could have been written years ago! No matter, he told himself recklessly, he’d take care of Constance in any event!

  Amethyst lights played in Constance’s purple eyes as she thought about that. To Devon with her lover... They could be married on the way! Married in some hamlet where they could find work for a while—perhaps in a dairy or on some farm, to earn enough to let them move on to the next shire.

  “Oh, Dev, do you really think we could?”

  “Yes!” He took her by the shoulders and she thrilled to the touch of his strong fingers. “We could leave tonight.”

  “I was hoping we could spend one more night at Fountains,” she said wistfully. “Because we’ll probably never see it again.”

  No, they wouldn’t dare come back—Dev knew that. For while Sir John didn’t want her, she was still his ward and he wanted no one else to have her—lest her real story surface. And Hugh was always a danger. Every wary instinct he had warned him they should leave at once.

  But his face softened at her pleading. One more night spent at magical Fountains... Was that so much to ask? “Tomorrow then,” he agreed. “But tonight—Fountains.”

  “Oh, Dev!” She threw her arms around him rapturously. “We could go to Fountains now!”

  “We’d be missed,” he said. “Best wait till dusk.” And rumpled her dark hair with affectionate fingers.

  Constance was light of heart as they strolled through the dusk beneath a rising moon. And full of plans—she would tell Henriette, she would ask her advice, did she not think that was a good idea? Henriette was worldly, she would make suggestions.

  Dev smiled down at her fondly and his arm tightened about her shoulders as they walked. She was so young, so fine, so right for him. God had shown him mercy the day He had brought Constance into his life. Silently he vowed that he would be worthy of the gift, he would love her, cherish her, bring her at last to all that her feminine heart desired.

  The problem was he had no idea how to accomplish it.

  He was frowning, perplexed, when at last they reached the sprawling complex of monastery buildings, rising in deserted grandeur above the sheep-cropped sod.

  Constance led him to a place where the grass was very soft near the silver river’s edge. It seemed screened from the world by the wide bulk of one of the abbey buildings, more ruinous than most. Above tumbled falls of stone, high up in the massive walls were sightless openings that had once been windows—and outlining them pointed arches of delicately wrought stone lace, giving a heartrending hint of what this once had been.

  “It’s perfect here,” said Constance softly, surveying its beauty, its serenity. Around them the night noises were muffled. Somewhere there was the sleepy chirp of a nesting bird, and over there the rustle of a clump of taller grass as some little furry creature, perhaps a ferret, stole through on its way to a night hunt within the ruined walls. Above them stars sparkled.

  She sighed. “Our last night here.” Her voice held a note of melancholy.

  “Then we must make the most of it,” he rejoined cheerfully. For the very sight of her slim bewitching figure was already driving him wild. He yearned to get his arms around her, to hold her, have her—but she made a little gesture as if to ward him off and—sensitive to her every change of mood—he resisted the urge to seize her and smother her with kisses.

  “Tonight will be different,” she told him dreamily. “Tonight we will take our time.” She kicked off her worn shoes. And sat down on the soft grass and removed her stockings and garters.

  He watched, fascinated.

  In a single supple gesture she rose. Then slowly, with her violet eyes locked to his, she took off her lavender kirtle, letting the faded linen slide down over her worn chemise. And then she unhooked, one by one, the hooks of her faded linen bodice, asking for no help. This was a little pantomime she had promised herself as they walked home last night.

  Dev made a little sound in his throat, almost a groan, as she loosed the riband that held her chemise and let the material, worn thin from many washings, glide down around her fair young body.

  And stood before him in all the perfection of her gleaming nakedness.

  Dev’s gaze was rapt. He reached out his arms for her.

  Suddenly there was a loud “Bravo!” from behind the broken wall and as Dev whirled, a large stone grazed his ear.

  He leaped for Constance and pulled her down behind a fallen pile of masonry. She gave a gasp of pain as her ankle turned under her, then huddled there shivering as more stones cracked against the barrier behind which they sheltered. And now she recognized Hugh’s voice, hoarsely hurling epithets at them, calling her all manner of filthy things.

  “Stay here,” whispered Dev, taking off his shoes and picking up a stone. And when she would have held him back, he put a finger to his lips and gently unclasped her fingers from his arm. Moments later he was easing around the corner of the building, keeping to the shadows, his bare feet making no sound on the sheep-cropped turf.

  The rain of stones and howls continued while she quailed in her refuge behind the pile of masonry.

  Then suddenly there was silence.

  Constance opened her mouth and no words came out. Was it Hugh who had been silenced? Or Dev?

  And then she heard Dev’s voice and in her thankfulness almost fainted. “You can come out now,” he called calmly.

  She picked up her kirtle and held it pressed against her trembling body as she limped over on her hurt ankle to join him, for suddenly she felt very naked, very defenseless.

  “Is he—dead?” she asked fearfully, staring down at Hugh’s great bulk, spread-eagled on the grass.

  “No, just knocked unconscious. I got him with this.” He kicked at a stone that lay near Hugh’s head. “Don’t worry, you won’t be a party to his murder.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of that,” she murmured, trying hard to stand straight on the ankle that she had twisted so painfully. “I was thinking about what happens when he comes to!”

  Dev was thinking about that too. There would be hell to pay. He had struck down the
son and heir of Claxton House and Sir John was not likely to forgive that. If they caught him, punishment would be swift and sure.

  Instinctively she had come close to him and now she leant against him for support and clung with her fingers to his shirt front. His arms went protectively round her, and his hands, so gentle, so yearning, caressed her naked back. “We haven’t—time,” he muttered hoarsely and desire flickered in his eyes.

  Constance’s mind was working furiously. Her ankle was so painful that she could barely stand. Walking anywhere would be an agony—and very slow. And Dev could not carry her for any great distance.

  But she knew he would try. And that was what made it all so terrible. Every fiber of her being screamed to go with him—but she dared not yield to that mad desire. Dev would take her with him, injured as she was—and he would be conspicuous doing so. Her twisted ankle would hold him back. And in the hue and cry that would be raised for them throughout the countryside, that could well prove fatal.

  She knew by now that her looks were very striking. She would be readily found, identified, dragged back. And so would Dev.

  But their fate would be different: She would be delivered back to an uncaring Sir John, who desired only to hide her away.

  But Dev—Dev had raised his hand against the old baronet’s grandson, had perhaps near killed him. He would be formally charged, perhaps hanged. At the very least he would be publicly whipped—perhaps a hundred lashes or more. In her terrified fancy she saw him strung up, held by chains while a cat-o’-nine-tails throbbed rhythmically along his back, each blow biting deeper, bringing blood—and a groan. She saw him fight back the agony of it, saw him fall mercifully at last unconscious—and still the lash kept tearing at his flesh. Blood pounded in her temples at these terrible imaginings, and the sound of her heartbeats were the sounds of the whip, never stopping, going on and on....

  He would take her with him, no matter what the cost, and her heart yearned to let him do it. But if she went, she would only bring him death.

  “I’m not going,” she heard herself say.

  He was aghast. “I can’t leave you here—with him!”

  “Of course you can!” she cried in panic. “And you must! Oh, Dev, can’t you see? The way we planned it, it would have been different. They might even have let me slip away, glad just to forget me. But now that you’ve struck Hugh down, there’ll be a scandal and no way to keep it quiet because servants gossip, and Sir John will know that and he’ll have to hunt us down for his pride’s sake—”

  “Constance—”

  Her voice rushed on. “Don’t come back for me~just keep going. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Dev—go now!”

  Beneath her clutching fingers, she felt his body stiffen. “I thought you loved me, Constance,” he said slowly.

  “Oh, I do, I do!”

  “If you loved me”—his voice was stubborn—“you would come with me. You would not stay here.”

  “I intend to write to Aunt Margaret,” she improvised hastily, and suddenly that seemed like a very good idea. “I’ll be all right, I promise you! At the worst, they’ll lock me in my room for a while to repent my wild ways. Oh, Dev”—her voice rose to a wail—“I could never make it, running, hiding. Please, please try to understand.”

  “It’s your ankle,” he guessed, looking down at her keenly. “You’re afraid you can’t walk on it.”

  Oh, God, if he thought that, he would stay—try to brazen it out and perhaps die for it. She could not let him do that. Desperately she cast about in her mind for something that would send him on his way—and found it.

  “I never really meant to go with you,” she whispered, turning away from him so that he might not see the hot tears that were coursing down her face now, splashing unnoticed onto her snowy bosom, running in tiny rivulets down her found white breasts. “That’s why I wanted to spend the night with you at Fountains. Because I wasn’t going.”

  He took hold of her then, spun her around fiercely to face him. His young face mirrored a kind of despair. “I don’t believe it,” he said savagely. “You gave yourself to me last night. We plighted our troth!”

  She hung her head. “Oh, don’t think badly of me, Dev. Last night was lovely—but it was make-believe. Now I’ve had time to think and I’m not sure Aunt Margaret would take me in if She thinks I’ve been living with—with—”

  “With a stableboy,” he supplied accusingly, and she saw his lean body stiffen.

  “Yes,” she said hurriedly. “And—and Aunt Margaret may have a nice house in Devon. If she sends for me, I could have clothes and satin slippers and—and brilliants for my hair.” She hated what she was doing to him, but she knew the knife must cut deep or he would never leave her. “I’m sorry, Dev, but—I want my chance at those things. Things you could never give me. Please try not to hate me too much....” Her voice trailed off.

  He cast a quick glance down at Hugh’s fallen body and she knew instinctively what he was thinking.

  This I did for you, he would be thinking. may have thrown away my life this day for you. And you do not care! Dear God, it must be coursing through his mind like a shout: You do not care for me as I care for you!

  He stared at her, baffled and angry. Abruptly he tore the kirtle from her hand and his hot gaze raked up and down her young nakedness—but she saw no desire in his face, only a kind of grief.

  “Good-by, Constance,” he said, and turned on his heel and left her, walking fast away.

  Through tear-blurred eyes she watched him, as long as she could see him. And when he had disappeared over the horizon she felt a terrible emptiness, as if her world had been swept away. She had driven him away with lies. And he had left her with bitterness in his heart. She had faced a terrible choice and she had made it. By driving Dev away, she had given him back his life.

  She looked up into the night sky. The moon still shone, the stars were still as bright—but not to her. To her they had dimmed, for she had lost her lover.

  She crumpled up, weeping, on the grass.

  She was roused from her grief by a slight stirring of Hugh’s body nearby and she sat up in alarm. Hugh must not wake to find her like this—naked! God only knew what he would do to her! She dressed with the speed of panic and found a rock, set it down carefully near her hand, and sank down beside Hugh to wait. If Hugh staggered up and went charging off after Dev, she meant to bring him down—no matter what he did to her later!

  Time passed slowly. The white moon moved across the sky. She sat there surrounded by beauty, staring at emptiness. Her future seemed to spin out before her—a world bereft. She wondered if she would ever see Dev again.

  Beside her came a groan. Her fingers tightened on the rock. She leant down. “Are you all right?” she asked, trying to make her voice sound anxious, for there was nothing to be gained by further antagonizing Hugh.

  The body prone on the grass beside her gave another groan and a writhing of green satin garments. Abruptly Hugh’s eyes snapped open and he looked up at her in bewilderment. “What happened?” he demanded. “How did I get here?”

  He did not remember! Joy surged through Constance. Perhaps it would be a long time before he recalled what had happened, how he had been struck down—and in the meantime Dev could make good his escape!

  “We came here together,” she said gravely. “We were dancing. You were teaching me a new step and you slipped on the grass—you can see for yourself how slippery the dew has made it. And you fell and struck your head on a stone and I have been trying to rouse you ever since!” And as he came to his feet, “Come, we must get your wound attended to.” Of necessity, she clung to his arm, letting him bear her weight like a crutch, as they set out for Claxton House.

  “Why are you limping?” he demanded. “Did you fall too?”

  “No, you bore me down with you when you fell,” she said ruefully. “No matter, it will make us walk slowly but that will be the better for you as well, after your knock on the head.”

  He trudg
ed along beside her, his bull-like body uncaring of her weight. “I thought—there was someone else here,” he muttered in a dazed voice and shook his head dizzily to clear it.

  “No one,” she corrected him tranquilly. “Only ourselves.”

  By now Dev would have made it back to Claxton House. He would have collected his pistol and his few belongings. He would be on his way.

  “And you say we were dancing?” Hugh sounded as if he could not believe it.

  “Dancing,” she echoed firmly, and tears glittered in her eyes.

  The servants were stirring about when they reached Claxton House and several of them stopped to gape at the sight of Constance and Hugh limping in with the dawn. Her ankle was agony and she felt exhausted, drained—but she felt a stirring sense of triumph too, along with her sense of loss. Dev would be well away by now. And she could cover for him as long as Hugh’s mind remained confused—she would say Hugh had sent him out on some errand, oh, she would think of something!

  There was a great to-do about the young master’s injury, and Constance abetted it, explaining glibly how it had happened. Eyes were round and there were gasps at her story. Swiftly exchanged glances told her that everyone assumed the worst, I that she was having an affair with Hugh—and at Fountains! They all looked shocked.

  Sir John had been roused and told about it. He had ordered Hugh put to bed, a doctor fetched.

  The doctor did not reach Claxton House until afternoon and Hugh slept heavily until then. His head was carefully bathed and a poultice applied. The doctor looked wise and—since Sir John was wealthy and the doctor wished to retain his custom—he told them to change the poultices and call him at once if there was any change; Hugh would probably spend most of his time sleeping for a while.

  Hugh did. He slept the better part of three days.

  On the third day he sent for Constance.

  She found him alone in the handsome room, lying back, propped up against the pillows in the big canopied bed. He looked resentful and rested. His little piglike eyes glittered evilly at her.