Thunder & Roses

by Mary Jo Putney

  When she couldn't have lasted a second longer without gulping water into her burning lungs, he kicked upward and they broke into air. Again she clung to Nicholas while she struggled for breath. "Brave girl," he murmured, stroking her back.

  "Not brave," she gasped. "And not a girl. What I am is a very cross spinster schoolmistress."

  He laughed and kissed her again. She had the right to stop him—he was already well over his limit—but she didn't. His kisses gave her courage, and she needed all she could find. She would worry about her morals when they were safe above ground.

  Desire throbbed through her, revitalizing her fatigued body. It took time to realize that the pulsing rhythm was not only inside her, but all around them, shivering through the stone and water. Lifting her head, she said with relief, "The pump is working again." Cautiously she felt for the floor and found that she could stand and keep her face above water, though only just.

  "Hallelujah. This calls for a celebratory kiss." Again he drew her into his arms and sought her mouth with his.

  Laughing, she pushed away from him. "Don't you think of anything but kissing?"

  "Occasionally," he admitted, "but not by choice." He caught her into his arms and lifted her so that their mouths were level.

  Each time it was easier for her to melt into his kiss. Once again, she found herself floating in a heady mixture of water and desire. Paradise in a coal pit....

  Struggling for sense, she leaned back and said, "If we don't stop this, the water will start boiling."

  "Clarissima!" he said with pleasure. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

  Fortunately he didn't try to kiss her again, since her willpower was at a very low ebb. After setting her down, he put an arm around her shoulders and they went on.

  They soon reached a wall, which gave a metallic rattle when Nicholas investigated with his free hand. "I think we've reached the door where Huw was trapper."

  The area seemed mercifully free of small drowned bodies. Nicholas ducked down and went through the submerged door, then called for Clare to follow.

  When she came up on the other side, blinking, she was overjoyed to see approaching candles. Half a dozen men were splashing toward them through waist-deep water, Owen in the lead. He called, "Clare, Nicholas, is that you?"

  "We're both here and fine," Nicholas answered as he helped Clare to her feet. "Did you get Huw out safely?"

  "Aye, though it was a near thing. After swimming to a higher level, I had to take him up to grass. The poor mite was terrified of staying in the pit."

  "There's a drowned man back in the shaft," Clare said soberly. "Have there been any other casualties?"

  "That would be Bodvill, rest his soul," Owen said. "But no one else was killed or hurt badly. We are lucky."

  One of the other miners said, "We'll go after Bodvill now."

  "He's not far beyond the section where the ceiling is lower," Nicholas said.

  The miner nodded, then led three of the other men toward the metal door. The water had been falling steadily, and it was now possible to take lighted candles through.

  As Clare and the others began splashing toward the main gallery, Owen said, "Sorry it took so long to reach you. There's a section ahead that was impassable until the pump was repaired."

  "No harm done, though I've spent more enjoyable afternoons," Nicholas said dryly. "Is every day like this, or was the excitement arranged for my special benefit?"

  Owen sighed. "I only wish that today was unusual."

  The accident would have one good outcome, Clare thought as she slogged wearily through the water. Now that Nicholas's attention had been engaged, she was willing to wager that soon there would be changes at the mine.

  Chapter 11

  Knowing how exhausted Clare was, Nicholas wrapped a firm arm around her as the creaking rope lifted them to the surface. After carrying her through the flooded mine, he certainly didn't want to lose her on the last leg of the trip. She leaned against him wearily, apparently glad for his support.

  At the top, he swung over to solid ground, then helped Clare dismount. The wind was freezing through their soaked clothing.

  Huw waited anxiously at the top. His expression lightened when he saw Owen, who had come up at the same time as Nicholas and Clare. "It's glad I am that you're safe, Mr. Morris. This is a wicked place."

  Owen patted the boy on the shoulder. "Mining is not so bad, Huw, though it's not to every man's taste."

  "I swear to Lord Jesus that I won't go down there again," the boy said in a solemn voice that was vow, not blasphemy.

  As he spoke, the whim gin brought several more men to the surface. One of them, a tall, lanky fellow with a red face, bellowed, "I heard that, Huw-boy, and I don't want to hear it again. To stop your whimpering, I'm going to take you down pit again right now."

  The child's small face went dead white. Quavering but determined, he said, "N... no, Da, I won't go."

  "I'm your father, and you'll do what I tell you," the man growled. Stepping forward, he reached for Huw's wrist.

  The boy shrieked and scuttled behind Owen. "Please, Mr. Morris, don't let him take me."

  Owen said mildly, "The lad almost drowned, Wilkins. He needs warm food and his bed, not another trip down pit."

  "This is none of your affair, Morris." Wilkins made another lunge for his son, almost falling over in the process.

  Owen's face hardened. "You're drunk. Leave the boy alone until you're sober."

  The miner exploded like gunpowder, waving a bony fist and snarling, "Don't tell me what to do with my son, you canting Methodist bastard."

  Owen sidestepped neatly. Then, with visible satisfaction, he downed his assailant with a well-placed blow to the jaw. As Wilkins lay stunned on the ground, Owen knelt by the child. "You had best come to my house for tea, Huw," he said gently. "Your da is in a temper today."

  Nicholas winced at the distress in the boy's face, for it reminded him of his own childhood. And the way Owen talked to Huw made Nicholas think of Reverend Morgan.

  Not liking the memories stirred, he turned away in time to see Wilkins stagger to his feet, his short-handled miner's pick in his hand. Face ugly with rage, he raised the pick and started to swing at the back of Owen's head.

  As shouts of warning rose, Nicholas stepped forward and wrenched the pick from the other man's hands, twisting it with such force that Wilkins fell to the ground again. Roaring, the miner started to scramble to his feet.

  Nicholas kicked the other man in the belly, sending him sprawling on his back. Then he lowered the pick and rested the center of the heavy metal head on Wilkins' throat. The miner smelled of cheap whiskey. He wasn't fit to keep a dog, much less a child. "I have an offer for you," Nicholas said coolly. "The boy is willful and has no taste for the pit, so he's obviously no use to you. May I take him off your hands for, say, twenty guineas? That's as much as he'll earn in years as a trapper, and you won't have the cost of food or clothing."

  Blinking confusedly, Wilkins said, "Who the devil are you?"

  "I'm Aberdare."

  Wilkins' face twisted. Heedless of his precarious position, he sneered, "So the Gypsy has a taste for little boys. Is that why your lady wife couldn't stand the sight of you?"

  Nicholas clenched the handle of the pick convulsively, fighting the urge to ram the tool through the man's throat. "You haven't said whether you'll part with your son," he said when he had regained his control. "Twenty guineas, Wilkins. Think how much whiskey that will buy."

  Mention of money gave the miner pause. After laborious thought, he said, "If you want the brat, you can have him for twenty-five guineas. God knows he's worthless. Does nothing but whine and wail and ask for more food."

  Nicholas glanced at the gathered miners who had silently watched the scene. "You'll all bear witness to the fact that Mr. Wilkins is voluntarily relinquishing all rights to his son Huw for the sum of twenty-five guineas?"

  Most of the onlookers nodded, their expressions sho
wing their disgust for a man who would sell his own son.

  Nicholas removed the pick so Wilkins could climb heavily to his feet. "Give me your direction. The money will be delivered this evening. My steward will need a receipt for the boy."

  After Wilkins nodded, Nicholas tossed the pick aside and said silkily, "Now that you are standing, would you care to make any more slanders about my personal life? I'm not armed—we can discuss your statements strictly man to man."

  Though the miner outweighed Nicholas by at least two stone, his gaze slid away. Under his breath, so only Nicholas could hear, he muttered, "Bugger who you want, you Gypsy bastard."

  Weary of Mr. Wilkins, Nicholas turned away and said to Owen, "If I pay Huw's expenses, will you foster him with your own children? Or if that's not possible, do you know another suitable family?"

  "Marged and I will take him." Owen lifted the boy in his arms. "Would you like to come with me for always, Huw? Mind, you'll have to go to school."

  Tears filled the child's eyes. He nodded, then buried his face against Owen's neck.

  As Owen patted Huw's back, Nicholas reflected cynically on the power of money. For a mere twenty-five guineas, a child could have a new life. Of course, noble blood was more expensive; Nicholas had cost the old earl four times as much. No doubt the price would have been higher if he hadn't had the Gypsy taint.

  Face set, he turned away. What mattered was that Huw was going to people who would treat him with kindness.

  Throughout the scene, Clare had been watching in silence, her blue eyes penetrating. When Nicholas glanced at her, she said, "There may be hope for you yet, my lord."

  "Don't get any wrongheaded ideas about my philanthropy," he snapped. "I acted from sheer perversity."

  She smiled. "Heaven forbid that you should be associated with a good deed. Why, you could be drummed out of the Society of Rakes and Rogues for that."

  "They can't expel me, I'm a founding member," he retorted. "Go change into your dry clothes before you freeze to death. And you're going to need a bath—you're wearing so much coal dust that you look like a chimney sweep."

  "So do you, my lord." Still smiling, she went into the smaller shed where she had left her garments.

  Nicholas, Owen, and Huw went into the other shed. Though Owen usually worked until later, the flood had thrown normal operations into chaos, so he had decided to take Huw home early.

  As he changed into his own clothes, Nicholas said quietly, "You're sure Marged won't object to your bringing home a child?"

  "She won't mind," Owen assured him. "Huw's a bright, good-natured lad, and more than once Marged has said she wished he was ours. Since Wilkins wouldn't let the boy go to Sunday school, she has been teaching him his alphabet and numbers when she has the chance. Feeding him, too. Poor lad is always hungry."

  As they talked, Huw tugged off his wet, ragged shirt, revealing a bony back striped with ugly welts. Nicholas frowned when he saw the marks. "I'm tempted to go outside and tear Wilkins' head off. Or would you rather do the honors?"

  "Don't tempt me," Owen said ruefully. "It's better to let it alone now that Wilkins has agreed to give up the boy. He spent years in the army, and he loves any excuse to fight. No point in making him more of an enemy than he is already. Besides," he continued piously, "our Lord was against violence."

  Nicholas grinned and pulled on his coat. "This from a man who laid Wilkins out as neatly as any professional boxer?"

  "Sometimes one must be firm with the ungodly," Owen said with a twinkle in his eyes. "Even Jesus lost his temper and drove the moneychangers from the temple."

  Huw came over and took Owen's hand trustingly. Again Nicholas thought of Reverend Morgan. Buying the boy from his brutish father had been one of Nicholas's better impulses.

  As the three of them left the shed, Nicholas saw that Bodvill's body had been brought up the shaft and was being laid beside the banksman's hut. Supervising was a massive man with miner's muscles, expensive clothing, and an undeniable air of authority. Owen muttered, "That's Madoc."

  Nicholas had guessed as much. Though he wanted to meet the manager, he would prefer to do it under other circumstances. He looked around tor Clare and saw that she was emerging from the other shed, dressed in her boy's riding clothes. Given the number of people milling around, it would be easy to collect her and the horses and leave unobtrusively.

  Luck wasn't with them. As Madoc turned away from the drowning victim, his gaze fell on Clare. "What are you doing here, you little troublemaker?" he barked. "I told you to keep your pious arse away from the pit."

  Here was another head that should be torn off, but Nicholas had come to the pit to investigate, not start a war. Before Clare could answer, he stepped forward and said peaceably, "If you're angry, blame me. I asked Miss Morgan to bring me here."

  Madoc swung around. "Who the hell are you?"

  "The Earl of Aberdare."

  The manager looked momentarily disconcerted. Then his bluster returned. "You're trespassing, Lord Aberdare. Get off the property, and stay off."

  "The mining company leases this land from the Davies estate," Nicholas said with deceptive calm. "Remember, I still own it. Better manners might be in order."

  With visible effort, Madoc curbed his anger. "I apologize for my abruptness, but there's been a fatal accident and it's a bad time for visitors." His eyes suddenly narrowed as a thought struck him. "Have you already been down pit?"

  "Yes. A memorable experience," Nicholas said with massive understatement.

  Madoc swung around, glaring at all the assembled workers. "Who's responsible for taking Aberdare down?"

  Guessing that anyone admitting to the deed would be discharged on the spot, Nicholas gave Owen a warning glance, then said, "Again, the fault is mine. I may have given the impression that I had your permission. Your employees were most helpful."

  The manager appeared to be on the point of apoplexy. "I don't care if you are an earl and the owner of this land," he growled. "You've no right to sneak around behind my back and lie to my laborers. I've half a mind to call the law on you."

  "Go right ahead," Nicholas said pleasantly. "I haven't seen the inside of a jail lately, and I'm due. But my old friend Lord Michael Kenyon still owns the mine, doesn't he? I've been meaning to call on him now that I've returned. He might not approve of such discourtesy on his premises."

  Madoc's uneasiness showed in the sharpness of his reply. "Go right ahead. His lordship gave me full authority over the mine, and never once has he disapproved of my actions."

  "I'm sure he finds it a great comfort to have a manager who is so conscientious," Nicholas said with irony. He glanced at Clare, who had quietly brought out the horses. "Shall we leave, Miss Morgan? I've seen everything I wish to see."

  She inclined her head and they both mounted. Nicholas could feel Madoc's gaze boring into his back as they rode from the premises. If looks could kill, he would be a dead man.

  When they were well away from the mine, he said, "I've made two enemies and it isn't even teatime. Not a bad day's work."

  "It's not a joke," Clare said sharply. "Nye Wilkins is the sort who might get drunk one night and decide to set fire to your stables as a way of getting even for humiliating him."

  "And Madoc is worse. I see why asking him to make improvements has been a waste of time. A very dangerous man."

  She looked at him in surprise. "I've always felt that, but I thought my judgment was colored by my dislike of the mine."

  "Madoc is a bully and petty tyrant who will fight to the death to maintain his power. If threatened, he would be as vicious as a weasel," Nicholas said thoughtfully. "I've seen his sort before. It amazes me that Michael hired such a man, much less that he's satisfied with Madoc's performance. I'm beginning to wonder what the devil Michael has been doing for the last few years. He can't be dead or I would have heard, but he has become amazingly neglectful of things that are important to him."

  "Perhaps they no longer seem as important," she s
uggested. "People can change in four years."

  "True. Yet it surprises me that Michael would change in the direction of indifference. He always cared a great deal about things. Often he cared too much." Idly Nicholas stroked his horse's neck, his mind on the past. "When I get to London, I'll ask our mutual friend Lucien where Michael is, and what he's been doing. Lucien knows everything about everyone."

  Remembering that Marged had mentioned the name, Clare said, "Is Lucien another of your Fallen Angel friends?"

  Nicholas looked at her in astonishment. "Good Lord, has that old nickname made it all the way to Wales?"

  "I'm afraid so. Where did the name come from?"

  "The four of us—Lucien, Rafael, Michael, and me—became friends at Eton," he explained. "In London, we often went about together. The fashionable world loves nicknames, and some hostess dubbed us the Fallen Angels because we were young, a little wild in the way young men often are, and two of the group had the names of archangels. It meant nothing."

  "The story I heard was that you were all as handsome as angels, and as wicked as devils," she said demurely.

  He grinned. "Gossip is a wonderful thing—much more interesting than the truth. We weren't saints, but neither did we break any major laws, bankrupt our families, or ruin any young ladies' lives." He considered. "At least, none of us had at the time we acquired the nickname. I can't vouch for what anyone has done in the last four years."

  Hearing the regret in his voice, she said, "You must be looking forward to seeing your friends again."

  "I am. Michael may have fallen off the face of the earth, but Lucien has a post at Whitehall and Rafe is active in the House of Lords, so they are almost certainly in London now." He glanced at her. "We'll leave day after tomorrow."

  Clare's jaw dropped. "You're really taking me to London?"

  "Of course. I said so the day you came to Aberdare with blackmail on your mind."

  "But... but you had been drinking. I thought you'd forget, or think better of it."

  "What could be better than getting you a suitable wardrobe? Although the way that old shirt clings is quite fetching. Are you wearing anything underneath it?"