A Rose in Winter (16 page)

Erienne closed her eyes, trying to calm her reeling mind. What had she done?

"O' course, there's got ter be a way ter keep that Seton bastard from havin' her. Hot in his britches for her, he is. I seen the way he eyed her in the coach, as if he'd 'ave taken her then and there. Aye, there's got ter be a way."

"Father, I beg you," Erienne pleaded. "Please don't do this to me."

Avery chortled suddenly, giving her no mind. "I'll post it, that's what I'll do. I'll have Farrell write it out for me. Ter wit!" He held up a finger, noting his would-be quotation. "One Christopher Seton will not be permitted to take part in the roup."

Chuckling like a mischievous imp, Avery sank onto the edge of a chair and, rocking to and fro in glee, slapped a hand down on a knee. His eyes gleamed as he already savored the revenge he would heap on his foe. He hardly noticed when his daughter ran from the room.

By midmorning of the next day the handbills were posted, and they proclaimed that a most unusual happening would occur ten days hence. The maid, Erienne Fleming, would be sold as a bride to the highest bidder. The roup was to be held in front of the inn, or if the weather posed a problem, inside in the common room. The bill beckoned all eligible men to count the number of coins in their purse, for a minimum bid would be set for the likes of such a talented and fair maid. At the bottom of the script, in bolder lettering, a clear note was written to one Christopher Seton, warning that he would not be allowed to take part.

Ben stumbled from the inn when he saw the tall Yankee sitting astride the dark stallion in front of the posting board. With his black-toothed grin, he peered up at Christopher and thumped the parchment. "Hears ye're banned from the roup, gov'na. The word's spreadin' faster'n I can spit 'bout this 'ere sport. Seein's as how ye said ye weren't in no marryin' mood, ol' Ben's been wonderin' what ye be up ter. Maybe the mayor gotta 'nother reason 'sides his boy for holdin' ye away from his girl."

"Not yet." The answer was blunt.

The ancient one cackled in glee. " 'At sounds like a threat ter me, gov'na."

Christopher gave a crisp, affirmative nod, and reining his horse-away, rode off at a leisurely trot. Ben watched for a moment, then hearing a clatter of hooves rapidly approaching from behind, he hastily dove aside, narrowly avoiding the threshing hooves as Timmy Sears rode past on his steed. The red-haired man gave the souse no heed as Ben jumped up to shake a threatening fist at his back. It was only after Timmy had passed a stride or two beyond earshot that Ben gave voice to several insults. In an outraged dither, the old man failed to notice that another rider was quickly closing in from the rear.

Haggard saw the rumpled form in his path and hauled back frantically on the reins, attempting to stop his shaggy, long-haired mount before he trod upon the man. The steed had a mind of his own, having been gelded far too late in life, and was still inclined to be of a stallion's stubborn temperament. The horse ignored his rider's command, failing to see the reason until the last possible moment, then he halted with a single stiff-legged bound. Haggie bounced twice in the saddle, coming down slowly after the last with a low, teeth-grinding moan and with his face tightly balled up in a grimace. Ben looked around and hurriedly stumbled aside, allowing the man a clear path to continue on his way. Haggard's style of horsemanship from that point on was a rather stilted one, with his body rigidly erect in the saddle and his legs clamped firmly about the barrel of his mount. It was the only way he could pursue his companion down the winding roads with any degree of comfort.

Christopher Seton bade farewell to the mate and stepped from the pilot's boat to climb the ladder onto the dock. He dusted his hands, settled his hat against the shifting afternoon breezes, and made his way with leisured stride to the Crimson Hind, a waterfront tavern known for its frosty ale, which was cooled in an ice cellar deep between its pilings. His mind was busy as he strolled along through the narrow streets that crowded close upon the waterfront.

Captain Daniels had returned from London with the ship, bringing back several purchases Christopher had made there. At morning's first light, he would set sail again and proceed to a spot Christopher had noted on the charts. There the captain would deposit the lot ashore, then return to Wirkinton for a space before sailing on to London and then plying the waters along the coasts. Until the hook was hauled, a rotation ashore for the crew had been arranged, giving many of them a few hours at the pubs while others manned and secured the vessel.

The Hind was empty this late afternoon, and a bored barkeep seemed to welcome Christopher's presence. The barkeep sent a boy for a fresh jug from the cellar and chatted endlessly until the customer was served with a frothy mug of the cool brew. Christopher took the tankard and chose a comfortable seat near the huge hearth that warmed the common room, there propping his feet on a low stool. He stared into the shifting flames while the fire danced and snapped in a mesmerizing ballet, but his mind was wandering far afield as a tumbling mass of black hair swirled through his thoughts. Beneath its fullness, dark-fringed violet-blue eyes glowed with their own light, the color in their depths shifting like a richly hued gemstone. A frown gathered the brows in anger, and the eyes grew cold and piercing. He searched his memory and selected a moment when they were bright and full of laughter, then held the vision in his mind.

A nose was added. Slim, straight, finely boned, yet ever so slightly pert, just short of stilted perfection. The features were delicate, the shape of the face neither narrow and pinched, nor wide and moonish, but softly oval, with gently rising cheekbones that were touched with a light blush of color.

A pair of lips formed in his imagination. Not the pouting rosebuds of the simpering
femmes
at Court, but gently curving and just wide enough to be expressive and alive. The corners deepened with a quirk as she scowled, and once more he sought until he found in his recollection a time when they had turned upward and the lips parted with laughter. There, his mind stayed and burned with the memory of their incredible softness beneath his own.

The rest of her came to him in a rush. The long, slender limbs and the body that possessed the trim, sleek grace of a cat and was neither rolling in folds of fat like the soft ladies of the evening, nor thin and bony, but with a subdued strength and honesty that lent her an easy, almost naive elegance. In all, she seemed totally unaware of her own beauty, and was simply Erienne, one apart and above all the others who dwelt in the depths of his memories.

She promised, in fact, to be that one who would neither lag behind nor charge ahead, but would rather stand beside or walk along with the man of her choice. It chastened him sorely that he was prevented from enjoying her company. It was also firm in his mind that she would be far better off removed from the tender care of her father and the good influence of her brother. It touched his mind that the roup would accomplish that. However, the odds of her leaping from the pan only to land in the fire were oppressive. He had seen enough of her suitors to rank them all in the category of fire and was sure at least several would be present and actively bidding.

Her taunt came back to haunt him. Hunchback! Scarred! Cripple! Her chances of winning a man with at least one of those qualifications were great. In fact, it began to appear as if she could hardly avoid it.

Christopher's reverie was shattered as a group of men came boisterously through the front door of the inn. There were some dozen of the chaps, and it soon became apparent that this was not the first pub they had visited. A loud, raucous voice rose above the rest, and Christopher turned his head to find Timmy Sears in the center of the mob and acting very much as if he were their leader.

" 'Ere, lads," he bellowed in rare good humor. "Belly up, and 'ave a stout on Timmy."

A chorus of rowdy cheers indicated the readiness of the others to accept the largess as Mr. Sears plunked down a hefty purse on the planks. A highly relieved barkeep hastened to set out his largest mugs and filled them with a like portion of ale. The crude jests and brutish repartee were silenced for a while as the eager fellows noisily worked their gullets to down the brew. Even the ever-present Haggard buried his nose in the foam and greedily slurped the stout while the overflow ran past the brim and down his cheeks and neck. Once the aching thirsts were satisfied, the conversations returned.

"Aargh!" Timmy cleared his throat loudly. "Even good bitters lose the flavor when 'ey're cooled too much. Should be warm as the day is, then a man can enjoy the taste." His wisdom was not lost on his companions as the round of nodding heads and murmured assents gave witness.

"Hey, Timmy!" a coarse voice crowed. A set of scarred knuckles rapped the plank near his purse. "Ye got yerself a good boodle here. Ye gonna get inter ol' Avery's roup?"

"Aye!" Sears braced his hands on the bar and swelled his chest. "An' I has set meself ter go as 'igh as ... oh... maybe a hun'erd pounds or so."

"Oiiee!" Another shook a limp hand in feigned amazement. "A hun'erd quid fer just a wench?"

Timmy scowled at the scoffer. "H'aint just a wench! H'it's fer a wife."

"But ye gots a wife," the other protested.

Timmy drew himself up and squinted at the ceiling reflectively. "An' just maybe if'n I gets this 'un, I'll have me a roup o' me own fer the old 'un."

"Haw!" Haggard barked out. "That 'un ain't worth ten bob, let alone a hun'erd quid."

Timmy's eyes narrowed as he glared at his hanger-on. " 'Tis too!" he declared trying to bolster the prospective value. "Why, she's got a lot o' good nights left in 'er."

"If that's so," another chimed in, "why ye want this one?"

" 'Cause I gots meself all 'ot fer her," Timmy gritted out with a broad grin. " 'At's why."

"I'll say ye 'ave!" an unidentified member guffawed. "Ever since ol' Molly tossed ye ov... uh!" An elbow in the ribs warned the man, but too much had gotten out.

"What's 'is?" Timmy glared around, his brows beetling menacingly. "What's 'is I hear? Do ye say Molly tossed me over?"

"Ahh," the man tried to soften Timmy with pity. "We all knows she's got 'erself all softheaded over 'at Yankee feller."

Timmy's lowered head swung in the manner of a bull setting for a charge as he tried to identify the bold one who taunted him so harshly. "Yankee?" he ground between clenched teeth. "Molly? Tossed me over, ye sez?"

"Aw, Timmy," the foolish one gave himself away. "Ain't yer fau—"

His word was interrupted by a meaty "thunk" as a broad fist slammed into his chin. The man staggered backward, flailing wildly as his numbed brain fought for balance until he sprawled across the low table beside that very one whom they had been discussing.

Christopher had seen him coming and seizing his mug, rose and quickly stepped out of the way. The abused one tumbled to the floor and rolled about, moaning. Christopher surveyed the damage and then calmly stepped over the man, moving out of the shadows where he had sat unnoticed.

Sears nearly choked as he recognized the Yankee, seeing him through a red haze. " 'Ere now, lads ..." he swaggered about in front of his comrades while trying to find a clear path between the tables to his enemy, the one he blamed for most of his woes, "... is the very Yankee we was speakin' o'. Ye can see the cut o' him clear now. Sort o' foppy an' dandy, as if he can't dress himself like the rest o' us."

Haggard leaned forward to see better until he caught Timmy's smartly sweeping arm alongside his head. He shook the offended member, then dug a finger in his ear to clear a persistent ringing.

"Mr. Sears," Christopher softly but firmly addressed the red-haired man in the sudden hush that filled the room, "I have heard enough of your foolish drivel in the past few moments to last me a lifetime." He had not been in the best of moods when the group entered. His temper had been well tested in the past days, and he trod very near to the edge of losing it entirely. He was not inclined to tolerate more inanity.

Timmy was not a complete fool. Considering the way the Yankee moved, he decided it was best to employ a bit of aid on his own behalf. He could get his own licks in after the others had softened the man up a mite.

"Ye see, lads," he challenged them, "this 'ere is 'at same rebel who come ter our Mawbry town and 'as all the womenfolk goin' around in a froth. Why, the way they's been battin' his name about ye can just bet he's been sneakin' from bed ter bed. Even Molly is all upset wid him, an' ye can see he ain't up ter payin' her price wid all 'at free stuff hangin' on his arm."

Timmy gave no notice to the fact that while he spoke other men had entered the place and spread out behind his group to listen. Haggard was the only one who worried over the fact that the sun had sunk, that the tars from the ships were coming ashore, and that the newcomers were strangely garbed for English seamen. Nervously he tugged at Timmy's sleeve to get his attention.

"Not now, Haggie." Timmy brushed him away without a glance and continued, trying to rouse his rabble. "We gots us Mr. Yankee Seton 'ere, who's fondled the mayor's daughter once too often and got hisself banned from the roup. He's too fancy for good ol' Molly, and she a right proper doxy, too. Why, no matter how many times she's comforted us lads, she takes a good bath every Saturday, regular as a clock, and he just looks down his cocky long nose at her."

An angry murmur rose from his companions at this obvious affront against the gentle one they all knew so well. Christopher casually sipped his ale as the door swung open and several more sailors entered, one of them a tall, gray-haired man in a long blue coat, the sort that captains were prone to wear. He hung back with the rest of the tars while he surveyed the scene.