A Rose in Winter (57 page)

Her mind began to fly in a chaotic frenzy. No good could come of the weapons he had taken from the chest. Indeed, the sight of them was a portent of a dangerous conflict. But with whom? Another Timmy Sears? Or a doddering old drunk?

Then a sudden coldness gripped Erienne's heart. The night rider wore black and took to ground when it was dark, doing his murdering by way of a sword and leaving his victims' blood spilled upon the turf. Christopher had a saber, and he was dressed in black. Hidden below was a powerful black steed that could fly like the wind. The combination of man and beast could be a most formidable one.

Erienne stepped out of the shadows and set a flame to the wick of her lantern, then hurried back along the passageway. There was little time to waste if she wanted to see what Christopher was up to. If she went to the cottage by foot, he and the stallion might be gone by the time she got there, leaving her questions unanswered. She had to see for herself if her fears had any basis.

It was only when she had reached the interior of the stable and had led forth the mare Morgana that she realized to go venturing out at night dressed as a woman was most foolhardy. As she debated her next course of action, her gaze fell on several garments hanging over a short line stretched in front of a stall, undoubtedly spread to dry after a washing. A shirt, a short-cropped coat, and a pair of boy's breeches were among the brief assortment and near enough to her size to be serviceable. They obviously belonged to Keats, but in consideration of the fact that he would suffer as much embarrassment as she would if she asked to use them, she thought the best thing to do was to borrow them without his knowledge. Snatching them off the line, she ran into the corner of an empty stall and hurriedly doffed her gown and chemise. The cold air touched on her bare skin, sending shivers along her flesh, and in desperate haste she yanked on the clothes. She had no time to lace the shirtf ront, though it gapped open well past her bosom. She covered it with the coat and took a silk sash from her gown, tying the sash about her waist to secure the breeches in place. They reached to just below her knees, leaving visible a shocking display of calves smoothly clad in white silk stockings. Her slippers had a reasonable heel and posed no problem, but her hair, having been left free to flow down her back, had to be tucked in a filthy tricorn she found. She grimaced as she tugged it on, wondering what kind of vermin she was inviting.

Ignoring her sidesaddle, she chose one fit for a man. With the help of an empty keg, she mounted to the seat and adjusted her position for a few moments. Being in almost direct contact with the saddle was an entirely new experience for her and not one she was sure she could long endure. Either she was too soft or the seat was too hard, but whatever the cause, it did not lend toward exceptional comfort.

Thumping her heels against the mare's side, she left the stables and cut a wide path away from the house, heading in the general direction of the cottage. Dusk had left the countryside bathed in a deep hue of magenta, but the oncoming shades of night were greedily nipping away at the dull light. It was only by chance that she caught sight of a dark-clad rider on a black horse already on the road and some distance ahead. Finding little doubt in her mind that it was Christopher Seton, Erienne gave chase. She had no thought of overtaking him, nor did she believe she could if it came to a race. Her intention was merely to see what he was up to and if she had any real reason to suspect that he was the fearsome night avenger.

The sphere of the moon severed its bond with earth and rose higher in the heavens to cast its silvery glow over the countryside, lending just enough light to show her the dark shape ahead. Over dale and hill, through brook and puddle, Erienne followed, sometimes only catching a glimpse of her quarry on a far-off rising. The distance between them extended, and when she lost sight of him, she began to worry that he had increased the lead. The road curved and wound its way around a shallow stream. Determining that the latter provided the straighter course, Erienne prodded the mare into the water, seeking to gain some ground. The hooves clattered along the rocky bed of the brook, echoing through the tunnel of trees that lined the way. It was an act of pure folly, for the one she followed had paused further ahead in the shadows.

Christopher's head came up as he heard the rattling hooves of an approaching horseman. He had been aware for some time that someone was behind him and decided the game had gone far enough. Whirling the black stallion about, he paralleled the road for a ways. He knew of a special place where he could properly greet the fellow.

Erienne guided the mare carefully up the slope from the stream, then urged it in a fast canter back to the road. She had lost sight of the dark rider, and the thought that he might have taken another direction make her push the steed even harder. She was passing a small embankment crowned with low trees when suddenly a black shape flew out at her from the brush. A scream was jolted from her as a hard body slammed into hers, and she was swept from the saddle.

Christopher realized his mistake on contact, for the one he carried with him was much too light and soft to be anything but a woman. He twisted in midair, taking the impact of the fall upon himself to save the frailer body. At the same time an angry whinny pierced the night air as the reins were jerked from Erienne's hand and the bit tore into the horse's mouth. Christopher had barely come to a halt in the dust of the road when he looked up to see the thrashing forefeet of the rearing mare. Recognition jolted through him at sight of the white stockings, and he knew at once who his unwilling guest was. Thinking the steed was bent upon some distraught vengeance, he threw himself across the twisting she-cat he held. The spritely mount leaped over them in a graceful arch, and in a rattle of hooves was gone, racing back in the direction she had come.

Christopher's attention was brought back abruptly to the little wild thing he had caught. In a frenzied effort to gain her release, she clawed his face with raking nails and sought to tear the hair from his head with grasping fists. He was hard pressed to defend himself until he caught the flailing arms firmly in his grasp and pressed them down, using his greater weight to subdue the Lady Saxton.

Erienne was trapped, held firmly in the middle of the dusty road. Her outraged struggles had loosened her hair and disarranged her clothes to the point that her modesty was savaged. Her coat had come open in the scuffle, and their shirts were twisted awry, leaving her bosom bare against a hard chest. The meager pair of breeches made her increasingly aware of the growing pressure against her loins. She was pinned almost face to face with her captor, and even though the visage was shadowed, she could hardly miss the fact of his identity or the half-leering grin that taunted her.

"Christopher! You beast! Let me go!" Angrily she struggled but could not influence him with her prowess.

His teeth gleamed in the dark as his grin widened. "Nay, madam. Not until you vow to control your passion. I fear before too long I would be somewhat frayed by your zealous attention."

"I shall turn that statement back to you, sir!" she retorted.

He responded with an exaggerated sigh of disappointment. "I was rather enjoying the moment."

"So I noticed!" she quipped before she thought, then bit her lip, hoping he might mistake her meaning.

He didn't. He was most aware of the effect her meagerly clad body had on him, and he replied with laughter in his voice. "Though you may choose to fault my passions, madam, they're quite honestly aroused."

"Aye!" she agreed jeeringly. "By every twitching skirt that saunters by!"

"I swear, 'tis not a skirt that attracts me now." Holding her wrists clasped in one hand, he moved his hand down along her flank and replied in a thoughtful tone, " 'Tis more like a pair of boy's breeches. What? Has my ambush yielded me a stable boy?"

Erienne's indignation found new fuel that he could so casually fondle her, as if he had a perfect right. "Get off, you... you... ass!" It was the most damaging insult she could think of at the moment. "Get off me!"

"An ass, you say?" he mocked. "Madam, may I point out that asses are to be ridden, and at the moment you are bearing my weight. Now, I know women are made to bear—usually their husbands or the seed they plant—but I would not suggest that you have the shape or looks even approaching an ass."

She ground her teeth in growing impatience at his wont to turn the simplest comment into an exercise of his wit. She could not bear the bold feel of him against her another moment. "Will you get off me?!"

"Certainly, my sweet." He complied as if her every wish was his command. Lifting her to her feet, he solicitously dusted her backside.

"Enough!" she cried. The breeches had lost much to old age and use and seemed far too light a layer to protect her from the familiarity of his hand.

He straightened, but his gaze did not raise to meet hers. Rather, it was directed downward, and her eyes followed quickly to find her breasts gleaming pale and bare between the gaping, plunging neckline of the shirt. With a shocked gasp, she snatched the wayward garments closed and struggled to secure the lacings. Then his attention dipped even farther, and he stared in rueful amazement at her lower half.

"Why are you wandering about in this outlandish garb, pray tell?"

Petulantly Erienne moved away from him and resumed dusting herself, having solved the problem of the shirt. "There are those," she answered sharply, "who would set upon a woman in the night, and 'twas my thought to pass unnoticed as a lad. I didn't know you were wont to leap out at passersby like a witless madman."

Christopher's eyes caressed the shapely backside and admired the way the breeches stretched tightly to her derriere when she knelt to retrieve the hat. "You weren't merely passing by, my lady," he pointed out. "You were following me. Why?"

Erienne whirled to face him. "Aye! That I was, and from what I see, someone should follow you to see what mischief you're up to!"

"Mischief?" His tone was one of innocence and surprise. "Now, why would you be thinking I'm up to mischief?"

She made a sweeping gesture with her hand, indicating the black garments he wore. "A black steed? Black clothes? Riding out at night? 'Twould appear that you have the same habits as the night rider."

Christopher smiled sardonically. "And, of course, you would have me murdering poor, simple folk while they sleep."

Erienne looked at him levelly. "I was going to ask you about that." She drew a deep breath to steady her voice. "If you were the night rider, why would you rnurder Ben?"

He returned the question to her. "If I were the night rider, why would I be so foolish as to murder a man who knew about my enemies? Do you call that wisdom, madam? Nay! I call that foolishness. But if I were one of those he could talk about, then I would have good reason to see him silenced before he told his tales."

Erienne dared not release a sigh of relief, for there were other names on the list of murder victims. "What of Timmy Sears?"

"What about him?" Christopher inquired. "A thief! A murderer!" He shrugged. "Perhaps he was even one of those who set fire to the wing at Saxton Hall."

"Did you kill him?" she asked.

"If I were the night rider, why would I be so foolish as to murder a man who blubbered tales, places, and names of my enemies? Neither is that wisdom, madam. I believe Timmy's mistake was in confessing too much to his friends. Not having the saintliness of priests, they sent him to a higher judgment."

"And the others who were killed?" she pressed.

"If I were the night rider, madam, I would protect myself to the point of killing those who try to take my life. I do not count that as murder."

"You are the night rider, aren't you?" she said with conviction.

"Madam, if the sheriff comes to you and asks the same about me, what can you tell him of a certainty? Why should I confess and possibly make of you a liar?"

Erienne stared at him, feeling suddenly confused. She could not bear the thought of him being hanged. The idea frightened her as much as if her own life were threatened. Perhaps even more so.

"Mind you, I make no confessions, madam."

"Nor do you make any denials," she responded.

He grinned and spread his hands innocently. "I had business abroad and with so many tales of highwaymen roaming about, I took what precautions I could to pass unnoticed, and, of course, I chose a swift horse. What else can you say against me?"

"You needn't waste your breath further, Mr. Seton. I am convinced that you are the one the sheriff is looking for. I don't as yet understand your reasons, but I hope they are honorable." Though she waited, no assurances came, and she realized she would hear none. Dusting off the tricorn, she glanced about for her mount and failed to see any sign of it. "You frightened off my horse. How am I going to get back home?"

Christopher raised his head and gave a low, warbling whistle. In the waiting silence, hoofbeats were heard, and then Erienne gasped as she caught sight of the glistening black steed galloping toward them. Freed from restraint, the stallion's unswerving direction gave her cause to wonder if he would stop. For safety's sake she stepped behind Christopher, cautiously taking hold of his shirt as the beast came to a skidding halt beside them. Having little trust for stallions or their temperament, she held her breath as she was lifted onto the back of the steed and gratefully accepted the comforting presence of the Yankee behind her. She allowed him to hold her against his warm body, and at the moment it didn't matter that the threadbare breeches did not provide much protection between the two of them.