Folly's Reward (7 page)

Prudence rapidly counted out the coin as Hal organized the transfer of her luggage from the cart. Then she bundled Bobby into the chaise and began to climb in beside him.

“Please ask the driver to start with all haste,” she said to the white-whiskered gentleman. “I don’t wish to lose a moment.”

Now that the time had come, she wasn’t sure how to say good-bye to Hal, but the coach’s owner did not realize that this was a sensitive moment.

“Och aye, ma’am, all’s ready.” The man turned to Hal and began to count coins into his palm. “Here’s your wages, sir, less my commission. Have a good journey and take care of my horses.”

Prudence put her head out of the window, and saw Hal spring up onto the box to take up the whip.

“Why, you double-dyed, insolent, unconscionable knave!”

His voice floated back down to her. “What, Miss Drake, aren’t you going to offer me congratulations? I have just secured honest employment, so that I may hold up my head in society, and you accuse me of being a wastrel? Your driver, dear angel, is at your service.”

As the horses sprang forward, Prudence pulled down the blind with a thud. How could he? But since the man with the eye-patch was already inside the Cock and Ninepins, this was no time to remonstrate.

Let Hal drive her to Carlisle if he liked! Then she would lose him once and for all, even if the loss devastated her.

* * *

Light, soft and pink. It must be dawn.

Prudence opened the shade and looked back as Hal drove the chaise steadily up out of the fertile valley of the Clyde. The Campsie Fells and the mountains of Argyle rose up behind the sun-tipped spires of Glasgow. It was clear enough to see the peak of Ben Lomond, washed with rose and primrose.

A lump rose in her throat. She was about to pass through the country of her childhood, and she had never left Scotland before.

It took more than three hours to reach Lanark. Hal drove steadily, accurately, and fast, but the road took precipitous turns through the craggy country.

While the horses were being changed, Prudence bought a large basket of provisions at the inn, while Hal indulged himself with venison pie and a bottle of wine.

“Now,” he said, smiling down at her. “Why not let Bobby sit up here with me?”

“Yes, please!” the boy squealed. “Please!”

Prudence frowned up at Hal. “Not fair!”

“Please, Miss Drake! Please! I’ll be a very good boy.”

“Yes,” Hal said. “Not fair. So why don’t you sit up here with us, as well?”

“I have no other choice, do I?” she said with justifiable anger.

The little boy clambered up onto the box.

She followed, then leaned to hiss in Hal’s ear. “You shall not get away with this again, sir. To use the child to trap me like this.”

Hal only grinned. “Shameless, I know. But worth it, even if you frown all the way to Carlisle. This is your country, after all. And just look at it!”

And yes, it was worth it.

Hal drove up across the bleak, treeless tops of the Southern Uplands, past Crawford and the gold and lead-rich Elvan Water, the great peak of Lowther Law rising ahead. Water sparkled everywhere, for these open wastes were the headwaters of both the Clyde and the Nith.

At last they left the straggle of heather-thatched mining villages behind, and trotted on past Ballencleuch Law, looming threateningly to the left as a shadow cast by the high floating clouds darkened the peak for a moment.

Magnificent, wild, lovely country! Her own.

Yet Prudence choked down a renewed rush of fear. What had she undertaken to do? When she had promised old Lady Dunraven to take Bobby away into hiding, she had never thought for one moment that deadly pursuit might be so close on her trail.

She glanced down at Hal’s beautiful hands, so very competent and powerful, as he guided the horses. It was madness, perhaps, but she knew a rush of gratitude that he was with her.

The sun blazed out once again, throwing a shaft of golden light across her skirts. The carriage rocked as Hal pulled up the horses.

“Below us, if the directions of our kind chaise-owner are correct, is Nithsdale, and it’s all downhill from here,” he said. “Shall we have a picnic dinner?”

Prudence thought of that long scar running down below an eye-patch.

“Must we stop? I wish we might hurry.”

“Good God, angel, we are hurrying. It is usual, I understand, to make Glasgow to Carlisle a two-day journey. I need a break, and so do the horses. We’ll still be in Carlisle well before midnight. Isn’t that good enough?”

Prudence colored. Hal had been driving for over nine hours, counting the time in the pony cart. It would take another seven or eight hours, at least, to reach Carlisle. There were several roads south out of Glasgow.

Even if the man with the eye-patch had discovered that a woman with a blond boy had been trying to get a seat on the Carlisle coach, he could not know which way they had gone. Hopefully, his inquiries had taken some time. The innkeeper hadn’t seemed the type to easily volunteer much information.

She gazed away across the hills and found without surprise that she was close to exhaustion herself. Then she saw why Hal had stopped in this particular spot.

A scattering of huge granite boulders lay beside the turn of the road. Several trees were growing in their beneficent shelter. It was a perfect spot to bait the horses and sit in the sun for a picnic.

For below them stretched a wide glen and—magically claiming her attention—an ancient castle, isolated and ruined, towered at the mouth of a narrow gorge, where a stream fed snowmelt from the peaks into the valley. Water leaped and foamed, throwing spume high against the moss-covered walls. Trees clustered thickly, some having taken root in the walls of the gorge itself, so the castle seemed to float as if it were unreal—a mirage that might disappear at any moment.

“It seemed,” Hal said with his light humor as he examined the scene, “that this was a particularly romantic and picturesque spot, which deserved our admiration, if not our rapturous breaking into verse. But, alas, the only poetry to which I can bend my wanton tongue would be most unsuitable for the scene below us, don’t you think?”

So Prudence found herself climbing down from the carriage, wishing that she might be anywhere but here—with this uncertain rogue, on a treacherously lovely day, in a heartbreakingly beautiful place.

Bobby raced about on the grass, laughing and skipping. Hal took the basket from the chaise, then unwrapped his own provisions, which he had tied up in a square of cloth. He spread a blanket from the carriage and invited Prudence to sit.

Far from displaying the retiring habits of a servant, Hal dropped down beside her. He shrugged out of his jacket and used it to make a cushion for her back. Then he leaned his shoulders against the sloping wall of granite and stretched out his lean, strong legs, his booted feet negligently crossed at the ankle, so that Prudence was painfully aware of the graceful lines of his body.

Bobby curled up beside Hal. They of course shared their food. It was a perfect, marvelous picnic that left Prudence devastated.

For as they feasted on the fresh bread and fruit, the cold meats and cheeses, Hal began to tell Bobby a story. He wove into the tale every element of high romance that could be imagined, and then took the story into flights of wonder.

The ruined castle became populated before her eyes with stalwart, long-haired warriors, armor shining; lovely princesses, sad with longing; scaly dragons breathing fire; swart hobgoblins, trolls, and giants; and wild swans keening their wild cries overhead. Forests became enchanted; trees had voices; and flowers sprang wherever maidens put their feet.

When Hal finished, Bobby—every sense filled and satisfied, eyes shining with happiness—fell asleep against the storyteller’s knee. Hal gently picked the child up and carried him to the chaise.

Prudence stood and leaned against the great outcropping of granite that had sheltered them. She closed her eyes and let the warm afternoon sunshine beat down on her lids. For no reason she could fathom, tears pricked. A painful lump blocked her throat. She felt lost. Voiceless, humbled, entranced, searching for some thread to hold her to the earth.

A light touch brushed across her hair, and a hand was gently laid over her closed lids.

“No,” Hal’s voice said. “Don’t open your eyes.”

Prudence trembled, blinded by his fingers, her senses alert to him: his clean scent mingled faintly with that of leather and horses; the knowledge that he towered over her, slim and lean; the clear memory of his features; the soft, regular rhythm of his breath.

“For only a moment, angel,” he whispered into her ear. “For one moment out of time, relax. This is the enthralling land of Faerie. No rules apply here.”

His hand dropped away, but Prudence knew only her disturbing longing. Her closed eyes must block her tears. Yet a tremor ran over her skin. Her legs swayed.

She felt him pull the pins from her hair.

It fell lightly around her neck and across her shoulders. She could feel it being smoothed back, until his long, firm fingers cradled her face, then slipped behind her head. Subtle, delicious sensations, lovelier than she had ever imagined.

Prudence did not dare to look into that long-lashed harebell gaze. So to her shame, like the princess of the fairy tale, she stood enchanted, as Hal touched her shaking lips with his own and began to tease nectar from her mouth.

Ah, the delicate, wild, insistent taste of his lips! All while he was stroking her hair in long, sensuous waves down her back. Her longing pooled in her heart, desperate, filled with wonder.

“Your hair is shining in the sun like the magic strands of silk that bound the jester to his lute,” he murmured against her mouth. “With your hair down, you are someone else. Be that person while you may, angel. ‘Let us go, while we are in our prime / And take the harmless folly of the time!’ You may be as angry with me as you like afterward. After all, when we get to Carlisle, I won’t be employed any longer, will I?”

His touch disappeared. Prudence opened her eyes to see him striding away toward the horses. She sank to the ground and squatted there for a moment with her hand over her mouth.

Oh, dear Lord! She was nothing better than a hussy. She hadn’t objected, or pushed him away, or closed her mouth. Miss Prudence Drake had stood there like a ninny, seduced by a fairy tale, and had her senses sweetly ravished.

She forced herself to stand. Squaring her shoulders, she pulled replacement pins out of her pocket. Rapidly she put up her hair.

The carriage horses looked at her over their nosebags as Prudence climbed back into the chaise next to the sleeping child. A few moments later, she heard Hal untie the horses, put the feedbags away, and climb onto the box.

In the next hour they had dropped down into the valley and passed through the long village of Thornhill. They would reach Dumfries in two hours. By the time they came into Annan, it would be dark. Before midnight they would reach Carlisle, where there would be innumerable coaches to England, and she could say good-bye to Hal forever.

Prudence felt the force of that future with a strange desolation, as tears slipped silently down her cheeks.

* * *

The chaise lurched to halt. She awoke to a confusion of shouts and curses. Bobby startled beside her and cried out.

Hal’s voice, soothing, yet authoritative, countered the sounds of several men and a woman, screaming and wailing.

Hal came to the door and looked in.

“I am very sorry, Miss Drake,” he said formally. “There has been a small accident. No one is hurt, but the road is blocked. We may have to stop here for some time.”

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Where are we?”

He turned away for a moment and made inquiries.

“Two hours from our destination,” he said after a moment. “We lack but fourteen miles or so to Carlisle. Longtown and romantic Lochinvar are lost in the murky dark ahead of us. We are stranded at Graitney.”

Prudence peered from the coach window, her arm around Bobby. The child stared wide-eyed into the night. They seemed to be in the main street of a small village. Beyond a straggle of houses, the countryside stretched away into a flat, barren darkness.

Several men ran up with torches. The road ahead was blocked by a large wagon, which was entangled with an overturned carriage. The occupants, a young girl and a man at least ten years her senior, were standing in the road arguing.

“I shan’t marry you at all!” the girl cried. “Look what you’ve done! You’ve run us into a great haywain, dumped me into the road, and spoiled my pelisse.”

“By God, Sarah,” the man returned. “If all you can mind is your damned pelisse, I’ll be glad to let you go home to your father without a wedding, and that’s the Lord’s own truth.”

The girl began to wail in great wrenching sobs.

“I believe,” Hal said with a swallowed smile. “That we are witnessing the ruins of an elopement. I am given to understand that it is less than a mile to the border. But whatever we may think about the young lady’s dashed hopes, her swain has crashed his carriage against that large wagon and we cannot pass. Shall we go into the inn and refresh ourselves while we await developments?”

Prudence took Bobby by the hand and climbed from the chaise. A boy ran out from the inn and took charge of their carriage. She allowed Hal to give her his arm, and they walked together into Graitney Hall, the only inn in the place.

“Here comes the couple, Mr. Scott!” someone cried as Hal pushed open the door and they stepped inside.

“Ah, the poor tired bairn!” a plump woman in an apron said. “He’d like some warm milk in the kitchen, I’ll be bound.”

A rotund man with a smile like a hay rake beamed at Hal and Prudence. He seemed to be splendidly foxed, and most likely the proprietor.

“Bless you, my dears!” he cried. “What might your names be now?”

Before anyone else could speak, Bobby looked up at him.

“I am Lord Dunraven,” the child said boldly. “And that’s Prudence, Miss Drake, and that’s Hal the silkie man.”

“Then before these witnesses and almighty God, I declare you, Mr. Hal Silkiman, and you, Miss Prudence Drake, man and wife and bound together in holy matrimony from this day forth. That’ll be a shilling. Write up the paper, Jimmy! Go on, lad, kiss your bride!”