Jamintha (7 page)

Something had changed all that.

My mind went blank for a moment, and there was darkness and rumbling sounds and it seemed I could see a cloud of dust and hear a scream. I felt the pain, the fear. I closed it out. Quickly, quickly I mentally ran away from that horror waiting just beyond my conscious memory. I could feel the pulses at my temples begin to throb. I pressed them tightly with my fingertips, willing the headache away, refusing to give in to it.

I saw the pale little girl with long braids who stood in the office of the head mistress. The child wore a dull brown dress and a heavy brown coat and carried a heavy suitcase. She was trembling, awed and frightened. Oh yes, I remembered that first day well enough, and I remembered each day that followed. What had transformed the merry child into the drab sparrow? A tragedy had occurred, true, but children are resilient. Children get over such things after a reasonable period of time. I never did. All gaiety was gone forever. Something had happened, and it had been so terrible that it had completely altered my personality.

The accident? Had I seen it happen? Had I seen something else as well?

I thought about Charles Danver and his reason for sending for me. The name Danver was important, and it would embarrass him if any of his business associates learned he had a niece who had been forced to seek employment. The motive was sound, but was it sound enough to justify bringing me to Danver Hall? He could have made other arrangements for me. Having me in his home was part of some scheme. I was certain of it. There was a reason for my being here, and it wasn't merely to avoid embarrassment. A man like Charles Danver wouldn't have taken such a step unless he had a definite purpose in mind.

What could that purpose be? Was I imagining things? I wasn't given to fancies, nor did I dramatize myself as did so many girls my age. I was cool and logical, and my logic told me that something was wrong.

If only Jamintha were here. I could confide in her. She would listen to me, and she would understand. She would tell me what to do, advise me, share my problems as she had shared them at school.

I sat on the rock for over an hour, lost in thought, staring at the shimmering reflection in the water without seeing it. The waterfall continued to spill over the rock, spray glittering with misty violet and blue and gold facets as it fanned in the air. I stood up, ready to leave now, my mind at ease. I would wait. There was nothing I could do but wait and see what happened. Worrying would not help, nor would fretting about my situation. I must take each day as it came. I resolved to do that.

My skirt was damp from spray, and a few wisps of hair had escaped from their prison to rest lightly on my temples. Moving back through the crevice, I left my private place, but I did not turn back the way I had come. Instead, I continued to follow the well worn path, winding among the enormous stones and eventually reaching the barren ground again. The land was hilly here, rolling with sudden slopes, and there were cracks where the earth had split open. There were gleaming black stretches of peat here too, these unmarked by any stakes, and a few trees grew, stark in the emptiness, twisted into bizarre shapes by the tormenting wind.

I was not lost. I did not consciously know where I was, but I knew I could find my way back to Danver Hall, just as I had found my way to the pool with its mossy bank. I knew this land, responded to it with a part of myself, and years of separation had made no difference. I walked over the rocky slopes, the wind a live thing accompanying me every step of the way, caressing my cheeks with vigorous strokes, lifting my skirts. My braids were beginning to come undone, strands of hair spilling out of place, but I paid no attention. I was not used to this much exercise, but it did not tire me. It seemed, instead, to have the reverse effect. I felt stronger, more certain of myself than I had felt in quite a long time.

There was a distant sound I could not identify, a pounding, rumbling noise, and then a horse galloped over the horizon, startling me. It was a magnificent beast, a black stallion with glossy skin and powerful muscles that rippled as it raced toward me, the heavy hooves kicking up clumps of soil. The saddle was empty, the bridle flapping wildly. The animal seemed bent on trampling me. Stunned, too terrified to cry out, I watched as it sped closer. It reared up not five yards away, snorting viciously, hooves waving in the air, and then it galloped off in another direction, disappearing over a slope. A hand pressed over my rapidly beating heart. Nerves shaken, I listened as the sound of hooves grew fainter and then were gone.

Someone was in trouble. Someone had been thrown out of the saddle. I hurried forward, alarmed. The man might be seriously hurt. A person could die of exposure on these moors. His leg broken, no way of summoning aid, a man could perish. Reaching the slope where the horse had first appeared, I paused, peering in every direction, but there was nothing but desolate land and those treacherous stretches of black. How would I ever find him? What was I going to do?

The groan was quite audible. It came from the narrow gully only a few yards from where I stood. I moved rapidly, and in a moment I was staring down at the man sprawled on the ground. He wore glossy black knee boots and tight gray breeches. A white silk shirt with billowing sleeves and a Byronic collar was open at the throat. His unruly black hair fell in a tangled mass over his forehead, and his eyes were closed. He was even more handsome than two nights before when I had seen him coming out of the pub.

“Are—are you hurt?” I stammered.

The man opened his eyes and stared at me, but I could see that he was not able to focus properly. The eyes were a very vivid blue. They looked glazed. He groaned again and struggled into a sitting position, wincing as he did so. He shook his head and blinked his eyes, and then he peered up at me again. The beautifully shaped mouth curled into a boyish grin. He was obviously drunk.

“Good thing you happened along, wench,” he said.

“Are you able to stand? Here, let me help you up.”

I reached down for his hand, intending to pull him to his feet. With a boisterous laugh he seized my hand, jerked me into his lap and imprisoned me in strong arms, crushing me against him.

“'Ow about a tumble, lass? No one around to bother us. It's a glorious opportunity, what?”

I struggled violently. He grinned and wound his arms tighter around me, hurting me. His mouth fastened over mine, the firm lips urgent and demanding, and in one quick motion he swerved around until I was flat on the ground, his body on top of mine. Freeing my arms, I pounded his back. I seized his hair, jerking his head, but his lips continued to cover my own with bruising force. The weight of his body pinioned me to the ground. Tiny rocks scraped against my back painfully as I fought.

“Regular wildcat, ain't you?” he said, laughing. Seizing my wrists, he moved into a kneeling position, his buttocks on my stomach, a knee on either side of my thighs.

“Let me go!” I cried. “You—”

“Aw, don't carry on so,” he said amiably. “You know you're enjoyin it.”

The vivid blue eyes gleamed with delight, and the wide, sensual mouth curved up in a devilish smile. I was terrified, the blood racing through my veins, my breath coming in short, frantic gasps. His silk shirt was damp, clinging to his chest, and the smell of alcohol was overwhelming. I squirmed and struggled, trying to throw him off, but his hands gripped my wrists tightly, the fingers like steel. I stared up at that handsome face, my eyes full of horror.

“You're a lucky lass, you are,” he taunted. “Come on now, don't put on such a show. I might hafta get rough.”

He released one of my wrists and reached for the hem of my skirt, and I swung my free hand with all the force I could muster. It struck his face with such impact that he toppled over sideways. I jumped to my feet, and he stared up at me with a stunned expression. He sat up again and shook his head vigorously. I backed away, my heart beating rapidly.

“My God,” he whispered, seeing me clearly for the first time. “You're not one of the village lasses.”

“Indeed not!” I said hoarsely.

“You're—my God! I know who you are.”

“And I know who you are!”

I should have guessed it from the first, of course. Brence Danver had been described to me on at least three different occasions. He was, indeed, as handsome as Satan before the Fall, and he was certainly a blighter. With great effort I managed to compose myself. I stared at him with loathing, and he looked up at me in wonderment.

“I must-a been blind,” he said.

“Blind drunk, more likely,” I retorted crisply.

“No harm done, Cousin Jane.”

“No harm done! You almost—”

“Shut up!” he ordered gruffly, scowling. “You'll survive. My head is splittin', and my body feels like I've been chunked out the window of a tower. Christ! That damned horse—I should-a had better sense than try 'n ride him in my condition. I thought a brisk ride'ud help—”

“You certainly can't expect any sympathy from me,” I said, my voice pure acid.

“Stop your blabbin. You would-a loved it.”

“How dare you—”

“I said shut up!”

He glared at me, brows lowered. His sculptured cheekbones were pale, and there were deep smudges under his eyes. His forehead glistened with dampness, strands of hair clinging wetly, and a muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched. He looked frightfully ill now that the effects of the liquor were wearing off. Trembling with rage, I glared at him.

“Don't just stand there with your back stiff as a poker,” he snapped angrily. “Help me up.”

“I wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Danver.”

“God, you are a little priss, aren't-ja? I think I've twisted my ankle. It's throbbing somethin' awful. You can't just march off and leave me here.”

“That's precisely what I intend to do.”

“Listen,” he growled, “I realize I almost committed a terrible blunder, but I wasn't seein' too well. If I'd-a had a good look at your face I wouldn't-a laid a finger on you.”

“You're no gentleman, Mr. Danver.”

“That's for damned sure, an' you're no beauty, Cousin Jane. God, I must'uv been smashed!”

He tried to get to his feet, but as soon as he put weight on his left foot his face contorted with pain. I could see that he was really hurt, and I knew I couldn't walk off and leave him in this condition. He stared up at me, waiting. I drew back, reluctant to go near him.

He frowned savagely. “Well?” he said impatiently.

“I'll help you get back to the house,” I said primly.

“Damned decent of you,” he retorted in a sullen voice.

I extended my hand. Holding on to it with both his own, he managed to pull himself up, hopping on one foot. We took a few steps and then he stopped and grimaced, trying to keep the agony out of his eyes. His forehead was beaded with perspiration now, and his face was chalk white.

“I don't think we're going to make it,” he informed me. His voice was laced with pain, but it was no longer slurred.

“Perhaps I could find the horse—”

“He's probably already back at the stables by now.”

“Then we'll make it on our own,” I replied calmly.

“I'm not so sure. God! Look, I'll have to have more support. You're going to have to practically carry me.”

“I'll do what I can.”

He slung his heavy arm around my shoulder, almost stumbling as he did so. His forearm hung across my bosom. Reaching for his wrist, I held it in a firm grasp, winding my other arm around his waist. We started our curious progress across the moor. He just managed to hobble along with me supporting most of his weight. His eyes were closed. He was almost delirious with pain, but still we progressed. His body was warm, reeking with perspiration and the smell of liquor, and I nearly stumbled several times myself under the weight of my burden. Brence Danver was silent except for an occasional moan.

We walked for perhaps twenty minutes. I had to stop for a while. He understood, nodding his head and pointing to a small flat boulder. We managed to reach it, and I helped him ease himself down onto the rock. He sat with his hands resting on his knees. His hair was plastered to his skull in wet locks, and his face was dripping. Sore myself, almost too weak to stand after the terrific effort it had taken to get this far, I nevertheless tore a piece off my petticoat and wiped his face.

“Leave me alone,” he said gruffly. “I don't want you coddling me.”

“You have a fever. You're shivering.”

“It's the liquor, luv. I drank damned near a whole bottle this morning.”

“Why would you do a thing like that?” I asked, appalled.

“You wouldn't understand,” he muttered.

“Surely you must realize what you're doing to your health.”

“Don't preach, Cousin.”

“You're a fool, Mr. Danver.”

“Yeah, and you're a bloody little prig.”

He closed his eyes, too weak to say anything more. I wiped his face thoroughly and brushed the damp black locks away from his forehead. His shirt, soaked with perspiration, was clinging to his skin, and he continued to shiver in the wind. I was deeply worried, realizing how urgent it was to get him back to the house as quickly as possible. Eyes closed, his cheeks flushed a feverish pink now, Brence Danver moaned. His lips were dry, the skin beginning to chap. It was hard to believe he was the same man who had pulled me into his arms a short time ago.

After a few minutes I helped him up and we started off again, his arm looped around my shoulder as before, his big body sagging, leaning heavily on me. It was difficult going, and Brence Danver was giving me no help at all now. I was half dragging him, certain that my knees would give way at any moment. Every step was a strain, and it was painful, but there were other sensations I couldn't properly identify. I should have been repelled by his touch, but the sensations were almost … almost pleasant.