Journey to Enchantment (47 page)

But when he came up with his mare, he turned the chestnut loose.

*   *   *

He was hot and tired and irked, but look as he might, he could see no sign of following riders, and at last he risked the long descent that led to the village—a busy place, for it was Market Day and the street was crowded. Wagons rumbled along, laden with fresh vegetables and dairy goods; sturdy yeomen drove promising livestock to be sold; housewives trudged along with baskets of jams and jellies; farmers drove their serviceable carts; and all was good-humoured noise and confusion.

Delavale became involved with a wagon full of crated chickens and racks of eggs. A goosegirl scolded when his mare trod too close to her flock, and he turned aside and rode to join a Sergeant of dragoons, mounted beside the road, who had been watching him narrowly.

“Jove,” exclaimed Delavale with a rueful grin, “I see I chose the wrong day to ride over to Greater Shottup. One takes one's life in one's hands!”

It was unlikely, the Sergeant thought, that a guilty man would go out of his way to talk to a soldier. Therefore, he touched his brow respectfully, and said that some of these country folk were no respecters of Quality. “Which I can see as you is, sir,” he added. “A fine piece o' horseflesh you got there.”

Delavale agreeing with this observation, they entered into an involved and rather lengthy discussion of the merits of Arabians versus Thoroughbreds, this turning eventually to the reason for my lord Delavale having come to Greater Shottup. They parted amicably, the Sergeant directing his lordship to the ancient church and advising him that although Father Charles Albritton was a sterling young man, he was a foreigner from Little Snoring, t'other side of the New Forest, brought in temporary to substitute for the regular vicar, now indisposed.

Delavale thanked him and guided his mare through the sea of humanity until he was safely clear of the marketplace and approaching the serenity of the church. He rode around to the side and dismounted where he could tether his horse in the shade of some trees. There was no sign of activity, nor of a leper's window. He wandered around to the front and from thence to the west side. The gardens had been sadly neglected, and a wooden archway heavily overgrown with climbing roses had sagged against a headstone. Making his way amongst the debris and around the drooping arch, he saw at last the ancient little door set in the wall at eye level so that the lepers could stand outside and watch the services. He sauntered over to investigate, then he turned and wandered about, apparently aimlessly, but his keen eyes were alert for possible watchers. Convinced at length that he was safe, he returned quickly, took the fatal piece of parchment from the cuff of his shirt, and laid it on the deep ledge just inside the leper's window.

He was closing that sad little door when he sensed rather than heard someone close behind him. His hand darted to his sword hilt. Half crouching, he whirled, his broad-bladed sword whipping out in a blur of steel. And in his heart was the aching awareness that in the moment of triumph he was lost, for steadily aimed in the hand of the man behind him was a long-barreled pistol.

*   *   *

Stuart MacLeod and Mistress Hetty Burnett reached High-view Manor just after dark. The big Scot's jubilance faded when he looked into the stricken eyes of Miss MacTavish. Sidley came up and murmured that the master had ridden out some four hours previously, and MacLeod's wrath was changed to dismay when he discovered that not only had he been quietly excluded from Delavale's hazardous mission but that Cole also had been given the slip.

Hetty knew nothing of what had brought this sudden sense of disaster, but her kind heart was wrung by the tragedy in the lovely Scottish girl's blue eyes. She lost no time in mothering her new lady and doing all she might to soothe and bear her company. Prudence was pampered and cosseted and tucked into a vast and luxurious feather bed. Tearless, in a dull haze of misery, she lay staring into the darkness, convinced she would not be able to close her eyes, but just as dawn streaked the clouds with pale fingers, she fell gently asleep.

At eleven o'clock the groom returned from Dominer with word that his Grace the Duke was presently in Sussex, his exact whereabouts unknown. Prudence was not sorry. Much as she appreciated Geoffrey's efforts to provide her with respectability, she was in no mood for small talk with strangers. She occupied herself by wandering through the endless rooms of the mansion, picturing Geoffrey and his sister dwelling here, confronting a splendid portrait of him and having to run from it, so shattered she could not endure the house and fled into the grounds. Sometimes, during the less ghastly moments of their voyage aboard
The Maid o' Moidart,
he had spoken to her softly of his home. At the time, in her misery she had paid little heed to his words, but now they came back to her. Amiably accompanied by a spaniel named Flower, she sought out the old summerhouse where Geoffrey and Penelope had been used to play crusades, or Roundheads and Royalists; and from there she found his most cherished secret hideaway in the wood, to which he had retreated as a very small boy when his beloved mama had been called from this life, and when other youthful sorrows had been too painful to be shared—even with Penelope.

The day dragged past, empty afternoon giving way to haunted evening and bedevilled night. Hetty stayed with her until she fell asleep in the chair and was packed off to bed, and Prudence was alone again, with her fear and her prayers.

Yet still, with another dawn there was no word: no sound of rapid hoofbeats, no cheery, laughing voice.

MacLeod was silent and sombre, but always nearby. Cole invented endless excuses to come up to the house. Sidley drifted about, never beyond call. And at last, Prudence gathered these faithful friends about her and they sat together in the gold saloon, and chatted of their ordeal shared, while the slow moments ticked away.

In the early afternoon she went outside. The skies were cloudy today, a rather chill wind stirring the trees and waking little waves on the river that wound in front of the great house.

Prudence drew her shawl closer about her and walked slowly. He had gone back to that place near Trowbridge. And he should have been home yesterday. Unless he had been seen and recognized and perhaps hounded far from his destination. He would try to get through, she knew that. No matter how deadly the risk to himself, he would try. Walking aimlessly, she found that she had been adopted by a bloodhound whose name was Grimy, and that Flower was also more or less with her. Grateful, she wondered what she would do if he was taken. If he was—the very thought made her knees quake—if he was condemned to death … dragged to the Tower … But it was really quite simple. Her life would end, for there would be no reason to go on living.

She had come, perhaps subconsciously she had meant to come, to his woodland hideaway—a small round glade where the light filtered gently through the branches, and a brook babbled and chuckled and spoke of the mysteries of life and love, for anyone with ears to hear and time to listen. She sat on the stump of a tree and wondered drearily where he was and what was happening to him.…

She could not have said how long it was before the dogs startled her by jerking up and racing off. Above Grimy's deep baying and Flower's frenzied yelps, Prudence thought to hear another voice. Her heart fluttering, she stood, not daring to move.

“The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets,

So he that tastes woman … woman … woman,

He that tastes woman—ruin meets!”

She was running long before the final word was sung in that pleasant baritone, the blessed tears coming at last, to stream down her cheeks.

He was striding down the slope, the dogs going mad as they sprang and raced around him. He stopped when he saw her and she stopped also and for an ecstatic suspended moment, they stood gazing at one another. Then, he said a firm, “Down!” The dogs dropped at once, and the pandemonium ceased.

Geoffrey held out his arms and, sobbing, Prudence flew into them, and he held her tight against his heart, his eyes closed, his cheek against her soft curls, while she clung to him in a silent rapture.

She was mildly surprised, a little while later, to find them sitting on the tree stump in the peaceful glade. This, of course, was after he
had
kissed her. Very thoroughly. Beginning with her tears, and proceeding to her brows, her cheeks, the end of her nose, and—at last—her lips.

With his arms tight around her, she sighed, and asked softly, “Is it done?”

“It is done.”

“And you are free? No one follows? You are not suspect?”

“I'm free. But, dashitall, I damned near died of fright!”

Terrified anew, she pulled away and scanned his face and thus, viewing him clearly for the first time, saw that a stubble of beard darkened his chin and that his eyes were shadowed with fatigue. “What do you mean? My dear—you look—have you rid all night?”

“I was just putting the cypher in where it was to be left, and that silly fribble Charles Albritton came up behind me with a damned great pistol in his fist. I came near spitting the gudgeon, which might have been rather a nuisance, y'know, him being a priest.”

Prudence gave a gasp. “Good heavens! But why had he the pistol?”

“Said he'd been expecting someone else to bring the cypher. Which he had, of course.” He saw sorrow come into those great eyes, and went on quickly, “At all events, we'd a deal of business to do, which made me late, and then I must run into a great bother near Devizes with half the populace searching for some poor devil, which made me late. But—here I am.”

There was more he might have told her, but if she knew he'd become involved in that same ‘great bother' and that even now a fugitive was well away from the hue and cry thanks to his involvement, she would only fuss. And so he merely smiled at her.

“Then,” she said, knowing him and therefore suspicious, “you
did
ride all night.”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact.” A dance of mischief dawned in his tired eyes. “Tried to find your aunt's house. Well, never look so vexed, love. This is a bachelor establishment, you cannot stay here. Even was I to move out, people would be sure to think—”

She turned away and said quietly, “That I was your mistress. As Mr. Crisp did.”

Bertram Crisp was a Marquis, and to hear him referred to as a ‘mister' brought a chuckle to Delavale's lips.

Misinterpreting, Prudence's chin came up at once. She stood, turning her back on him. “It will not be necessary that I stay with my aunt, for I mean to return home.”

“Don't be a widgeon,” he said, coming up behind her to seize her shoulders and pull her against him. “I want my wife here—not four hundred miles away!”

Bliss possessed her. So he did mean marriage, after all. For a moment she had thought— But he had offered. More or less. She stepped away from him, and said demurely, “Was that a proposal, my lord?”

“Well, of course it was.” He walked around to search her face rather uneasily. “What did you think? If you did but know how I have longed to tell you I wanted you to be my wife!”

“You had,” she pointed out, with no indication of how her heart was singing, “many opportunities, sir, but said not one word.”

“But, my darling girl, how could I? To risk your becoming attached to me when my future was so uncertain, would have been despicable.”

It was very hard, but she meant to have the proper words, and so said, “You did not seem to count that risk when we were at Lakepoint.”

She seemed aloof and cool. Beginning to really be afraid, he said, “No, but—I thought we were just enjoying a light flirtation, and—I thought I was— Well, I thought I'd not be pestering you for very long.”

She suffered a sharp pang at this, but said resolutely, “And yet afterwards, in the cave, when you knew you were getting better, you said nothing.”

“My God!” He took up her hand and held it tightly between both his own. “Prue, you cannot mean it! I had still to deliver the cypher. Anything might have gone wrong. Had you not been so ill on the ship, perhaps … but—”

Her head was bowed. Had his family given her a distaste of Highview? Did she suffer the same qualms as Elizabeth about being saddled with a title? “Prue?” he said anxiously. “Prue—dearest, most beloved, bravest of women. Will you not give me an answer?” Still, she said nothing. He put one slim finger beneath her chin and lifted her face, and its radiance pierced him. He whispered, “Prue, my little lass—I do so love you.”

She had her words. “Oh … Geoffrey…” she said, and melted into his arms.

And, womanlike, when they had assured each other of their undying adoration, she told him that he must not feel obligated to wed her because they had travelled alone for such a long way, without a chaperone. “Not,” she amended hurriedly, “unless you feel you could not live without me.”

“Well, I do,” he admitted, ceasing his depredations when she quieted his hand by holding it. “But—there is one thing…”

“What is it?” she asked, experiencing her own qualms.

“You know, light of my world, that I loved my papa very deeply, but I cannot like our firstborn to be named Hector.”

Scandalized, Prudence gasped, “Geoffrey … Delavale!” and buried her hot face in his much violated cravat.

“Nor,” he went on thoughtfully, “do I much care for the name James. And if, as I should very much like, we call him Stuart, why, there's Cole, you see. He would fairly die of jealousy.”

Too shy to look at him, she murmured, “We could—could name him MacTavish, and everyone would call him Mac, which would please both Papa and the MacLeod.”

“Famous!” He tilted up her face and said blandly, “And our second son can be called Hector.” Adoring her for the deepening blush, he asked, his voice very tender, “And what do you have to say to that, shy eyes?”