Miss Hartwell's Dilemma (24 page)

“So the independent Miss Hartwell interferes. She wishes, perhaps, to learn that which passes here. Who am I that I deny a beautiful señorita? We will begin again the story.”

“That is not necessary,” said Lord Daniel roughly. “I have heard your tale and…”

“Silencio, milord! If you wish that the lady leaves unhurt, you will not speak.”

Amaryllis felt his hand tense on her shoulder and put up her own to cover it warningly. She did not believe for a moment that the Spaniard would dare to harm her, but what he might do to his lordship was another matter. Besides, she had to confess to a certain curiosity as to what had engendered the bitter hatred in Don Miguel’s eyes.

“I had a cousin, Miss Hartwell.” Don Miguel resumed his pacing. “Doña Francisca Cortés, a most beautiful young lady, gently bred, as you English say, of a modesty impecable. Her I loved with all my heart. She was older than me, a year or two, and I awaited con pasión the moment when I should be of an age to wed her. We were promised, you understand, betrothed since childhood.

“Then the French invade La España. The family is dispersed, scattered. For five years we fight in the mountains, we fight in the plains. At last we drive them back across los Pirineos. My brother is dead. My cousin, Don Emilio Cortés, is dead and of Doña Francisca there is no word. My uncle dies of grief.

“For seven years there is no word of Doña Francisca. Then comes to my house in Zaragoza a woman. Is ill, is dressed in rags, is old of face—is my Francisca!

“I take her in. She is dying, but before she dies she tells me all. She tells me of fleeing from the French army, of a fine young Englishman who seduces her, who marries her in a church in Coruña and takes her to England as his wife. She tells how he grows tired of her, abandons her in a foreign land. These heretical English do not believe in the sacred Catholic marriage. He divorces her in the Parliament, though in the eyes of the Church she is still his wife.”

Amaryllis was distantly aware that Lord Daniel had removed his hand from her shoulder. She did not dare look up at him, could not tear her eyes from the face of the Spaniard who so clearly believed every word he spoke.

“Francisca turned for help to another officer,” he went on. “Innocent, trusting, again she is betrayed. He takes her to Vienna, where he dies of a fever. Alone again in a foreign country, what is she to do? I leave you to imagine, señorita, the horrors of her life and how she came at last home to Zaragoza to die.”

He called out to his servant, who came up the stairs bearing a sword.

“So, milord,” he said, his hand on the pommel of his own sword, “I am the only one left to avenge the honour of Doña Francisca Winterborne. We fight with the swords, to the death!”

“I will not,” said Lord Daniel, his voice cold and calm. “Francisca has woven a clever tissue of half truths, and I am not surprised she deceived you, but I assure you that before I met her your cousin had lost any honour worth fighting for.”

“It is easy for a coward to speak ill of the dead,” snarled Don Miguel. Whipping a glove from his belt, he strode forwards and struck Lord Daniel in the face with it.

Amaryllis jumped up. Lord Daniel’s eyes were blazing, but he maintained his rigid calm.

“I cannot meet you with swords,” he said, “but with pistols I should have a fair chance.”

“Gentlemen do not duel with pistols,” sneered the Spaniard. “It is as I supposed, the gentlemen of England are afeminados y decadentes. It is beneath me to fight with such a one, but there are other forms of vengeance. Milord will kindly disrobe.”

Lord Daniel and Amaryllis both stared at him.

“I have the wrong word?” he asked, negligently waving his pistol. “Undress. Take off the clothes.”

“Are you mad, man?” demanded Lord Daniel. “I will do no such thing.”

Don Miguel said something in rapid Spanish to the servant and gestured towards Amaryllis. Before she realised what was happening, the man had seized her from behind and twisted her arm up behind her back.

“Undress,” repeated Don Miguel.

His eyes on her face, Lord Daniel put his hand up to his cravat and began slowly to untie it.

“Faster!”

The servant jerked on her arm, and Amaryllis could not suppress a gasp of pain. Lord Daniel quickly stripped off neckcloth, coat, waistcoat, and shirt. She tried not to look but her gaze was drawn to his broad, pale chest, every rib distinct.

He does not eat enough, she thought irrelevantly, and then she saw his arm. A jagged white line ran down from his shoulder. Just above the elbow it spread into a twisted knot of scar tissue. She raised her eyes, full of horror and pity, and met his questioning look.

The servant decided things were not moving quickly enough, and again she gasped in pain. Lord Daniel sat down on the floor and pulled off his boots and hose. Standing again, he began to unfasten his riding breeches. She kept her eyes fixed on his, willing herself to faint if by fainting she might spare him this humiliation. The pain in her arm was excruciating, but her head was clear as ever.

“Y los calzoncillos,” said Don Miguel’s inexorable, contemptuous voice, “The drawers, milord.” A moment later he gestured with his pistol. “And now, down the stairs.”

Lord Daniel’s head was held high, his back straight as he led the little procession down. Next came Don Miguel, pistol in one hand, lantern in the other. Amaryllis was surprised to find that her legs did not work properly. The manservant half carried, half dragged her after them.

They went out onto the landing. Prodded by the pistol, Lord Daniel climbed onto the rail. In the moment before he fell, he looked like an enormous plucked goose. Amaryllis closed her eyes, a hysterical giggle rising in her throat. She felt herself lifted up, then she landed beside him in the oubliette with an impact that drove the breath from her body.

Chapter 18

By the time Amaryllis recovered her breath, the Spaniards’ lanterns were gone from the stair and the sound of horses’ hooves told of their escape. The full moon sailed across a cloudless sky. Its light shone pitilessly down into the roofless dungeon, reflecting from the snow on the floor and leaving no place of concealment. Lord Daniel crouched beside her, reaching towards her tentatively with his left arm, his right hanging useless at his side.

“Are you all right, Miss Hartwell?” he asked anxiously.

Amaryllis sat up with the greatest caution.

“I believe so, though doubtless I shall ache tomorrow. No bones broken, at least.”

“Thank God.”

“And you, my lord?” She began undoing the fastenings of her cloak.

“I landed on my bad arm, and have not been able to move it since.” He spoke with attempted nonchalance, but she sensed the fear behind his words. “I shall not be able to help you climb out.”

Looking up at the sheer twelve-foot walls, she grimaced. “I’d wager I could not manage it if you did.” She stood up, took off the cloak and held it out to him. “Here, put this on.”

“No, you will need it. I daresay you feel warm now from agitation, but, believe me, by morning it will be devilish cold down here.”

“My gown is warm. Come, surely you will not deny that you need it more than I.”

She looked down at his crouched, shivering form, pale in the moonlight. He made no move to take it, so she draped it about his shoulders.

“There. I shall turn my back while you arrange it as decently as may be.”

She moved towards the wall under the stair, where a strip of dirt-covered floor was free of snow. After a moment, she heard his voice close beside her.

“Miss Hartwell.”

She turned to face him. The cloak covered him down to mid-shin. He had not fastened it but held it awkwardly closed with his left hand.

“Your feet,” she said helplessly. “What shall we do about your feet?”

“My feet are the least of my worries,” he said with a crooked grin. “I suppose it is of no use to shout for help until the morning?”

“No. Mr. Majendie is away, so the servants will have retired. It must be past midnight. And besides, the bulk of the castle is between us and the house.”

“Then I must make a suggestion that may shock you.”

“My lord, if you think anything can shock me after the events of this evening, then you are a...”

“A mooncalf?” he offered. “I wish you will stop calling me my lord. Our present situation hardly calls for formality. My name is Daniel.”

“And mine is Amaryllis. If you think to shock me by calling me by it, you are fair and far off.”

“That is not the suggestion to which I referred. Our main difficulty is going to be to stay warm until morning. Two bodies will conserve heat better than one.” He stepped forwards and embraced her with his left arm, holding her close.

“Daniel! My lord!” She pushed against his chest with all her strength.

“Pray do not turn missish on me now,” he snapped. He looked down at her, his eyes gleaming. She felt his heart beating, felt the warmth of his body slowly seep through her clothing. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her, but he released her and moved away. “You noticed the difference?” he asked.

She laughed shakily. “A number of differences. Yes, it would be warmer thus, but we cannot stand here all night!”

“That’s my brave girl. No, we shall lie down, here where there is no snow.” He knelt, then lowered himself to lie on his right side. With his left hand he spread the right side of the cloak across the ground, then beckoned to her. “Come.”

She knelt on the edge of the cloak, trying to read his expression, but in the shadow of the stair it was impossible. She had no choice but to trust him. She turned her back to him and lay down. His left arm pulled her closer, wrapped the left side of the cloak about her. There was nothing between them but the silk of her dress, the fine linen of her shift.

For a few minutes she lay stiffly stretched. Then, with a little sigh, she relaxed, pillowed her head on her hands and curled up against him. His lean body formed itself to hers. His left arm held her close, his hand resting between her breasts. His heart sounded like thunder in her ears, or was it her own?

“Amaryllis,” he whispered into her hair.

He said nothing more and did not attempt to caress her. It seemed like forever she lay there in drowsy contentment, scarcely aware of the cold nibbling at her hands and feet.

“Miss Hartwell!” It was the vicar’s voice, and not far distant. “Miss Hartwell, are you there? Halloa, Miss Hartwell!”

“Mr. Raeburn!” She jumped to her feet, stepped out from under the stair, and looked up. A dark shape was climbing the steps, a lantern bobbing above it.

“Miss Hartwell? Where are you!”

“Down here, in the dungeon. Lord Daniel is with me. Thank heaven you are come!”

Lord Daniel stood up, staggering, supporting himself against the wall.

“Bless my soul!” said the vicar, peering over the railing.  “Well, this is no time to ask how you came to be in such a fix. Just tell me if you have any suggestions as to how I may extract you without rousing half the village.”

Amaryllis had never thought to be glad of Louise’s venture into the depths of the oubliette, but now she remembered where the ladder was kept that had rescued her pupil. She described it to Mr. Raeburn, watched him trot down the steps, and turned to her companion. He had sat down again, leaning against the wall.

“Tizzy must have sent him. He is the very person I would have hoped for to save us.”

“I am not sure I shall be able to climb the ladder,” said his lordship wryly.

“Your arm?”

“No, Miss Hartwell, my feet, if I still have any. They are completely numb.”

Amaryllis bent over him anxiously. If they had to call for more help, there would be no hiding his nakedness. Then she remembered how she warmed her hands in bed on a cold night.

She knelt before him. “Give them to me,” she ordered, hoping he could not see her fiery face in the moonlight.

She pressed his icy feet between her thighs, massaging his ankles with her hands to make the blood flow. He did not speak. She kept her eyes fixed on her task, but she felt as if his gaze was burning into the top of her head.

By the time they heard the vicar returning, banging the ladder against the castle wall as he turned the corner, she at least was surprisingly warm. She stood up quickly and held out her hand to Lord Daniel. He took it in a firm clasp, but rose without assistance.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and there was a tremor of laughter in his voice. “My feet are reborn.”

She was sure her cheeks were crimson by now, but the tension was released and she could not help a giggle as she responded, “That is very clever, my lord, and highly improper.”

Mr. Raeburn was panting as he struggled up the stair with the ladder. “I’m back,” he announced as he reached the top. “Stand clear and I shall lower it.”

With much thumping and muttering he lifted it over the side.

“You go first,” whispered Lord Daniel, “and explain my situation to him before I come up.”

Her skirts were very much in the way, but she negotiated the ladder successfully. In a low voice she told the vicar that his lordship was dressed only in her cloak, and begged him not to demand an explanation at this point.

“Bless my soul!” he exclaimed, peering over the rail at Lord Daniel, who was having even more difficulty climbing than Amaryllis since the cloak was equally in the way, and he only had the use of one arm. “Bless my soul! Bare feet, too! Well, that is soon remedied. I saw a pair of galoshes in the toolshed where I found the ladder. Wait here.” He scurried off.

Lord Daniel reached the top, only to find that the most difficult part of the climb was the descent from the railing. With Amaryllis’s help he managed it, though ungracefully.

“Let us wait inside the keep,” she suggested, shivering. “It may be a little warmer.”

The door was locked. Don Miguel must have stolen a key when he stayed with Mr. Majendie after the Christmas ball. They decided it was best to keep moving, and started down the stairs. Before they reached the bottom, Mr. Raeburn reappeared with a large and dilapidated pair of galoshes.