On a Wild Night (38 page)

Reaching the bench, Amanda sat. She waited until he sat beside her—they both looked up at the house. “What happened?”

His hesitation suggested he hadn't expected any question quite so bold. Then, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, he linked his fingers, and told her. Related how, when the villagers had come storming up to the house, herding him with them, to tell their story and demand justice be done, his father had accepted their tale without question. “The only thing he said to me was: ‘How could you?' “

His gaze remained on his interlaced fingers. “It never entered his head that I might not have committed the deed. In exculpation, I have to admit I was known to have an ungovernable temper.”

“You don't seem to have one now.”

“No. That's one thing dealing with the Indians teaches you—there's no point having a temper.

“The whole family was here—uncles, aunts, cousins. It was the usual Easter gathering my father loved to preside over. I think it was the ultimate sin in his eyes that I should do such a thing at such a time, in front of the entire family. Few of them approved of me either, so . . . for the good of the family, they decided to bundle me off that very night.”

Amanda quelled a shiver. Being disowned by one's family, thrown out and cut off—banished. Without justice, without recourse. For herself, she couldn't even conceive of it; the very thought made her heart ache for him.

She asked the question she most wanted to know, “Your mother?”

“Ah—Mama. She of them all understood my temper—temperament, nature, what would you. It was the same as hers.” Raising his head, he looked across the garden, his eyes narrowed, seeing the past. “She wasn't sure. She knew I
could
have done it, but . . . she, like the others, didn't believe me when I swore I hadn't. If she had believed . . .”

When he continued, his voice had hardened, “What's done is done and the past is behind us.”

The change threw his earlier tone into contrast, revealing the underlying truth. “You loved them, didn't you?”

He didn't look at her but at the house. “Yes.” After a moment, he added, “Both of them.”

He said nothing more but she could now see the whole clearly. Earlier, she'd returned their purloined bedding to the countess's boudoir. That room had been an education into his background, yet the earl's room, beyond it, also held echoes of the character traits that lived in him.

His gaze on the house, he stirred. “When we're married, we won't live here.”

No if, but or maybe. Qualification rose intinctively to her tongue, yet she left it unsaid. Fate had taken a hand; they were here, in a deserted house without even a housekeeper to lend them countenance. The time for games was past. The time for decisions was nigh. Although uncertainty lingered, she drew an even breath. “Whyever not?”

He glanced at her.

She studied the house. “It needs refurbishing—well, perhaps more than that, and I haven't seen all of it yet, still . . .” Tilting her head, she considered the mellow stone, the steeply pitched roof. “It has potential—all the right bits and pieces—it just needs people to bring it alive. The structure's impressive—stately on the one hand, charming on the other. I like the windows and the layout of the rooms, and . . .” She hesitated, then impulsively gestured, arms wide. “It simply fits. This is a magnificent area, and the house is somehow set in, an integral part of the whole. It belongs.”

His gaze on her face, Martin leaned against the seat's iron back. “I thought you were a Londoner, born and bred?”

“I've lived most of my life there—my parents' house is there—but my uncles and aunts and cousins have houses all over the country. I've spent years in the countryside, in various places, but . . .” Rising, she walked a few steps and stopped, looking south over the vista of the valley. “I've never seen a place as fabulously beautiful—no, that's not the
right word—
dramatic
as this. I could stand here and stare for hours, and never grow bored.”

Her voice faded as the view drew her in. Martin knew how mesmerizing the play of cloud shadows over nature's patchwork could be. It hadn't occurred to him that it would speak to her, too, or that her affinity for the dramatic would extend to this wild and rugged landscape.

The landscape of his birth. The wild, wide spaces were as much a part of him as his sensual nature—this, as nowhere else in his travels had ever been, was his home.

Home.

He'd turned his back on it, thought he'd shut it out from his life and would never return—never again fall prey to the siren-song of the wind whistling over the crags, to the wrenchingly majestic beauty of the peaks.

Home.

Rising, he stood beside Amanda, thrust his hands in his pockets, felt the wind ruffle his hair. As if in gentle benediction, as if welcoming a prodigal son, hopefully wiser and more experienced, back to the hearth.

Home.

As he stood beside her, its aura rolled over him, the memories of the good times that he'd pushed out of his mind along with the bad. The sounds of his childhood—the bright laughter, the chatter, running footsteps, shrill voices—the neverending happiness. Childhood giving way to the awkwardness of youth, a time that had been so rich with experience, with the thrill of discovery, the deepening of knowledge.

Then had come the break; it had shattered his world and sent all the good spiralling away like autumn leaves. Leaves he hadn't known how to catch.

Perhaps catching was not the way. Perhaps what was needed was simply to return, to let the tree bud and bloom again. To start anew.

He glanced at Amanda; simple delight still played over her features. He looked past her to the house. Considered what could be. And how much it might cost.

She looked up, joy and sunlight in her face. “Thank you
for bringing me here.” She linked her arm in his. “But now we'd better lunch, then knuckle down to our chores.”

He let her lead him back into the house.

 

Colly had been slaving in the small parlor all morning; he insisted on serving them their lunch—pasties and bread—in there, as befitted their station. Realizing it made both Colly and Onslow uncomfortable to be sharing a table with their masters, they accepted their banishment from the warm homeliness of the kitchen with good grace.

At the end of the meal, however, they forbore to tug the bellpull, but piled the empty dishes and carried them to the kitchen, and thence, despite Colly's protests, into the scullery. They returned to the kitchen just as the back door was forcibly thrust open.

“Humph!” A large country woman stumped in.

Amanda's eyes widened. The woman wore a hat perched atop a bonnet, a muffler wound around her throat, and a shawl tied about the shoulders of her serviceable black wool coat. Beneath the gaping coat, she was wearing a quantity of wraps and blouses, and a veritable mountain of skirts. Her feet were encased in large boots.

In each hand, she carried multiple string bags bulging with produce, from turnips and leeks to pigeons and pullets.

Head down, the woman barrelled straight for the table; with an “Oomph” of relief, she dumped the string bags on its surface.

Only then did she look up. She was tall and heavy-boned, with a round, ruddy face and straight grey hair pulled into a tight bun. She noted Onslow, Colly and Amanda, then her gaze locked on Martin. She nodded. “ 'Bout time you got here.”

Amanda glanced at Martin; a smile was flirting about his lips.

“Good afternoon, Allie.”

“Aye—it's that an' all to see you back where you belong.” With a nod for Colly, the woman started to unpack her bags. “I'll tell you straight I never believed you'd done it—what they said—and now you're back, I'll expect you to set to and
get the matter sorted. It ain't the thing for a belted earl to have hanging over his head.”

In between thumping packages on the table—packages Colly was quickly unwrapping and putting away—Allie had been shooting narrow-eyed glances at Amanda. “Now, who's this?”

“This,” Martin responded with unimparied calm, “is Miss Amanda Cynster.” To Amanda, he said, “Allow me to present Allie Bolton. Originally my nurse, Allie continued to hold that title long after I'd left the nursery. We had a cook-housekeeper but in reality, it was Allie who ran this house.”

Walking forward, he continued, “As you'll quickly learn, she's distressingly tyrannical, but has a heart of gold and always has the family's best interests at heart.” Reaching Allie, he hugged her and kissed her cheek.

“Get away with you!” She batted him back, flustered, pleased as punch and trying to hide it. “That's not the way I taught him to behave,” she humphed to Amanda, “you may be sure.”

“I'm quite sure he was a handful.” Amanda tried to interpret the shooing-like gestures Martin, now behind Allie, was making. Colly, too, was nodding encouragingly. She glanced at the last of the packages being unwrapped—a pat of butter. The penny dropped; she stepped closer. “Of course, we don't know what your present arrangements are, but we'd be very grateful if you could see your way to returning to your position here.”

“Humph! Aye—with only him”—Allie nodded at Colly—“to look after the house, I imagine the place is in a right state.”

“We've started opening up rooms, but . . . well, as I don't know how things used to be . . .”

“Leave it to me.” Packages stowed, Allie untied her bonnet, set bonnet and hat on the dresser, then started to unbutton her coat. “I sent word to Martha Miggs—she'll be here tomorrow and we'll have the place to rights in no time.”

The determination behind the words made it clear nothing
would be permitted to stand in Allie's way; Amanda felt a weight lift from her shoulders, felt relief slide through her veins. “We have an injured gentleman upstairs—he was shot by a highwayman, and my coachman was, too.” She waved at Onslow, who was edging toward the door.

“Gracious heavens!” From under her voluminous skirts, Allie pulled out an apron and tied it about her ample waist. “I'd best take a look at their wounds, then.”

“Mine's healed well enough—I've got to see to my horses.” With a nod to Martin and Amanda, Onslow escaped through the back door.

“I'll see to you later!” Allie called after him. She turned to Amanda. “Right, then! You'd best take me up to this gentleman, and then we'll see about opening more rooms. Colly, you'll be needed—don't disappear.”

Martin watched Allie hustle Amanda before her on into the house. Colly sighed, but he was smiling as he bent to stoke the fire. Martin felt his own lips curve, felt the gesture warm a place deep inside him that had been cold for a long, long time. He hesitated, then, smile deepening, turned and went to help Onslow.

 

Household activity the next morning approached the recognizably normal. Reggie was still weak; he'd boggled when Allie had descended on him, making eyes at Amanda, pleading for rescue, but Allie had quickly subdued him. He ate the breakfast she presented him without a murmur, then let her bully him downstairs to doze in a chair in the sunshine.

After a good night's sleep in the room next to Reggie's, aired and dusted to Allie's high standards, then breakfasting with Martin in the sunny small parlor, Amanda, restored to her usual, stubborn and determined self, went looking for Allie to thank her and put herself at the older woman's disposal. There was a great deal to do; helping seemed a quick way to learn the ins and outs of the household.

She found Allie in Martin's room, shaking out the bedclothes that draped the huge bed. Yesterday, after finishing with Reggie and completing the room Amanda now used,
Allie had stridden straight down the corridor and flung the double doors at the end wide. The windows had been next, then she'd swept, dusted and polished with a passion, stripping the bed and remaking it, chattering all the while. Amanda had helped, listened and learned.

When she and Martin had retired the previous evening, in response to his question over which room Allie had readied for him, she'd indicated this room. She'd seen his hesitation, but had given no sign, merely smiling wearily and bidding him good night. She'd closed her door and listened; after a minute, he'd walked down the corridor, then she'd heard the door open.

A long pause had ensued, then the door had shut.

She'd peeked out; he'd gone in. She'd retreated to her bed, speculating on what he might be feeling, what might be going through his mind. She'd been tempted to go and find out, but she'd known in her heart it wasn't yet time. And she'd been too physically weary to do much beyond sleep, which she had, deeply.

Now . . . while she felt she understood Martin's relationship with his mother, his relationship with his father remained veiled. Yet last night, Martin had slept in this room, previously his father's. That much—that he was his father's son—he'd accepted.

Walking into the room, she looked for any evidence that he'd changed things, any little sign he'd made the room his. His brushes had been moved, the mirror atop the tallboy shifted.

Puffing the pillows, Allie saw her noting the changes. “Aye—he'll come around.” She eyed Amanda, then asked, “Am I right in thinking you didn't expect to land here?”

“Yes—it was pure chance the highwayman struck so near here. I was heading for Scotland, to my cousin and his wife. Martin . . . followed me.”

“Aye.” There was a wealth of understanding in Allie's tone. It had taken her a mere few minutes to guess how matters lay between Amanda and her erstwhile charge. While she'd said nothing directly, Amanda was aware she'd been
vetted and examined during the previous day, and Allie had approved.

Allie turned from the bed, then stopped, staring out of the window. “Now I wonder what . . . ?”