Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (38 page)

"Hells fire!" shouted Hawkhurst. "Hang on, Mia!"

Startled, she looked up and uttered a choked gasp. To the left
was a stand of trees, and on the right, a rockstrewn slope descended to
a rushing stream. A tree was down across the road ahead, and beyond it
were two mounted men, masked and grim, with pistols levelled.

"Stand!" they bellowed jointly.

"You had to come, woman," Hawkhurst roared. "They must have
missed the Night Mail! Get down!"

She stared at him in bewilderment and, torn between pride and
horror, knew that he did not mean to stop. His arm shot out. She was
seized and flung forward, her nose jamming against her knees, and then
every bone in her body was being jolted to pieces; her teeth snapped
together; the air was beaten from her lungs as the curricle turned
right and headed sharply downward, bouncing and swaying over ruts and
rocks. One stumble of the greys, she thought, and they would overturn!
A shot rang out, deafening in the quiet night, and then another. Angry
shouts blasted her ears with swiftly fading profanity. The jouncing
eased, and the wheels were on a level road surface once more.

Euphemia sat up straight, scanning Hawkhurst for any sign of a
wound. The moon was brighter now, painting the countryside with its
faerie light, and he looked unhurt. She touched her nose, and her
suspicions were confirmed.

"Confound you, sir!" she cried furiously. "Now see what you
have done!"

He shot an admiring glance at her, then looked again, anxiety
stark upon his face. "Oh, egad! Are you all right?"

She leaned against him weakly. "Oh, Garret… I am so… faint."

Frantic, he pulled back, slowing the team. Then he grunted,
'The deuce you are!" and dropped his hands. "Giddap!"

"Hawk,
listen]
Please, at least listen!"

He ignored her, leaning into the wind, holding the reins with
one hand while shoving a handkerchief at her with the other. She took
it and mopped at her nose. "Lean your head back!" he shouted.

She did and after a minute or two looked up. The horses were
not racing as fast now, and she asked, "Where do you suppose they have
gone?"

"To Town. Your precious philanderer will need his uniform, his
bank, and the Horse Guards."

He was right, of course, and Euphemia's heart sank. It was
near inconceivable that her dear brother, so brave and upright, was
prepared to subject that sweet girl to the humiliation and degradation
that must be her lot wherever they went. But, glancing at the man
beside her, she knew she had been willing to risk such disgrace, had
even been so bold as to suggest it. Only Hawk, with his iron control,
his rigid adherence to the very code that had rained him, had rejected
her.

They were coming into a hamlet, quiet and peaceful in the
moonlight. The wheels rattled over the cobbled streets, and Hawkhurst
pulled into the yard of The Fox and Hounds and tossed the reins to a
sleepy ostler who came stumbling to them. He clambered out painfully,
steadied himself, then reached up to her. He looked white and strained,
and she refused his aid, jumping lightly down on the other side with a
flash of neat ankles. He turned to the ostler. "My blacks. Five guineas
if you break your record!"

The ostler's chin sagged. Then he whistled shrilly, and
another man ran from the stables, tucking his shirt into his breeches.

Rubbing drowsy eyes, the proprietor stepped out of the inn and
was galvanized into action. "Mr. Hawkhurst! This way. What, are you
hurt, sir? I'll get my cane for you. Take my arm. This way, ma'am."

The parlour was low-roofed, quaint, and warm. Hawkhurst
perched wearily on the edge of a chest, and the proprietor hurried away
to call his wife.

"Do you try to abandon me, Garret," warned Euphemia softly, "I
shall scream bloody murder and vow you're carrying me off!"

He was staring sombrely at the dying fire and for a moment
appeared not to have heard her, but glanced up suddenly and said, "They
should not believe you. I am well known here."

"Then they would most assuredly believe me," she countered.
Appreciation brightened his eyes, and his stern mouth quivered for a
brief second.

"I should like to tidy my hair and wash," she said.

"You have precisely ten minutes, ma'am."

She knew better. A plump country woman wrapped in a voluminous
flannel dressing gown showed her to a pleasant little upstairs
bedchamber. She splashed a wet rag over her face, bound up her flying
hair so that it looked halfway presentable, and returned in less than
five minutes to find Hawkhurst seated on the outside bench, tankard in
hand, watching as the ostlers harnessed a fine team of blacks to the
curricle. He was slumped against the wall, and she had a fleeting
impression of total despair and hopelessness, but he glanced up, saw
her coming towards him, and scowled with chagrin. The proprietor
followed to hand her a sandwich and a tankard into which she peered
uneasily. "What is it?"

"Hemlock!" ground out Hawkhurst.

"Hot toddy, ma'am," the proprietor chuckled and went to his
grooms.

"You'd best drink up," said Hawkhurst. "If you insist upon
going to an execution, you will need it."

Tears stung Euphemia's eyes, and a pang went through her, but
she would not weep. She must be strong if she was somehow to prevail.
She took a sip of the toddy and coughed, but it was hot and
invigorating. She was mildly surprised that at so terrible a moment she
could be ravenously hungry and took several bites of the sandwich
before pleading, "Does it mean nothing to you that I love him? Dearest,
only think what an impenetrable barrier you will build between us if
you persist."

"Your loyalty is commendable. Your judgment questionable. And
the barriers between us are already impenetrable, Mia."

"You were not so harsh in the ruins," she said, shamelessly
reminding him of his obligation.

He looked at her steadily, but said nothing.

"Oh, Garret, have you no compassion? Simon is—"

"A black-hearted rogue! He was willing enough to accept my
hospitality, even though he despised me! And he repaid me by weaseling
himself into the affections of a pure and innocent girl! Oh, I've a
couple of cousins, ma'am, I'd give him gladly enough, I assure you!
But, Stephanie? No, by God! I'll see the slimy scoundrel dead at my
feet, rather!" Her muffled sob tore his heart despite his fierce
utterance, but he said with grim implacability, "Were you and I happily
wed, Mia—which can never be—I would not be turned aside from this." And
he stood, took up the cane the landlord had brought him, and began to
hobble towards the curricle.

Euphemia ran to stand before him and reached up to tug at the
cape of his coat in desperation. "Garret, please! I love him, just as
you love her! You cannot imagine what his life has been with that awful
wife of—"

"Oh, can I not!" He flashed bitterly, striving to pull her
hands away.

She clung to him tenaciously, gazing into the steely grey eyes
with tearful entreaty, having no idea of how bewitching she looked with
the moonlight gilding the drops that clung to her lashes. "Garret, my
dearest one, do you not yet know what it
really
means to love? To long to be with someone so that each moment apart is
an eternity? Every beat of your heart an ache of longing?"

At this the hardness faded from his eyes, to be replaced by a
yearning sadness. He threw the cane into the curricle and reached to
take her hands and press them to his lips, murmuring, "Yes, God help
me, now… I know."

"And I also. Darling, think of what you throw away. Think of
what our future might be."

He leaned to her. "I adore you," he breathed. "Even with
mustard on the end of your pretty nose!" And before she could move,
shoved her brutally away.

Euphemia fell, sprawling. Dragging himself painfully into the
curricle, Hawkhurst snatched up the reins. But she was nothing if not
true to her word. Her voice teacher might have despaired of her
singing, but he had at least taught her lung control. Abandoning every
instinct of propriety, even as she went down she let out a shriek that
brought light flaring into several windows of the old hostelry, while
half-clad ostlers and stablehands ran into the yard. She continued in
full cry, and her piercing screams, which merely startled the human
beings, wrought havoc with the thoroughbreds. For several minutes it
was all Hawkhurst could do just to keep the panicked blacks from
climbing into the curricle with him.

When at length he swung the whip and sent them streaming out
of the yard and onto the road, Euphemia was at his side.

They were rumbling over a hump-backed bridge across the Kennet
when Hawkhurst saw the chaise ahead. He grinned savagely and sent the
whip hissing out, and the blacks, who had been nursed along for the
last two miles, sprang into their harness and were off at a headlong
gallop.

"I am amazed," shouted Hawkhurst sardonically. "He took
Stephanie's new chaise. I thought he'd help himself to my other racing
curricle, at the very least! D'you suppose your noble brother fancied
me too knocked up to follow, ma'am?"

Euphemia winced, but said nothing, hanging on for dear life,
perceived that Simon must have seen them, because the chaise ahead
lurched suddenly and was away at top speed.

Never afterwards would she forget that frenzied race through
the night, the total disregard for the irregularities of the road, for
common sense or human life. She could well imagine the despair in
Simon's heart and the terror that must possess poor Stephanie. As for
herself, if Hawk shot her brother, her own life would be finished, for
to lose them both must either rob her of all reason or plunge her into
a grey world in which there would be nothing left but loneliness. She
glanced down, wondering if she could possibly reach the flat and deadly
box Bailey had thrust under the seat. But at this speed it must be a
hopeless attempt. They were creeping up relentlessly. Poor dear souls,
they had no least chance!

And then the chaise slowed and pulled to a stop, and Buchanan
jumped down.

Hawkhurst swore under his breath as the curricle went shooting
past at such a rate that it was necessary for him to make a wide
swinging turn and send the team cantering back.

Tensely, Euphemia waited her chance. When he started out, she
would push him and seize the Mantons. It would break her heart to hurt
him again, but better that than tragedy for them all.

Hawkhurst reined the team to a halt, turned to her with a
weary smile, and suddenly caught her in a merciless grip. She squealed
as she was whirled across him and over the side, to be dumped
unceremoniously onto the grass at the side of the road. With a reckless
leap, he sprang from the curricle, gasped, and clung to the wheel, head
down. Strengthened by fury, he stood straight almost immediately,
hauled out his Mantons, and with the box under his arm hobbled towards
Buchanan, who stood beside the chaise still, Stephanie held close
against his heart.

The girl broke free and ran to face her brother. "Gary," she
sobbed, wringing her hands in despair. "Simon did not want this. The
fault was mine… only mine!"

"Fustian! Stand aside!"

Instead, she reached out to him imploringly. "I told him I
would… enter a convent. I meant it! Gary, dear one… I beg of you—"

"I should rather by far see you take the vows than embark on
the pretty life he plans for you! I gave you credit for more integrity
than this, ma'am!"

Buchanan strode to take Stephanie by the shoulders. He was
very pale, but his voice was steady. "I told you this would happen,
love. And I cannot say I'm sorry. Allow me now to handle it with some
shred of honour." He set her aside and faced Hawkhurst. "I am at your
disposal, sir."

"Oh, no… no!" sobbed Stephanie.

Euphemia took the distraught girl in her arms, experiencing a
feeling of total helplessness. She had done all that it was humanly
possible to do. Her brother looked at her with a fond, sad smile, and,
despite her love for him, she knew in her heart that Hawk was all too
well justified, even as she knew that Stephanie, fighting for her
happiness, must have driven Simon to this decision. What a hopeless
mess!

Hawkhurst regarded his weeping sister for a moment and, his
eyes a glare in his drawn face, grated, "One chance,

Stephanie. Swear you will never see him again, and I'll let
the cheating cur live."

Buchanan's head flung upward. "I think," he said angrily, "we
have come too far for that, sir!"

"You…
think
?" Hawkhurst swung to him
fiercely. "I would be well justified in shooting you out of hand! Think
on that!"

"Yes, in your place I would feel the same, no doubt. But I
shall not give her up, so do not bother to ask."

Hawkhurst nodded. "It will not be necessary for me to slap
you, I trust? I despise histronics." He opened the pistol box and
offered it, the moonlight gleaming on those beautifully wrought
messengers of death. Buchanan selected one, tested the balance and gave
a wry smile of appreciation. "Where?"

Hawkhurst glanced around and nodded towards a level patch of
turf between two clumps of trees a short distance off the road.
Courteously, he enquired if Sir Simon had any objections, to which,
just as courteously, Buchanan replied that he had none, and they
started off, the girls, arms entwined, following helplessly.

Hawkhurst was paying a bitter price for all this activity and
was obliged to slow on the last few yards, which were up a slight rise.
As Buchanan passed, he said unevenly, "You had best… say your last
words to… my sister."

"Thank you, but they were all said whilst you were racing your
team half a mile down the road and back."

Hawkhurst nodded, tossed a curt command to the girls that they
remain here, and accompanied Buchanan onto the turf. Stephanie wept
softly. Euphemia was pale and silent, unable to tear her eyes from the
two young men who, in time-honoured fashion, now stood back to back.