Recklessly Yours (35 page)

“That's what I'm trying to tell you, if you'd only calm yourself and listen.”

“She is right, Colin. You should calm yourself.”

His eyebrows knotting, he glanced from Holly to his grandmother and back again. “I am perfectly calm.” The white lines of tension on either side of his nose belied that claim, a fact not missed by the duchess, who winked at Holly. Colin reached for her hand. “Tell me what happened.”

He absently stroked his fingertips across her palm, and for a moment she could focus on nothing else. Another memory flashed, that of his lips pressed to hers, not tenderly in a kiss but desperately, distractedly. She remembered a shrieking pain in her lungs, an inability to draw even the smallest breath . . . sinking closer and closer to death.

He had breathed life back into her. There on the bank of the stream, he had brought her back to the world.
Dragged
her back when she might almost willingly have succumbed to the waters . . . he had claimed her, as a warrior claims what is his. . . .

Tears of gratitude and sheer awe burned the backs of her eyes, and her throat tightened around a powerful ache. She swallowed and returned the pressure of his hand. “I'd been out walking on the moor and . . . I saw you out there . . . riding with the ponies. I'd strayed too far and lost sight of the house. As I tried to make my way back I came upon a group of villagers. They were ragged . . . and angry. They talked of pounding on your door and demanding answers about the colt. When they saw me, they remembered me from yesterday when we passed through the village. They began to chase me—”

She broke off as a ghost of panic chilled her and left her shaking. Colin rubbed her hands between his own. His grandmother patted her shoulder.

“Damn them.” His features hardened. “They won't get away with this. How did you manage to outrun them?”

“I didn't. Someone else . . . appeared. A gentleman, judging by his clothing.”

Colin's grip on her hands tightened. “What do you mean, he appeared?”

“I don't know. I didn't see where he came from and I'd never seen him before. At least I don't think I have. He ordered the villagers to abandon their pursuit.”

“This man, did he speak to you?” The duchess frowned. “Did he identify himself?”

She shook her head. “I hardly lingered long enough to give him the chance. Something about him . . .”

“Yes?” Colin placed his fingertips beneath her chin, and steady courage flowed into her.

“He frightened me,” she said evenly, calmly. “Those shots on the road the other day—”

“Shots?” The duchess turned an alarmed expression on her grandson. “Colin, you didn't mention this.”

“Not now, Grandmother. What else, Holly?”

“You remember the night of the ball.”

“The man who accosted you in the corridor.”

“Good gracious!”

Holly clasped the woman's hand. “It's quite all right, Your Grace. Nothing untoward happened then, either. But now I'm wondering . . .” She turned back to Colin, meeting his gaze with her own deadly serious one. “Could this stranger be the same, and is there a connection between these incidents?”

 

Colin rode Cordelier at a sedate walk to the end of the driveway. He might just as easily have walked the short distance from the house, but he desired the air of authority that sitting atop his stallion would lend him.

Given the situation, he needed every advantage he could muster.

A group of representatives from the village, some twelve or so strong, milled outside the gates. They had gathered nearly an hour ago, but he'd put off the confrontation long enough to assure himself Holly had suffered no lasting injuries from her accident.

Before he'd gone halfway down the drive, their petulant voices reached him. He eyed each man sharply, wondering if any of them had been part of the gang that had chased Holly. If he discovered any of them had been . . .

He forced himself to remain calm, at least to put up the appearance of composure. That the delegation of village men waited peaceably at the base of the drive, rather than storming past to threaten those within the house, was something to be grateful for. But he didn't know how much longer his good fortune would continue.

Or whether one of them might brandish a weapon and take aim. Would they stop to consider that the person most worthy of their enmity was at this moment on his way to some sunny island halfway across the world?

The morning's drizzle had abated, but the leaden skies and moist breezes promised more rain to come. Colin prayed for inclement weather to chase the villagers back to their homes and keep them there. For now, however, he'd enjoy no such luck. He collected his thoughts as Cordelier brought him inevitably to the end of the drive.

“Where is it?” Ed Harper, the greengrocer, flourished a formidable-looking fist. He'd been among the first yesterday to throw up his clenched hand and shout. Regarding his bulldog face and massive shoulders, Colin narrowed his eyes. Holly had described just such a man among the rapscallions this morning.

He tightened his own fist around the reins. “The colt will be returned to Briarview,” he said, raising his voice against a gust of wind. “You have my word on it.”

“That's no answer.” Harper strode forward, and Cordelier lurched.

“I've had another lamb die, two days ago.” A sallow-skinned man hovered slightly behind Harper and spoke with considerably less force. Colin recognized him as Jon Darby, a tenant farmer. The man held his cap between his hands and met Colin's gaze only briefly before ducking his head in a show of customary if reluctant deference. “That makes three this month.”

Colin raised his chin. “I'll come out and see to your sheep. Most likely there's some blight in your feed that's affecting the ewes' milk.”

“And where'd the blight come from? I wonder.” Harper shoved his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and dug in his heels.

“From the curse,” murmured another among them. Ken Fanning, who ran the smithy, glanced around at the others for encouragement. “My boy was nearly blinded last week when the coal door of the forge burst open with a spray o' embers.”

At those words, sparks showered behind Colin's eyes and a scream burst from his memories. There had been another forge once, but what happened there had not been an accident. Bryce had eluded his Latin tutor yet again and was happily assisting Masterfield Park's smithy when their father had found him. Bryce had always preferred physical pursuits to academic, but that day Thaddeus had decided to teach his son a lesson. To deter him from ever shirking his schoolroom duties again, he'd gripped the seven-year-old child's hands, twisted them around, and held them over the heat of the smithy's fire until the skin had begun to scorch . . . until Bryce would bear scars for the rest of his life and his hands would be so weakened that he'd never be able to handle a high-spirited Thoroughbred again.

Shutting his eyes, Colin forced the memory away and focused on the matter confronting him now. “An accident,” he said to Ken Fanning. “Had anyone checked the latch?” He raised his gaze to encompass all of them. “Such things happen in every village across England.”

“Not like this,” Harper shouted. Mutters of agreement circulated through the group. “Damn you Ashworths . . .”

“That will be enough, Edward.”

The firm but unperturbed admonishment came from beneath the wide, round hat of northern Devonshire's traveling preacher, who until that moment had hovered to the rear of the group. Now the man pressed forward, parting the others by placing his hands on their shoulders. Colin had never been so relieved to set eyes on him; if anyone could penetrate the wall of superstition built up in these people's minds, Daniel Fairmont could, a man of Colin's age who possessed an astuteness that made him seem much older.

“Mr. Fairmont, surely you agree with me that—”

The preacher did something neither he, nor any of these villagers, had ever done before. He interrupted the firstborn son of his benefactor. “Lord Drayton, however much you and I might agree is a moot point. The day the colt was led off Ashworth land, reason went with it.”

“Is it lack of reason that brought disease upon our livestock, floods, and blights to our fields?”

This came from Fanning the smithy, reminding Colin that no matter a man's profession, in this part of England all families farmed their plots of land and raised their small herds, supplementing other income with homegrown foodstuffs and textiles. Some years, a decent yield was all that stood between such people and starvation.

“Our livelihoods are at risk while you Ashworths take your ease and grow fat.” Harper again. And he had a point, and for exactly that reason Colin couldn't afford to show even the slightest sign of weakness.

His grandmother lived in that house at the top of the drive, his beloved Grandmama who had once stood up to her husband and her own son on a regular basis, but whose strength was all on the inside now. She could never defend herself against a band of hammer–and pitchfork-wielding vagabonds. Should the villagers' patience wear out . . . dear God, what would happen to Grandmama?

“Well, my lord?” Harper's biting tone dripped sarcasm into what should have been a term of respect. With no visible show of effort, the man's biceps flexed, straining the sleeves of his soiled woolen shirt. “Just what are you going to do?”

 

“I'm glad Colin's gone out to visit with the villagers.” The dowager duchess turned away from the scene outside the window. Her cane thudding on the rug, she moved stiffly back to the bed and carefully lowered herself to perch at the edge beside Holly. Holly reached out a hand to help steady her, and the duchess grasped it warmly. “You and I may become better acquainted.”

“You're very kind, Your Grace.” Holly couldn't keep the surprise from her voice. Considering the circumstances of her visit, she'd had every reason to expect glaring disapproval from this woman. But to be welcomed, pampered . . . She remembered how the other duchess, Colin's mother, had doted like a mother hen on Ivy after she fainted. The Ashworths were not nearly as devoid of kindheartedness as they might appear at first glance. The women, at least, showed uncommon generosity. Even Sabrina was not without her gentler side. As for the men . . .

They were nothing if not perplexing, especially one Ashworth man in particular. She knew Colin had feelings for her, yet she knew just as surely that he saw no way for them to ever be together. He had given up without fighting, just as the villagers had given up their livelihoods because they believed they were cursed. Didn't he see that his view was as self-defeating as theirs?

She tried to shake those thoughts away, only to discover it was the very topic the duchess wished to discuss.

“Colin explained to you about Lady Briannon,” the woman said, “who presided over the Exmoor ponies centuries ago?”

“He mentioned it, Your Grace. He said the villagers believe the loss of the colt has led to their misfortunes.” She drew on a lifetime of common sense and added, “Anyone can see these misfortunes are the sort that can happen anywhere, to anyone.”

“You believe that, do you?”

“Of course I do. Surely, Your Grace doesn't think . . .”

“I believe there are forces in this world that cannot be explained as my grandson would like, with logic and formulas and what he calls intrinsic evidence.” The woman leaned close to brush a hair from Holly's cheek with the back of her fingers. “His problem is that he doesn't stop to look at the full picture.”

“Full picture, Your Grace?”

“Men are so shortsighted.” Maria Ashworth smiled, revealing the curves of high cheekbones. “So limited in their scope of understanding. They want their answers here and now, tied in neat little bundles. Women, on the other hand, are much more patient. We must be. We experience the long hours of childbirth, spend years raising our children, make sacrifices in the here and now and put our hopes in the future. We have a special power all our own, which a man can never understand.”

“I'm not sure
I
understand.” Holly drew herself up straighter against the pillows and looked into eyes that held the brightness of youth and optimism, despite the duchess's advanced years.

“A woman can see the connectedness of life in all its many aspects. She might not receive what she wants when she wants it, but if the rewards of her labors are reaped by her children and her grandchildren, then she has not toiled in vain.”

Holly took this in. “Are you speaking of Briannon?”

“I am. Her lover betrayed her in the worst possible way, but she has been patient.”

“You believe she is finally taking her vengeance?”

The duchess tilted her head and laughed softly. “No, dear child. Goodness, no. What Briannon seeks is not retribution, but resolution. Through the centuries, her spirit has reached out for peace—for herself, for her ponies, and for those who are touched by her legacy. And that means all of us who walk the land she once walked.”

The duchess fell silent, the knowing gleam in her eye mystifying Holly as much as her words had. Yet she found herself trusting that gleam, and heard words spilling from her own mouth. “Your Grace, yesterday on the moor, I saw Colin riding among the ponies, and I felt something . . . extraordinary. And most peculiar.”

“Do tell, my dear.”

Holly searched the old woman's face, seeing not a proud noblewoman in the once-lovely features, but someone kinder and wiser. Someone who might understand. “The ponies' raised a thunder across the moor, a sound that took control of my heart, my pulse, my breathing. Even my thoughts. I could think of nothing else but the herd, and I felt as if I were among them, surging wildly over the land, but at the same time safely. I . . .”