Scandalous (17 page)

This morning, when she awoke, she found herself bursting with ideas, and she sat down immediately at her small desk and began to write. She did not even change out of her nightgown, simply threw a light dressing gown over it. She scribbled away without stopping for almost two hours, and when at last she set down the pen, her hand was cramped. She got up, smiling as she rubbed her aching hand. She had been worrying over this scene, between the hero and the woman he had saved from certain death for some time now. She had rewritten it twice, but she had never been satisfied with it. This morning, however, it had come to her, perfect and complete, and writing it down had been like opening up a dam and releasing the water. It was wonderful when it came like that.

She dressed and went downstairs, humming contentedly and wondering what she and John would do today. There was something very pleasant in the idea of having someone with whom to share her day—no, if she was honest, it was in having
John
with whom to share her day.

However, when she got downstairs, she did not find him in the sitting room or in her father's study, nor even in the kitchen, flirting shamelessly with Mrs. Smithson. When she asked Mrs. Smithson if she had seen him, the cook replied, “Why, yes, he headed off to the village this morning. Said he had some things he had to do and would be back as soon as he could.”

The day suddenly seemed not nearly so bright. “Oh, he did, did he?”

“Yes. I told him to look out for those villains, for Miss P., she told me what ye said about what happened yesterday afternoon. But ye know that lad. All he said
was, ‘Now, Mrs. Smithson, me love, don't you know it's those villains that better look out for me!' He's a sight, that one.”

“Mm… A sight. He certainly is.”

“It's past noon, Miss Priscilla. Won't ye be wanting yer meal now?”

“What? No. Yes. I don't know. I am not feeling very hungry.”

“Well, ye should eat anyway. Can't have you turning into skin and bones.”

Priscilla sat down distractedly at the table while Mrs. Smithson bustled around, dishing up a plate of meat and potatoes and setting it down on the table in front of her. At first Priscilla felt only deflated by the fact that John had taken off for the village without her. Why had he denied her a part of the fun? Did he simply not want her with him?

But she knew that was not it. He was doubtless protecting her, keeping her out of danger. The more Priscilla thought about it, the more irritated she became. She'd thought he had reached the point where they were sharing things together equally, both danger and fun. She'd thought he had grown to understand that she did not want to be left out, did not want to be swaddled and smothered with patronizing concern. She wanted to participate, to take part in it all.
She wanted to be with him!

Priscilla frowned at her thoughts. She sounded pitiful, even to herself, and she did not like that. She straightened up and began to eat, forcing down mouthfuls of meat and potatoes, even though they tasted like sawdust to her. She thought about what she ought to do. One thing she would not do, she was certain, was sit meekly
here in the house. Nor was she going to chase after John into Elverton. But she could think of no way she could further their hunt for the two men. Finally she decided that it would be a good day to go visit Lady Chalcomb. It would not accomplish much, but she liked Anne, and at least she would not be sitting here, quietly tending to her housework and waiting for him to return. She could take her drawing pad and pencils and consult with Anne on the needlepoint pattern she had been planning for the new dining room chair cushions.

A short time later Priscilla tied her bonnet on her head and set out along the path toward Chalcomb Hall, pad and pencils in hand. It was not a long walk, and it was one she usually enjoyed, winding as it did through broad meadows. At this time of year everything was green, and flowers dotted the meadows. A few puffy white clouds floated in the sky, and a faint breeze kept the temperature pleasant, despite the sun. Today, however, Priscilla paid little attention to the scenery.

She hardly looked to left or right as she plowed along the path, her head down, a frown furrowing her brow. She considered whether she should be angry or freezingly polite when John returned—or pretend she had not even noticed he was not there. She reminded herself of all the reasons John Wolfe was nothing to her, and mentally cursed herself for being worried about what might happen to him. Priscilla was not used to feeling such a jumble of emotions concerning any man—or at least not since she was fourteen years old and had had a severe crush on the vicar's new assistant—and she did not like feeling this way now.

By the time she reached Chalcomb Hall, she was in a thoroughly foul mood, and Anne Chalcomb, upon
seeing her face, jumped to her feet and came forward, saying with concern, “Priscilla! My dear child, what is the matter?”

“Nothing,” Priscilla replied gruffly, and when Anne looked taken aback by her answer, she sighed and went on, “I'm sorry. I should not have come here in this mood. I apologize.”

“Never mind that. What's wrong? Let me help.” The other woman's kind face was creased with worry. “I have never seen you look so black.”

“It's nothing important. I don't know what is wrong with me. It is just that…” She hesitated, looking at her friend, and suddenly the whole story came tumbling out of her mouth.

Anne listened, her brown eyes wide, as Priscilla described the manner in which “John Wolfe” had arrived at her home and the events since then, as well as all the things about the man that irritated her and the many times when he had been overbearing, foolish and stubborn.

When at last Priscilla wound down, Anne drew a deep breath and said, “Oh, my.” She put a hand to her head. “I can hardly take it all in.”

She turned, leading Priscilla to the sofa. “I think we had better sit down.” They did so, and Anne turned so that she faced Priscilla, her hands folded in her lap. “Now, let me get this straight. John Wolfe is not your cousin, nor is his name John Wolfe.”

Priscilla nodded. “Yes. And he is the most aggravating man I have ever met.”

“Yet you are furious because he went to town without you.”

“I know that sounds foolish….” Priscilla began unhappily.

“Only because it is,” Anne put in, a twinkle in her eye. “But I think there's far more going on here than a man merely going into Elverton by himself.” She gazed at Priscilla steadily for a long moment. “It seems to me that this young man, whoever he is, is terribly important to you.”

“He is a complete stranger.”

“That makes it even more obvious. A complete stranger, and you are worried, upset, angry…. Priscilla, dear, I think you have rather deep feelings for this man.”

Priscilla grimaced. “That is impossible.”

“Is it?”

“Of course. I barely know him. Why, it has been only a week or so since he banged at our door.”

Anne smiled, lighting up her face, and Priscilla thought that she must have been considered a great beauty in her day. One could see it clearly in her now, when she smiled like that, even though crow's-feet nestled at the corners of her large, expressive eyes and lines bracketed the corners of her mobile mouth. Mrs. Smithson had once told Priscilla how amazed everyone had been when Lord Chalcomb brought home his lovely young wife. “A right beauty, she was,” Mrs. Smithson had said with a sigh and a mournful shake of her head. “All wasted on that old roué.”

“Is that the way it was with you?” Priscilla asked quietly. “Can it happen that way?”

Anne nodded, and Priscilla thought she caught a glimmer of tears in her friend's light brown eyes. “Yes. I saw him on horseback. The sun was on his hair, and
his shirtsleeves were rolled up. His arms were browned by the sun. He looked so…so elemental, so powerful. He dazzled me.” She turned aside, closing her eyes.

Priscilla felt painfully as if she were intruding. “I—I'm sorry.”

“No.” Anne blinked a little and turned back, forcing a smile onto her face. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I am foolish to be thinking of things that happened so long ago. It doesn't matter now. I only meant—well, that I know love can happen so fast it takes your breath away.”

“He more often takes my breath away with fury,” Priscilla replied lightly. She wasn't in love with John Wolfe. She
wasn't.

Then she thought of the way she trembled when he laid his hand on her arm, and the way she seemed to melt when he kissed her, and she was no longer so sure. “But it is only…only lust!” she protested. “That is not the same as love. Is it?”

Her friend smiled wryly. “Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference.”

“Then how do you know?” Priscilla wailed.

Anne's smile grew smaller and sadder. “I suppose… all you can do is wait and see. When it doesn't go away, you know it was love.”

Priscilla was even more dissatisfied with this answer. “Anne! That's hardly very helpful now.”

“I don't know what to say. I think…if your heart swells up as if it is about to burst whenever you see him, or if, when he enters the room, you can hardly sit still and you want to jump up and run away or else run straight to him, when you can't think of anything or
anyone else, and you don't care a flip what happens so long as you can be with him, it is love.”

“Even when you disagree about everything?”

Anne chuckled. “I'm not sure. I guess it depends on whether you find it exciting to disagree with him.”

Priscilla stared at her. She had never thought about it before. But it was exciting to disagree with John. Feelings boiled up in her until she thought she would explode…and yet, oddly, she found herself looking forward to those arguments. She would never think of trying to avoid one.

Her thoughts shook her. She rose restlessly to her feet and crossed the room to the window. “This is nonsense,” she declared stoutly. “I am
not
in love with that man. He is completely aggravating. I am merely curious about who he is and why he is here. That is all. And it was foolish of him to go out alone.”

“You are out alone,” Anne pointed out calmly.

Priscilla looked at her. She had not thought about that fact until this moment. It gave her a shiver of apprehension. How blithely she had walked over here, not looking about her or even thinking about the two men who had assaulted John.

“I was careful,” she replied by way of an excuse. “And at least I am knowledgeable about the countryside.”

“Yes, but you are not six feet tall, with great muscles in your arms, as he is,” Anne pointed out.

“All right. I am being unreasonable, I admit it.” She sighed and resumed her place on the sofa.

After that she settled down to talk to Anne about the purported reason for her visit: the design for new needlepoint covers on the cushions of their dining room chairs. Later, Anne invited her to stay for tea. The whole
time, Priscilla did not think about John Wolfe, or his trip to the village of Elverton without her—at least, not more than once or twice.

It was late in the afternoon when she left Chalcomb Manor. This time she was more conscious of the landscape around her and the possibility of someone lurking in the bushes, but she reminded herself that the men had probably fled the area, and, if not, they would be in the village, not out here in the countryside. Still, the thought of them made her quicken her step.

She had just passed the huge oak tree that was almost halfway between the two houses when she heard a noise. She whipped around to see what had caused it, and a fist came down hard on her back, knocking her to the ground and forcing all the air from her lungs. Her pad and pencils went flying. As she struggled silently for breath, two men pounced on her and dragged her to her feet. Air was finally returning to her lungs, and she gulped it in. It felt as if she were breathing fire.

Before she could turn and look up to see her captors, one of them threw a large dark cape around her, covering her from head to foot, and in only seconds she was wound up in it and secured as tightly as if she had been bound, and she could see nothing but darkness. She began to scream and struggle, but by then it was too late. Her struggles only made it more stifling inside the heavy cloak, and when one of the men tossed her casually over his shoulder and began to stride off with her, jarring her with every movement, she felt sick and faint. Panic set in. She was helpless, and she was certain that some terrible fate awaited her. She began to writhe and struggle frantically. The tightly wrapped cloak felt as if it were smothering her. Redness swam before her
eyes, and there was a buzzing in her ears, and in another instant she was aware of nothing at all.

 

W
HEN SHE AWOKE SOME TIME LATER,
Priscilla had no idea where she was or what time it was. For a moment she could not even recollect what had happened to her. Everything was dark and hot, and it was hard to breathe. Then she remembered what had happened, and she realized that she was still encircled by the dark, heavy garment. She was not, however, still being jounced along on someone's shoulder. Rather, she was lying on some hard surface.

She continued to lie still, gathering what little information she could. There was such a penetrating silence all around her that she soon became convinced that she was alone. No one could remain this quiet; there would bound to be a shuffle, the scrape of a heel, or a breath, a cough or a sigh.

Cautiously she sat up. Nothing happened. There were no shouts, and no one knocked her down again, further proof that she was alone. The cloak sagged open a little at the top, and a bit of light seeped in. Priscilla jiggled and shook, writhing until the cloak loosened further and she was able to bring her arms up and pull it open.

She shrugged it off and rose to her feet, looking around her. It was still quite dark, and she was sure she was inside a building. There was not even the twinkle of stars or the light of the moon. She extended her arms on either side of her and felt nothing, then squatted and touched the floor around her. It was hard-packed dirt. She was beginning to suspect that she was in the same cabin in which John had been locked up.