Authors: Mary J. Putney
The Bargain (21 page)
“Thank you.” David turned away from the window, feeling tired. “As long as you feel you can do so honestly. I don't want to abuse the fact that we are soon to be brothers-in-law.”
Kinlock shrugged. “The law may be full of hard and fast lines, but medicine isn't. It's not my place to say whether or not you and Lady Jocelyn should stay married. Though my personal opinion is that you're making a big mistake.”
David smiled without humor. “Would you want to hold Sally in a marriage against her will?”
The other man frowned. “No, I suppose not.”
David took his leave, choosing to walk again despite his fatigue. Perhaps the late afternoon sunshine would dispel some of his gloom.
It was ironic, really. Here he was doing his damnedest to ensure Jocelyn's free choiceâyet in his heart, he wished that annulment wasn't possible, and that he and his wife would have to make the best of their marriage.
Chapter 23
T
hree days later they set off for Hereford. Jocelyn was glad to leave London. She supposed David was wise to put the machinery of annulment into motion, but the physical exam to prove that she was
virga intacta
had been humiliating in the extreme. She found the whole subject of annulment distasteful. The best that could be said about it was that it was not as bad as divorce.
hree days later they set off for Hereford. Jocelyn was glad to leave London. She supposed David was wise to put the machinery of annulment into motion, but the physical exam to prove that she was
virga intacta
had been humiliating in the extreme. She found the whole subject of annulment distasteful. The best that could be said about it was that it was not as bad as divorce.
Rhys Morgan rode on the box with the driver and acted as guard, an excellent use of his military experience. Though it would be a while before the stump of his leg healed enough for an artificial limb to be fitted, he had already made a place for himself in Jocelyn's stables, working with the horses and tack.
Marie had nearly purred when she found that she would be sitting next to Hugh Morgan for several days. Hugh had easily shifted from being the major's nursemaid to his valet. Though his skills were still imperfect, his enthusiasm more than made up for that. All in all, it was a happy expedition. The only discontent was manifested by Isis, who had yowled plaintively when Jocelyn left, apparently recognizing from the piles of luggage that a long journey was contemplated.
They took an indirect route, swinging west into Wales to drop the Morgan brothers off at their family's home near the market town of Abergavenny. It had been years since Rhys had seen his parents, and he planned on staying with them at least a fortnight. Hugh would also stay for a week, then travel to Westholme to join his master.
Jocelyn had never visited Wales before, and was delighted by the dramatic landscape. At her suggestion, they stopped on the crest of a hill overlooking the town as they neared their destination.
While Rhys stared at his home, eyes suspiciously bright, Hugh said to Marie, “My family lives on the mountain just above Abergavenny. See that wisp of smoke coming from the trees? I think that must be the cottage.”
Marie shaded her eyes and peered across the small valley. “Such a lovely place to grow up,” she said in her charming French accent. “What is the mountain named?”
“Ysgyryd Fawr.”
Her eyes rounded. “What did you call it?”
Patiently Hugh attempted to teach her the correct pronunciation, but she couldn't get her tongue around the unfamiliar sounds. As Jocelyn and Marie dissolved in laughter, Hugh muttered something good-naturedly under his breath in Welsh.
To Hugh's shock, David replied in equally fluent Welsh. The valet gasped, “You speak Cymric, my lord?”
David laughed and replied in Welsh again. A look of horror crossed Hugh's face. “I'm sorry for anything I might have said, my lord.” He smiled ruefully. “I should have known you were Welsh when I found your Christian name was David.”
“My mother was Welsh, and I was raised speaking both languages,” David explained. “Don't worry, you never said anything that I might take offense to.”
Jocelyn watched the byplay with amusement, enjoying this new facet of the major. He wasn't the sort of man one would ever grow bored with.
They all climbed into the carriage again for the last stretch, and soon they pulled into the yard in front of the Morgan cottage. Instantly a happy riot broke out. With a whoop, Rhys grabbed his crutches and swung off the box, while Hugh forgot his manners and leaped from the carriage.
“Rhys! Hugh!” A solid woman with apple cheeks rushed from the house and tried to hug both her tall sons at once. Within moments three younger children and Mr. Morgan appeared to contribute to the uproar, along with two dogs, and several chickens whose main interest lay in escape.
Unnoticed by the Morgans, David helped Jocelyn from the carriage. Not wanting to intrude on the emotional family reunion, she admired the glorious view of the Brecon Beacon mountains to the west and the Usk river valley below. “It must be hard to leave here. There can be few more beautiful spots in Britain.”
“Beautiful, yes, but there is little work,” David said pragmatically. “All the Celtic lands are beautiful and poor. Sometimes it seemed the army was made up of Irishmen, Scots, and Welshmen. Hugh and Rhys must count themselves lucky to have good jobs now. I imagine both of them have been sending part of their salaries home for years.”
She bit her lip, “That never occurred to me. Sometimes I feel ashamed to have been as lucky as I am.”
“There is nothing wrong with enjoying good fortune as long as one is generous to those less fortunate. And from what I have seen, you have been very generous.”
The warmth in his eyes aroused an uneasy mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. He gave her more credit than she deserved.
As the first burst of greetings died down, Hugh took Marie's hand and brought her forward to his parents. “I'd like you to meet Marie Renault.”
The French girl looked nervous, but after one swift, shrewd glance, Mrs. Morgan embraced her. “Welcome, child,” she said in her musical, Welsh-accented voice.
Beaming, Marie hugged her back. Then Mrs. Morgan turned to Jocelyn and said shyly, “I know 'tis not what you're used to, my lady, but we'd be honored if you and your husband would take tea with us.”
“The honor would be ours,” Jocelyn said warmly.
With seven Morgans, Jocelyn, David, Marie, and the coachman, there was barely space for everyone inside, but the meal was delightful. Great pots of tea were accompanied by fresh bread, pickled onions, crumbly cheese, and delicious flat currant cakes that had been fried on the griddle. Sitting between his parents, Rhys was full of laughter, as a young man should be, the grim soldier of the hospital only a memory.
As she nibbled on a currant cake, Jocelyn studied the cottage. It was immaculately clean, the warm waxed woods contrasting pleasingly with the whitewashed walls. Across the room, Hugh and the three youngest Morgans perched on a carved wooden chest that looked centuries old. Beside it, a well-worn Bible held place of pride on the shelf of an ancient oak china cabinet. She could be happy in a home like this, with the right man beside her. Then she grinned, unable to imagine Candover living in such humble circumstances. He was an aristocrat to the bone.
When it came time to leave, the elder Morgans thanked Jocelyn earnestly for what she had done for their sons. Once more she was embarrassed. It had been so little from her point of view, and yet they were so grateful.
As David handed her into the carriage, Hugh said quietly, “Are you sure you don't want me to accompany you to Hereford, my lord? My Da says there have been highwaymen in the Black Mountains.”
David shook his head. “No need to abandon your family. It's scarcely thirty miles to Westholme, and we'll be there by dark.”
“Very well, my lord,” Hugh said, looking glad that his offer had been refused.
David climbed into the carriage by Jocelyn. “I'm going to have to teach that boy not to say âmy lord' with every breath,” he remarked as the coach started moving. “He's taking my elevation far more seriously than I am.”
“Naturally.” Jocelyn grinned. “A servant's consequence is dependent on his master's. Isn't that true, Marie?”
Her maid, now sitting alone on the facing seat, nodded vigorously. “Mais oui, my lord. You are a credit to us.”
David looked amused, but didn't challenge the statement. Jocelyn guessed that he would never take himself too seriously. It was another thing to like about him.
The weather was dry, the road was good, and they made excellent speed on the next stage toward Hereford. They had changed horses for the last time and were somewhere around the border between Wales and England when the highwaymen struck.
David was dozing in the carriage. Though he'd regained normal movement, his strength and energy were still low, and he slept more than usual. The first he knew of the attack was when a voice bellowed, “Stand and deliver!”
As he snapped to alertness, gunshots blasted deafeningly. The carriage shuddered to a stop, nearly tipping over. Marie was thrown across the carriage. Barely in time, David caught her before she could crash into Jocelyn.
“Down!” He accompanied the order with a firm shove that pushed both women to the floor of the coach. Out the left window, he could see two horsemen with scarves tied over their lower faces, pistols in their hands. An unknown voice barked orders in front of the carriage. At least three attackers, maybe more.
Would it be best to allow themselves to be robbed? He rejected the thought instantly. Cooperating tamely could be a disastrous policy since the coach carried two attractive young women.
The alternative to surrender was to fight, and David had learned the hard way that in combat every second counted. The time to act was
now
, while the horses were screaming and plunging in their traces, occupying the attention of the highwaymen as well as the driver.
now
, while the horses were screaming and plunging in their traces, occupying the attention of the highwaymen as well as the driver.
“Stay down. Don't get out of the carriage.” As a precaution, he'd placed his two pistols in the pocket of his door before leaving London. He yanked them out, along with spare powder and shot, then leaped from the right door, out of the view of their attackers.
Once outside, he immediately dropped to the ground and crawled beneath the rear of the rocking vehicle. Praying that a wheel wouldn't roll over him, he primed and cocked both guns. Reloading would take precious seconds, so he must hope to God that his first two shots would be enough to drive the highwaymen away. He'd get no help from the driver, whose hands were full controlling the panicky horses.
Weapons ready, he inched forward until he had a clear view of two of the attackers. His blood chilled as the nearest man vaulted from his horse and tossed the reins to his partner. Pistol cocked, he wrenched open the carriage door. David took aim, but before he could fire, the highwayman dragged a shrieking Marie from the vehicle.
“C'mere, sweetheart,” he growled. “I'm sure you've got somethin' we can use.” Looking into the carriage, his eyes widened. “ 'Ey, Alf, I need yer 'elp. There's an even better bitch in here.”
Red rage blazed through David, but he couldn't shoot the bastard without endangering Marie. Teeth clenched, he raised one pistol and put a ball through the second attacker. The man screamed hoarsely, his shirt blossoming with crimson.
The third highwayman appeared, spurring his horse from the front of the carriage as he shouted, “What the bloody 'ell is going on?”
With the cool clarity of battle, David used the second pistol to blast the man from his horse. Panicked, his mount ran off. The horse of the man who held Marie jerked its reins free and followed. With the robbery in a shambles, the wounded man galloped for his life, leaving the third highwayman without a means of escape.
Knowing the last man was as dangerous as a cornered boar, David sprang to his feet, trying to reload a pistol so he could bring the man down before he hurt Marie. Eyes glittering with fear, the man backed across the road, his pistol in one hand and his other arm around her throat as he used her for a shield. He was a muscular brute and could probably break her neck with a single snap if he tried. David checked his attack, not wanting to endanger her.
Halting made him a dead easy target. The highwayman's pistol rose, the steel barrel aimed straight at David's heart. Praying for a miracle, he dived to one side.
As he hit the ground and rolled, a pistol blasted with ear-shattering closeness, but no ball tore into him. Instead, the robber screamed and fell backward. Marie took the opportunity to wrench free of his grip and bolt behind the carriage.
David scrambled to his feet and saw Jocelyn standing in front of the open carriage door, a smoking pistol gripped in trembling hands. Shooting from a different angle, she had saved him and Marie, but she was dead white, on the verge of fainting.
The wounded highwayman was no longer a threat and the driver had the horses under control, so he embraced his trembling wife. “Well done, my dear girl!”
She clung to him as the terror she'd hardly had time to experience swept through her in nauseating waves. She had known soldiers all her life, been dandled on her military uncle's knee, had danced and flirted with officers, and listened to their war stories. But never before had she seen a soldier in action. She had been stunned by David's swift, precise application of violence. For the first time she truly realized that her friend of the laughing eyes and quiet understanding was a warrior, capable of moving with the strength and speed of a striking leopard.
He was a leader as well, from the sheer power of his courage and presence. She burrowed her face into his shoulder, shuddering as she remembered the horrific moment when the highwayman trained the gun on David at point-blank range. Until then, she had been paralyzed by the speed of events, but seeing him endangered had energized her to act. What if she had been an instant slower? The mental image of David lying on the ground, bleeding from a wound that this time truly was mortal, made her ill.
He murmured, “I didn't realize you were so adept with a gun. Where did the pistol come from?”
“My father taught me to shoot, and I always travel with a pair of coach pistols,” she said unsteadily. “But I couldn't have reacted effectively if not for your example.”
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