The Least Likely Bride (12 page)

The men jumped out of the boat, hauling it up onto the beach. They were solicitous as they helped her out onto the sand. “It’s a bit of a climb up the path, miss.”

“That’s all right, I c-can manage,” she said, smiling at the man who had spoken. He looked so anxious.

“Ye want us to wait fer ye, Mike?”

“Nay, I’ll spend t’night at ’ome.” The man called Mike started off across the beach towards a thin white line in the cliff. “This way, miss. The cart’ll be waitin’ at the top.”

Olivia followed, stuffing Anthony’s kerchief into the pocket of her gown.

A
NTHONY SURVEYED HIS IMAGE
in the mirror in his cabin. He adjusted the curling mustache now gracing his lip and with a frown took a dark pencil to his eyebrows.

“What d’you think, Adam? Will it do?” He spoke in the broad accents of the island people.

“Aye.” Adam spoke gruffly and handed him a sailor’s knit cap. “That’s it wi’ the girl, then, is it?”

Anthony didn’t reply. He busied himself tucking his hair under the cap, pulling the brim low. “I think I look sufficiently villainous,” he observed. “The blackened teeth are a nice touch, don’t you think?”

“Thought you said she was different.”

“Damn your eyes, Adam! I don’t wish to discuss it!”

“Touched ye on the raw, then?” Adam was unperturbed by his master’s roughness. He’d nursed him from the moment of his birth, changed his breechclouts, fed him milk from a dropper, kept him safe through the dreadful flight from Bohemia after the Battle of the White Mountain. Kept him safe and delivered him to his father’s family in their grand mansion on the Strand in London.

And seen the infant repudiated by those who had duty to protect him….

“Adam, devil take you, man. You’re falling asleep! Give me a hand with this rouge. I need to redden my nose, give myself some broken veins.”

Adam took the pot of rouge that was thrust under his nose. “You want to turn yourself into a clown?”

“No, just a man who likes his drink. Hurry now. You have a defter hand than I with this stuff.”

Adam did as he was bid and his hand was certainly artistic. When he’d finished, Anthony’s mottled countenance shone like a rosy apple.

“Who’re you takin’ to watch yer back?”

“Sam … but I expect no trouble. The man has goods to sell. I have coin to pay. Why should there be trouble?”

“Unless it’s a trap.”

“They’ll not be after me. The wreck was not mine.”

“There’s other things that are,” Adam said dourly, screwing the lid back onto the pot of rouge.

“I know what I’m doing, Adam.”

“Oh, aye. ’Tis a dangerous game yer playin’, I’ll tell ye that fer nothin’.”

Anthony turned slowly. “I made a promise to Ellen, Adam, and I’ll not renege. My father betrayed her; I’ll not do so.”

“Much good it’ll do Ellen if ye find yerself swingin’ off the ’angin’ tree.”

“I will not.”

“Your father didn’t think ’e would either,” Adam said somberly. “And he didn’t think ’e was betrayin’ Ellen neither … not at the beginnin’. Went off full o’ high thoughts. We stood together on the deck of the
Isabelle,
as sure an’ certain of duty and righteousness as you stand there, an’ look where it all ended.”

“My father fought for religion, for ideals.” Anthony gave a short laugh. “He was a crusader. And he betrayed the woman who loved him, first for those ideals, and then for …” His voice faded, then came back strongly.

“But I fight for self-interest, Adam. It’s a much easier master, one who doesn’t force hard choices on a man. I watch my own back and I make my own decisions. I don’t march to anyone’s drum but my own.” He lightly touched the elderly man’s shoulder and smiled as he turned to leave. “Therein lies my security.”

“If’n ye says so,” Adam said to the closed door. He sat down heavily on the seat below the window. The curtains were drawn back again, the windows open. The air was still, laden with the night scents of the cliffs that concealed the chine where
Wind Dancer
had her safe anchorage.

Twenty-eight years ago, Anthony’s father, Sir Edward Caxton, had set sail from Dover in the company of a group of eager, like-minded ideological young men to volunteer for King Frederick of Bohemia’s Protestant army in its struggle against the Catholic Emperor Ferdinand. Adam had accompanied Sir Edward as his body-servant. Their ideals had died a bloody death in the massacre of White Mountain.

Anthony’s father had escaped the battlefield, but he hadn’t escaped the vengeance of the emperor. Ferdinand’s agents had found him and had slaughtered him as he defended
the door to his bedchamber, where his mistress was laboring to deliver their child.

They had watched her labor, watched her give birth, before they had cut her throat and left her and the blood-streaked child lying between her legs, the cord that attached him to his mother still pulsing. They had not expected the child to live.

But then they hadn’t known that Adam was there, hidden behind the window curtains. There was no way he could have been of help to either Sir Edward or the lady Elizabeth, but he took the child, cleansed his mouth and nostrils and breathed life into him. And he succored him and carried him back to London to his grandparents.

His grandparents had repudiated him. His father’s rejection of family duty in pursuit of ideals, and the child’s illegitimate birth, were cause enough. They had turned Adam and the child from their door, threatening to set the dogs upon them. Adam had gone to the only person he knew who might take in Edward Caxton’s bastard.

Ellen Leyland, the daughter of a country squire, had loved Edward Caxton. He had loved her after his fashion, but had left her to follow the bugle call of religious zeal. And in the glories of war he had forgotten her, turned instead to the illicit pleasures to be found in the bed of Lady Elizabeth of Bohemia.

Ellen had taken her late lover’s child as her own. In the tiny Hampshire fishing hamlet of Keyhaven, she had ruthlessly taught Anthony his letters, mathematics, introduced him to the philosophers; set him on his own path of learning. And with Adam’s help she had encouraged him to find his way among the smugglers, the fishermen, the men who made their living from the sea however it was to be made.

Anthony had always known his history, known that he was rejected by his father’s family, known that he had no legitimate place in the world, and he had learned the bitter
lessons of survival. Just as he had learned what it was to be loved by Adam and by Ellen, whom he called aunt to all who might ask.

He had proved competent at survival, Adam reflected as he stood up, wincing at the creak in his knees. Competent but unorthodox. There were many who loved Anthony Caxton, and there were those who would gladly see him hang.

T
HE CART WITH A STURDY COB
between the traces was waiting at the head of the path. A lad of about twelve held the reins and jumped down from his perch as Olivia, following Mike, climbed the last steep stretch of the path to emerge on the clifftop.

“All well, Billy?” Mike called softly, crossing the springy turf towards him.

“Aye. Pa says as ’ow yer to come ’ome tonight and drink wi’ him.” The lad regarded Olivia curiously from beneath an unruly thatch of black hair. “If ’tis all right wi’ the master.”

“Oh, aye. He’ll not be lookin’ fer me back till the morning’,” Mike responded easily. He turned to Olivia, offering her his hand. “Let me ’elp ye up, miss. ’Tis probably a mite dirty,” he added with an apologetic smile. “Cart was used to take the chickens to market this mornin’.”

“I don’t mind a few chicken feathers,” Olivia said, taking the proffered hand and climbing into the cart. It was fortunate she didn’t mind, since the floor was thick with feathers and there was a strong odor of livestock. “Smells more like pig to me,” she observed.

“Oh, aye. Ma’s piglets went off t’ market this mornin’,”
the lad said, brushing at the seat with his sleeve. “Got a good price she did fer ’em, an’ all.”

Mike swung himself into the cart beside Olivia. “ ’Tis not far, miss,” he offered.

“You’re taking me home?”

“Aye. Master says we’re to deliver ye to the door. He says we’re to say nowt. Ye’ll do the talkin’.” He gave her a rather anxious look as he said this.

“Yes, that’s right,” Olivia reassured him. “I know just what to say.”

“That’s good, then. I’m not much fer words meself.” His relief was clear.

The lad clicked his tongue and the cob moved off slowly across the cliff and onto a narrow lane. Olivia had no idea where they’d landed or in what direction they were headed. The blindfold had disoriented her, and after five days of the gentle motion of the sea, the land felt hard, unyielding to her body as the cart jolted along the lane. She looked for the North Star but the clouds had come in from the sea and the sky was dark.

It wasn’t long, however, before they began to pass cottages along the way. “There’s the inn, miss.” Mike pointed ahead to the faint glimmer of a light some half mile away.

“The coaching inn in Chale?”

“Aye, miss. Reckon we’ll find Lord Granville’s place just past on the left.”

“You turn left at the crossroads,” Olivia said. Now she was so close to home, she couldn’t seem to think straight. Would her father be there? It would be so much easier if she had time to collect her thoughts, talk with Phoebe, before she had to face him.

She would have to tell Phoebe the truth, Olivia knew that now. It was not something she could keep to herself. But she would not,
could
not, tell Phoebe of what she had remembered.

Gales of laughter erupted from the open door of the coaching inn as they passed, and Mike glanced longingly towards the convivial light. Then they had passed and the lane was dark once more. At the crossroads, Billy turned the cob to the left. The hedgerows were high, the lane very narrow, but they reached the stone gateway leading to Lord Granville’s house in a very few minutes. The gates were locked for the night and Mike jumped down and pulled the bell.

The gatekeeper appeared at the door of his cottage, holding his lantern high. “Who goes there?”

“It’s me, Peter.” Olivia leaned over the side of the cart so that he could see her clearly. “Open the gate.”

“Well, I’ll be blowed,” the man muttered at the unmistakable voice. He raised his lantern higher, illuminating the speaker. “Well, I’ll be blowed,” he said again, louder this time, and ran to unlock the gates. He swung them open and Billy trotted the cob smartly through, giving the man a cheeky wave as he did so.

“Should us go to the front door, then?” Billy inquired as the lights of the house came into view.

“Of course, you dolt!” Mike said, cuffing him lightly. “Who d’ye think we got ’ere?”

“Dunno. No one told me,” Billy muttered. “Jest ‘miss’ is all I ’eard.”

“Yeah, well that’s all ye need to know,” Mike stated, heedless of the contradiction.

“The front door is fine,” Olivia said hastily, although in her present state of stockingless dishabille she thought the kitchen door might be a more suitable point of entrance.

Billy halted the cob at the front door. There were lights in the windows but the thatch-roofed mansion had a rather desolate air, as if everyday life had been suspended. Mike jumped down and politely offered Olivia his hand.

She stepped to the gravel and stood for a second, hesitating. The prodigal returned was not an easy part to play. Then she lifted her chin and marched to the door. She raised the knocker and banged it with imperious firmness.

There were footsteps, the sound of the bolts being drawn back, then the door swung open. Bisset, the butler, stood outlined by the lamplight from the hall behind him. He stared at Olivia as if at some spirit.

“Yes, Bisset, it’s me.” Olivia stepped past him into the hall. “Where is Lady Granville?”

But she had no need to ask the question; Phoebe was coming down the stairs, her step impetuous, as she called, “Who is it? Who’s there, Bisset?”

“It’s me,” Olivia said, running to the stairs, needing now only the comfort of her friend’s arms, the security of home.

“Oh, Olivia! Where have you been? I’ve been frantic!” Phoebe wrapped her in her arms, tears of relief pouring down her cheeks. “What
happened
to you?”

Olivia clung to her. “Is my father back?”

“No, not yet.” Phoebe drew back slightly to look into Olivia’s eyes. “Where on earth have you been?”

Olivia remembered Mike and Billy. She remembered bitterly the pirate’s injunction that she reward them for their trouble, as if she didn’t know how to behave to those who served her.

“I’ll explain later, Phoebe, but I must show my gratitude to these people. They’ve been so kind to me.” She gestured to Mike, who had withdrawn from the doorway and stood hesitating in the shadows just beyond the shaft of lamplight.

Phoebe understood what was required immediately. She didn’t need reminders any more than Olivia of the lady of the manor’s obligations. She controlled her impatience
with difficulty and went to the door. “Please, do come in for a minute.”

Bisset had the air of one whose breath had been knocked from his body, but he stepped aside to allow the reluctant Mike entrance to the hall.

Mike made a jerky bow. “Mike Barker, madam.”

Phoebe gave him a friendly welcoming nod and turned back to Olivia. She took the key to Cato’s strongbox from her pocket as she made for her husband’s study, Olivia on her heels.

“What should they have?” Phoebe asked as she opened the strongbox. “Since I don’t know what’s going on, how can I—”

“Five guineas.” Olivia interrupted Phoebe. She could hear the impatience rising in her friend’s voice and knew that Phoebe would not be able to restrain herself for much longer.

Phoebe handed five gold coins to Olivia, who took them without a word and returned to the hall.

“Mike, please thank your family for everything they’ve done for me. I know my father will be so grateful when he returns. But please give this to your mother. It will help pay for the medicines.”

“Oh, aye,” Mike muttered, staring at the winking riches on his palm. It seemed a generous sum for telling a tale and the loan of a cart. However, the master always paid for the favors he asked, and there were a great many mouths to feed at the family hearth. Mike slipped the coins into his pocket.