The Savage Miss Saxon (10 page)

H
oping to work out her anger at Nicholas by means of a frenzied bout of housekeeping, Alexandra spent the remainder of the day deep in the dingy Saxon Hall kitchens. Alas, her efforts, consisting as they did of prodigious amounts of determined pot bangings and violent cabinet door slammings—prompting the servants to hastily recall pressing duties elsewhere in the castle—proved to be a lamentably unsatisfying substitute for beating the insufferable Lord Linton into a quivering pulp (they didn’t do the kitchens any great whacking lot of good either, but then what were a few more dents in a passel of pots that were so ancient they had probably landed on the island in the train of William the Conqueror?).

Yet what alternative did she have? Certainly, flying to her grandfather with the news that his only granddaughter had been nearly ravished by the lecherous Nicholas Mannering would be the very pinnacle of folly. She could see Sir Alexander now—rigged out in his rusty medieval armor and perhaps even sporting her favor on his sleeve, prancing back and forth on his trusty steed outside Linton Hall—demanding in a loud voice that Mannering come out and fight.

Alexandra smiled a bit at the picture her thoughts conjured up before sobering again. Her grandfather wouldn’t go pelting off to Linton Hall to avenge her honor. He considered Nicholas to be her fiancée—or her betrothed, as the old man termed it. No, he’d probably just laugh, wink, poke her a time or two in the ribs with his elbow, and make some embarrassing remark about his dreamed-of great-grandson.

She could tell Harold, she thought evilly. Even though the Indian was pleased to think there was yet a single man left in this world fool enough to wed an over-the-hill spinster of twenty, he would not take kindly to having his charge pawed about like some common tavern wench. Surely Harold would take it upon himself to paint one of his wampum belts red and deliver it to Nicholas—the Lenape method of declaring war on their enemies. Alexandra’s eyes glittered nastily as she tried to envision Nicholas minus his crop of coal black hair.
That
would surely show him a thing or two!

But once again her glee was short-lived. Harold was an Indian all right, but he was only one Indian, and an old one at that. His warrior days were far in the past, if indeed he had ever trod a warpath at all—which was highly unlikely she reminded herself, since the last battles near Philadelphia took place when Harold was only about ten years of age.

The Indian couldn’t fight for her, and confiding in him would force him to fight, only to end up injured or, even worse, made into a figure of fun by Nicholas and the others at Linton Hall. Much as she ached for revenge, much as she longed for a comforting shoulder to lean on, this was one battle she had to fight alone.

So far she was outclassed, outmanned, and outgunned. What she needed, Alexandra decided, was a weapon—something that would shift the advantage away from Mannering and in her direction.

Long into the night she tossed and turned, cudgeling her brain to think of just the right weapon she would need to bring Nicholas to his knees, at last falling into an uneasy sleep colored by dreams in which she was searching, endlessly searching for a weapon.

“Venison, chickens, geese, capons, herrings, cod, plaice—whatever that is—bacon, porpoises.
Porpoises!
Good heavens, whoever would have thought m’ancestors dined on porpoises!”

Alexandra had been busy in the treasury since rising early—after spending a restless night—and was by midmorning knee-deep in piles of ancient records and household accounts she had found in a large chest in the storage room. There was no real need to keep any of the documents, she realized, but figuring some future Saxons might wish a peek at how their forefathers lived, she carefully sorted and stacked them all and replaced them neatly in their oil cloth wrappings.

Sitting back on her haunches, she pressed a hand to the small of her back, which had begun to ache abominably from her enforced bending to reach the deepest depths of the chest. From the Great Hall just outside the half-open door of the treasury she could hear her grandfather going over the rules to his favorite card game while Harold made appropriate grunts every now and then.

“Good God,” she said aloud to herself, “as if it weren’t bad enough the man forces Nutter to play with him—cheating the half-blind fellow all hollow—now he must try to fleece Harold as well.” She leaned back some more in order to peek out through the crack in the door to see her grandfather sitting across from Harold at one of the trestle tables. Sir Alexander sported a cunning grin while the Indian, who was having a great deal of difficulty holding the cards that made up his hand, listened to yet another spur-of-the-moment rule that assured Sir Alexander of having the winning hand.

As Harold pushed another small wampum belt across the table, where it was at once snatched up and examined by the old gentleman, Alexandra noticed a large goblet at the Indian’s elbow. Gin! Now her grandfather was plying Harold with gin. It was the outside of enough! Everyone knew an Indian had no head for spirits. She shook her head disgustedly and made to get up and put a stop to this nonsense once and for all.

Just as she had almost gained her feet, her eyes spotted another document stuck in the corner of the tattered lining of the chest lid. Oh well, she thought, it’s just one more absurdly huge order for sea salt or a listing of the alms the lady of the household doled out to the poor. She might as well add it to the rest.

Alexandra tugged gently at the yellowed parchment and realized at once that this was no ordinary document—the quality of the paper was quite superior to any of the others she had come across. Soon she had it in her hands, unrolling it to find the whole sheet to be covered in fine script and encrusted with more than a half-dozen official-looking signatures and wax seals.

Carrying it over to the candelabra to take advantage of the increased light, she held the document close to her face as she worked to decipher the Old English script. Slowly, as the words she was reading began to make an impression on her mind, a small grin replaced the frown of concentration, until at last she clutched the parchment to her breast, threw back her head, and gave out with a mighty yell.

“
Wheeeeeee-ooo!
” she shouted, her voice coming back to her again and again from the thick stone walls.

Two benches crashed noisily to the floor in the Great Hall as the startled men dropped their cards and sprang to their feet—Harold reaching for his knife and Sir Alexander searching blindly for his goblet of Blue Ruin.

“What in thunder is it, gel?” her grandfather blustered as soon as he’d gotten his breath. “If it’s naught but a silly mouse has run across your toes, I’ll have your missish hide. Knocked my goblet over, I have, and I’ll not forgive
that
lightly.”

Alexandra came bounding into the Great Hall, a wide, silly grin nearly splitting her face in two. Going over to Harold, she caught the Indian’s hands and danced him about in a circle chanting, “I’ve found it! I’ve found it! I needed it and I found it!”

Sir Alexander could see nothing but a moldy old piece of paper squashed in the girl’s fist as she persisted in holding on to the Indian and capering about like a chicken who’s just lost its head. “What have you there?” he shouted over the din. “What have you found?”

Alexandra stopped in midwhirl and skipped up to her grandfather to wave the parchment under the man’s rosy-red nose. “What have I found, Grandfather?” she chortled. “I have found release. I have found revenge. I have found the fairy pot at the end of the rainbow, King Solomon’s mines, buried pirate treasure! I have found what I have been searching for!
I have found a weapon!
”

Running toward the spiral staircase, she called over her shoulder to the two men who were just then looking at her as if she had suddenly taken leave of her wits, “Don’t just stand there like statues. Give me five minutes to change and we’ll be off.”

Thinking his granddaughter was already more than a little “off,” Sir Alexander yelled, “Where are we bound, you widget?”

Alexandra whirled and spread her skirts as she dropped into a deep curtsy. “Why, we’re off to pay a call on my
betrothed
, wherever else?”

Sir Alexander turned to the Indian and remarked, “Chas didn’t marry until he hit America, as I recall. Never did ask about the woman. Should have. Do you suppose insanity runs in the family?” At Harold’s blank stare Sir Alexander cursed a time or two and said disgustedly, “Why do I waste my time talking to a heathen who cannot even remember what is trumps? Maybe this insanity thing is catching.” He drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t all that impressive when viewed beside Harold’s imposing stature, tucked a few inches of “excess baggage” under his wide belt, and announced, “Well, you black rascal, don’t just stand there, get that mangy fur of yours and let’s get going. We’re calling on Linton Hall, you know.”

Harold bowed his head slightly and replied, “
N’mauwi pihm, geptschat
,” which translated, meant “I am going to take a sweat, fool,” and went off toward the kitchens, leaving behind an angry but, fortunately, uncomprehending Sir Alexander.

Meanwhile, a few miles away at Linton Hall, Nicholas Mannering had made a discovery of his own. That this discovery did not cause him to shout with joy or dance about with happiness came as a bit of a surprise to Jeremy, as he had convinced himself that his brother would be delighted to find that Helene Anselm—once Nicholas’s fiancée—had unexpectedly dropped in for a visit.

Not that Jeremy held a very high opinion of Miss Anselm—acknowledging that the girl had an unusual beauty while still aware that it scarcely made up for her sad lack of wit. Add to that one positive gorgon of a mother (who seemed to come along with Helene as sort of a combination deal) and one perfect twit of a brother named Rupert, and Miss Anselm’s appeal dipped even further.

But Nicholas had been smitten with the chit the moment he laid eyes on her in town and had somehow cut out all her other admirers to the point where their engagement had been posted in the
Gazette
just before Nicholas took off for Brussels and somehow landed himself in the thick of things at Waterloo.

Jeremy would never forgive the heartless chit for tossing his brother over upon his return, saying his scar and eyepatch were too much for a person of her delicate sensibilities to tolerate. When Nicholas then hied himself off posthaste for Linton Hall, forgoing all the post-Waterloo balls and fetes, Jeremy was thoroughly convinced his brother was heading for a sad decline—ergo Jeremy’s decision to have himself booted out of school for a space in order to keep his brother company.

Now Helene was back—or so it surely seemed, if the amount of baggage currently stacked in the foyer could be taken as an indication of her intended length of stay—and Jeremy supposed Nicholas to be immediately thrown into ecstasy.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

While Jeremy was closeted with his friends discussing this latest turn of events—and wondering aloud what good old Nick was to do when he finally recollected that he now had
two
affianced brides underfoot—the Earl was pacing back and forth in his dressing room, cursing a blue streak while his hapless valet tried in vain to convince him to remain still long enough to have his cravat tied properly.

“Damn and blast!” his lordship swore, not for the first time. “Everything was running along so smoothly, and now
she
has to pop back into my life like some half-forgotten nightmare. And to tote that dragon-mother and brainless boob brother of hers along with her is just laying it on a bit too thick and rare. Well, maybe I was fool enough to fall for a pretty face and well-turned ankle once, but no Mannering makes a cake of himself twice—at least not with the same chit! What are you about, man? You’re choking me, you know.”

“Beg pardon, milord,” the servant quailed, “but if you was but to plant yerself for a space—er—I means, sir, if you was but to stand still for a moment.”

“I’m sorry, Bates,” his lordship apologized, “planting myself for a moment would be a pleasure. Perhaps I shall be able to think better in a stationary position.”