Puritan Bride

The Viscount grimaced in recognition of his steward’s bland expression. ‘We will not disturb her!’

‘Certainly not, my lord. It will not be necessary.’ Verzons bowed his understanding and vanished into the shadowy fastness of the house.

Groaning at the strain on his tired muscles, the Viscount bent and lifted the youth, climbed steadily up the main staircase and shouldered his way into the first unoccupied bedroom on the first floor. The lad might not be heavy, but the events of the night were beginning to take their toll. The room was cold and barely furnished, not from neglect rather than simply long unoccupancy, but the bed had fresh linen and newly laundered curtains and a fire had been thoughtfully laid in the hearth. The panelled walls had been recently polished, as had the floor. There was a pleasant pervading scent of beeswax and herbs. As he thankfully deposited his burden on the bed, a servant arrived with candles.

‘Robert!’ Marlbrooke smiled his thanks. ‘Perhaps you would light the fire. Even the mice could die of cold in here.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Robert grinned as he knelt to comply. ‘Master Verzons asked if he should send up food?’

‘No. Not yet. Let’s see how much damage the lad has done to himself.’

He took a candle and placed it by the bed as he freed the youth from his enveloping cloak. He had been correct in his first assessment. He was indeed young with a light frame and slender build. His face was ashen, waxy in texture, which roused Marlbrooke’s immediate fears, but his fingers were able to detect a faint but steady pulse beneath his jawline. The short dark hair was matted with blood from a deep gash to the skull. Marlbrooke investigated with gentle fingers. It had bled copiously, as did all head wounds, but was now beginning to clot. A deep bruise was developing on the forehead and temple where the stony surface of the road had made hard contact and removed a layer of skin in a deep graze. The collar and sleeve of his jacket, as well as the sleeveless jerkin worn over it, were soaked with blood, but hopefully from the head wound only. He appeared to be otherwise unharmed, but the shallow breathing worried Marlbrooke—a blow to the head from a horse’s hoof could be fatal, but there was nothing to be done in the short term but clean the wound and wait for time and nature to take its course.

But who was he? His clothes were of good quality, if plain and serviceable. Most likely from a local gentry family—of Puritan inclination, since there was none of the lace and ribbons adopted by Royalists. The jacket was buttoned to the neck over the now bloodstained linen shirt. His leather boots were worn, but soft and well made. No clues here. The pockets of his coat, quickly searched, yielded nothing to identify the traveller.

With deft movements, as gently as possible, Marlbrooke manoeuvred the boy’s arms out of his coat. No signs of further wounds were apparent apart from an angry swollen wrist that was probably nothing more than a bad sprain. Elspeth could dress it on the morrow. He pulled off and discarded the boots. No sprains or broken bones. He ripped open the ties at the neck of the stained linen shirt, hoping that the blood here was merely from the head wound and nothing more sinister.

And his fingers froze.

Exposed before him in the flickering light from the candle were the unmistakable delicate bones and obvious form of a young girl. He took a deep breath and expelled the air slowly as realisation hit him. Small firm breasts with exquisite pink nipples. Sharp collar bones. Fragile shoulders. A tapering waist, the ribcage visible under the skin. Skin as pale and silken as any that could fill a man’s dreams or fantasies. He drew a fingertip along one delicate collarbone in a whisper-soft caress. She reminded him for all the world of a fledgling tipped from its nest by some malignant force. He sighed, touched by compassion, before drawing together the edges of the shirt with great care and respect for her modesty.

The Viscount lifted the candle to give his attention to her face. With knowledge it was distinctly feminine. It was an arresting face, cast into clear relief by the short revealing hair, which, with hindsight, showed signs of being inexpertly hacked off at back and sides with a less than sharp blade. Long dark lashes, well marked brows, a straight nose. Her face was relaxed, but shadows marked the fragile skin beneath her eyes and the bruising on her temple was outrageous. As he pushed her hair gently back from her temples he noted its tendency to curl round his fingers. Her hands, which he lifted and turned over in his own, were fine boned, long fingered and clearly those of a well-born lady. This was not a girl who had worked for her living on the land or in the kitchen. As he released them he felt a strange tug at his senses. She was beautiful. How could he possibly have thought that she was a boy? He touched her cheek, so pale, so soft, with the back of his hand.

The girl opened her eyes. They were a deep blue, the colour of delphiniums, and now almost indigo with pain and confusion. They were blurred, uncomprehending, as they moved searchingly over her line of vision. Then her gaze stopped and focused on his face. Suddenly they were filled with fear, a nameless terror. Tears gathered and began to trickle down her cheeks into the pillow and her ravaged hair. She said nothing.

He was caught in that blue gaze for the length of a slow heartbeat, trapped in their sapphire depths, unable to do anything but wipe away the spangled drops from her cheeks.

‘Don’t cry,’ he murmured. ‘You are quite safe here. There is no one to hurt you here.’ What terrible circumstance could have driven her to cut her hair and ride the perilous roads at the dead of night dressed as a boy?

The girl gave no recognition that she had heard him. She closed her eyes as if to shut out a world that threatened to engulf her in nameless horrors.

Marlbrooke swallowed and rose to his feet from his seat on the edge of the bed. He turned to the hovering servant, who was as yet unaware of the deception unfolding in the quiet room.

‘Has he come round, my lord? Doesn’t look too good, does he?’

‘No, Robert. He does not. If you would rouse Mistress Neale with my apologies, ask her to come with all speed. It would seem that I need help here.’

The Viscount lifted and spread the embroidered bedcover over the still figure and stood, hands on hips, looking down on her. Then he moved to the chair by the struggling fire to wait. But he could not take his eyes from her.

Chapter Four

‘Good morning, madam. You look well. And remarkably fetching in rose silk. Is it new? Ah, Felicity … I have brought you the books you requested. I believe that Verzons will have taken them from Jenks last night and have them in his keeping. And these—’ holding out a number of slim volumes to Lady Elizabeth with guileless grace ‘—should keep you entertained and make your heart beat a little faster, my lady.’

The ladies were seated in the magnificent library at Winteringham Priory. Chairs had been placed for them in the window embrasure where the light was good and a fire crackled beside them in the hearth. Warmth and light glowed on the leather-and-gold volumes and reflected softly from the polished oak table on which lay a quantity of embroidery silks and pieces of tapestry.

‘I see you have not lost your capacity to charm in your absence,’ Elizabeth responded in dry tones, but smiled with quiet pleasure as she returned his light kiss on her cheek. ‘Did the delicious Mistress Lovell not attempt to detain you at Court?’

‘Why, no. Your gossip is distinctly out of date, my dear.’ The Viscount’s eyes, so like his mother’s, held a decided twinkle. ‘The delicious Mistress Lovell has decided to cast her eyes and fortunes higher than a mere Viscount. She was fluttering her remarkable eyelashes in the King’s direction when I made my departure. And he was showing a distinct and lamentable tendency to engage her in conversation whenever their paths crossed. Which was frequently. Lady Castlemaine is even now sharpening her claws.’

‘I hope that she will not live to regret it! Or perhaps I do. Such a rapacious female in spite of her undeniable beauty.’

‘I doubt that Charles will notice her avarice as long as he has access to her equally desirable physical charms. I do not believe that she will have to wait long for him to accept her offers.’

‘How demeaning for you, dear Marcus …’ Elizabeth chuckled ‘… to be thrown over for the King!’

Felicity sniffed, lips downturned in disapproval. ‘Really, Marcus. Such disloyalty to your King!’ She frowned at Elizabeth, but directed her censorious gaze at the Viscount. ‘We have been expecting your return any time this past fortnight, have we not, dearest Elizabeth? Your long absence has been a severe trial to your mother—and a source of grave concern. We hear such tales of footpads and robbers, as Elizabeth will tell you. Could you not have sent us word of your safety and intentions? Then your mother’s mind would have been put at rest—you must agree, dearest Elizabeth!’

Elizabeth Oxenden suppressed a sigh, refusing to comply with her cousin. She shook her head slightly to deflect any sharp remark that Marlbrooke might be tempted to make in reply, a rueful smile touching her lips as she met her son’s sardonic gaze. Secretly Elizabeth was delighted that Marlbrooke had returned home and even more so that he should have noticed her extra care with her appearance that morning. Crippled she might be, but she retained a young woman’s interest in fashion and the latest styles at Court. Living in London had some distinct advantages. The deep rose of her full skirts and boned bodice compensated for the lack of colour in her cheeks. The lace edge at collar and cuffs was truly exquisite, if a trifle expensive. It was no good Felicity lecturing her on the sin of vanity. She enjoyed fashion and would do so until the day she died! If Felicity would only take more interest in her own appearance, she might be far more content with life. How could anyone be other than sour dressed in a gown of such unfashionable dark-green watered silk, and at least twenty years old? And with only the minimum of decoration. Felicity, an angular lady of more advanced years and thin features, grey hair scraped unbecomingly beneath a lace cap, managed a tight smile and dropped a small curtsy as the Viscount bowed politely to her and took the time and courtesy to salute her hand.

‘So what have you been doing in my absence? Nothing scandalous, I presume, or Verzons would have informed me on my arrival.’ He picked up a length of tapestry that had slipped to the floor. ‘More bed hangings? You could soon furnish Hampton Court! Have you been well?’

Lady Elizabeth could not prevent her lips curving in a smile.

‘I find the cold weather attacks my fingers—’ she hid her swollen joints from his hawk-like gaze in her lap ‘—but I shall come about with the warmer days.’ She deliberately kept her voice light. How could she tell him of the pain that kept her awake and prevented her from doing all the things she had loved to do in the past? Her embroidery was a nightmare of perseverance and she dare no longer approach the spinet. The snowdrops and daffodils in the gardens bloomed without her care.

But, indeed, she did not need to tell him. He had already discerned the fine lines around her eyes—were they perhaps deeper than when he had left?—and the haunted glaze of pain in her eyes.

‘I know you would wish to return to London, ma’am.’ He was as forthright as ever in his dealings with her. ‘I think you are lonely here and would far rather enjoy the visits of friends and the Court gossip. But if you could agree to remain here at the Priory until arrangements for my marriage are finalised and the bride has arrived, then I would willingly transport you back to town again. Can you bear it for a little longer?’

‘Of course.’ She smiled as he bent to brush her fingers with his lips. She could not hide the obvious signs of suffering any longer and did not attempt to. She adored her handsome son, and, even if not blind to his faults, she was aware of his love and concern for her well-being. But if she was unwilling to tell him of the pain, how could she possibly explain to him her growing discomfort in this house, a house which he prized above all things? She had not felt it when she had first arrived—of that she was certain. But it had developed gradually in recent days. The sensation that her footsteps were being watched, if not actually followed, by a silent presence—a presence that chilled the air with the keen edge of winter frost. And brought with it such a sense of despair, of utter misery, enough to touch her own emotions in reluctant sympathy, almost to reduce her to tears. The word haunted did not seem too extreme. She could not, would not, admit that her sleep was disturbed not only by physical discomfort, but by a fear of what might lurk in the shadows in the corner of her room. Of every room. He would think she was fanciful in the extreme and merely making excuses to escape back to the city.

‘Well, tell me.’ She mentally admonished herself and turned the conversation into happier channels. ‘Tell me what she is like. Katherine Harley. Will I like her?’

‘I expect so. You are predisposed to like everyone!’

‘That makes me sound witless!’ she complained with a wry twist of her lips and not a little impatience. ‘Is she pretty?’

‘I don’t really know,’ he answered with a slight frown, surprising her. ‘I only saw her once and she looked dishevelled, as if she had come in out of a rainstorm. And she scowled at me for most of the interview.’

‘Oh, dear! Were you not made welcome? Surely Sir Henry was expecting you!’

‘I suppose the answer has to be no and no.’ Marlbrooke’s expression and voice had a derisive edge as he remembered the reaction of the household at Downham Hall. ‘Sir Henry was discomfited and flustered at having to enter into such close dealings with a Royalist. Lady Philippa withdrew into nervous silence and flinched every time I looked in her direction. My prospective bride could in all truth be described as hostile and likened me in a most uncomplimentary way to a frippery bird, without pretence to style or elegance! And they would all have willingly consigned me to the devil.’

‘So?’ Elizabeth failed to suppress a smile at the picture, wilfully ignoring Felicity’s snort of disapproval at the whole distasteful situation. ‘Do you then still intend to pursue the match? Apart from the hostility, was Katherine pretty enough to tempt you into the married state?’

‘I have to admit that the lack of candles—in the interest of economy, I presume—and the growing dusk made it difficult to pick out anything but a general impression. But she has a good figure and holds herself well. And she has a cloud of dark hair. I told her she was pretty, at any event. I am not sure that she believed me. Her opinion of me did not appear to be overly complimentary!’ He grinned at the memory of Mistress Harley’s barbed comments.

‘Oh, Marcus! You are very like your father.’

‘But is that for better or worse, my lady?’

‘I will leave that decision to you! And did you overawe the poor girl, in spite of my excellent advice, with full Court rig—nothing less than lace, velvets and those appalling shoes with red heels?’ She cast an appreciative eye over his more restrained jacket and breeches, more suitable to a country gentleman than the excesses of French fashion. The shoes in question had been abandoned for serviceable black boots.

‘My dear Mother, you could not expect me to pay my respects to my future wife in anything less.’

‘And will you go ahead with the marriage, now that you have seen Sir Henry?’

‘Why not? He is willing enough, no matter Mistress Harley’s sentiments. It brings my claim all the advantages of legitimacy. And she did not seem totally unwilling.’ He did not seem too convinced, but shrugged his shoulders. ‘I expect we shall brush along fairly well.’

Elizabeth chose not to comment, once again effectively hiding her concern on this sensitive subject. She changed tack again as Felicity, unbidden and always solicitous, poured and served small ale in pewter goblets. It sounded a bleak prospect, although Marlbrooke, lounging in an armchair before the fire, boots propped comfortably on a fire dog, appeared to be unaware.

‘Mistress Neale has told me of the occurrence last night. About the young girl you found on the road.’

Marlbrooke looked up from his contemplation of the flames. ‘Of course. I had momentarily forgotten. I am sure Mistress Neale has furnished you with all the details. You had retired when I arrived home. When I realised that she was a girl and not the young man she wished to be taken for, I asked for Mistress Neale’s help.’

‘That was very considerate of you! I believe that many would not expect it, Marcus, if gossip speaks true.’ There was a degree of disapproval in her voice.

‘My delicacy and thoughtfulness can be relied upon on such occasions.’ The gleam in his eye held a degree of cynicism not lost on his mother.

‘You could have fetched me, dear Marcus,’ Felicity interrupted with a fluttering of hands and an avid gleam in her eyes, always receptive of gossip and intrigue. ‘I believe that I was still sorting dearest Elizabeth’s embroidery silks in the small parlour. I could have come to your aid.’ Her voice was as thin and dry as her appearance. ‘There was no need for you to be concerned with some runaway girl—so indelicate, do you not think?’

‘Thank you, Felicity. I know. I suppose I did not think of it.’ And I certainly did not want you prosing in my ear about the morality of modern youth.

‘A most unsavoury circumstance, I am sure. Doubtless the girl will be recovered and well enough to leave today.’

‘Mistress Neale suggested that her head wound was quite unpleasant. And a damaged wrist, I think.’ Elizabeth closed her mind to her cousin’s perpetually querulous voice, sipped her ale thoughtfully, and directed her comment towards her son.

‘I suggest it was merely a ruse to get herself into this house,’ Felicity continued, impervious to the lack of response. ‘That type of female might sink to any level to gain the interest of her betters.’

Elizabeth sighed. ‘Are you suggesting that we should lock up the silver? I think not. If you please, Felicity, I find it rather cool in this room. Please would you be so good as to fetch me my quilted wrap from my bedchamber? I am sorry to put you out.’

‘Of course, dear Elizabeth. It is always my pleasure to be of service to you.’

‘She is so judgmental!’ Elizabeth regarded the retreating figure with disfavour. ‘And always so obsequious towards me. Sometimes I find myself wishing that she would curse me so that I could curse her back! But she never would, of course. She is far too grateful.’

‘I do not know how you tolerate her day after day. All her petty criticisms and ill wishes. Does she ever say anything pleasant about anyone?’

‘Rarely! But she helps me with all the intimate tasks that I can no longer do for myself! So I have to be grateful and tolerant.’ There was an astringent quality to her reply that her son could not ignore.

‘I know. Forgive me for my lamentable insensitivity.’

‘Besides, she has nowhere else to live. I try not to pity her or patronise her.’

‘You have more goodness than I have.’

‘So, what of the girl?’ Elizabeth asked somewhat impatiently. ‘Could she have come from the village?’

‘I think not. My impression is that she is of good family—her clothes, if a little unconventional, her hands, her features, all speak of money and breeding.’

‘Is she seriously injured?’

‘It was difficult to tell when I left her in Mistress Neale’s capable hands. She was comfortable enough and Mistress Neale had bathed and cleaned the head wound but it was deep and her face is badly bruised. We must wait. She had hacked off all her hair,’ he added inconsequentially.

Elizabeth raised her fine brows. ‘Then she won’t be pretty enough for you to flirt with!’

‘Never fear! I am now betrothed to be married and so beyond the levities of youth. And, as you know, I never flirt!’

‘Well …!’ Lady Elizabeth’s views on handsome young men who were ruthless and arrogant enough to use flattery to gain their own ends would never be known for they were interrupted by a quiet knock quickly followed by the opening of the library door. Mistress Neale entered in her usual calm fashion, hands clasped before her over her enveloping apron, the jangle of keys at her waist marking her every step. She stopped inside the door.

‘Excuse me, my lord, my lady. I have brought the young lady. She says she is recovered sufficiently to rise from her bed—although I did tell her you would understand if she rested today, in the circumstances. In my opinion, she is far from well.’

Lady Elizabeth registered the faint expression—of what, anxiety or disapproval?—on her housekeeper’s homely features, but with a mental shrug presumed that it was merely concern for the health of their unexpected guest.

‘But yes, Mistress Neale. Please come in. Is she with you now?’

Mistress Neale turned, beckoned and ushered in the young woman who had been standing in the shadows in the hall. She paused, framed by the doorway, her own ruined and unsuitable clothing discarded, now clad in ill-fitting skirt and bodice, borrowed from Elspeth, tied and tucked to take into account her slender figure. Her harshly cropped hair was uncovered. The extensive bruising down one side of her face was shocking to see, but the wound in her hair, covered by some neat bandaging, appeared to be giving her few ill effects. She held one firmly bandaged wrist awkwardly at her side. Exhaustion was printed on her face, the pallor highlighted by the plain white collar, and there was a faint frown between her brows, but she waited with apparent composure for her hostess to make the first move.

‘Come in, my poor child. What an ordeal you have been through. Come and sit with me.’ Lady Elizabeth stretched out her hand in instant compassion.

Mistress Neale curtsied and left. The lady remained standing in the doorway as if she had not heard the invitation. Viscount Marlbrooke saw the instant bewilderment in her expression and so rose and walked across the room, to take her hand. It was icy cold. She did not resist as he led her further into the room but neither did she respond to her new surroundings. His eyes searched her face, but he could detect no emotion. Perhaps she was unaware that she grasped his hand hard as he led her into the room. He felt compelled by he knew not what impulse to raise her hand and brush his lips over her rigid fingers in a formal salute.

‘There is no need to be anxious,’ he reassured her in a gentle voice as he applied a comforting pressure to her fingers. ‘I was at the crossroads and brought you here last night after the accident with your horse. I am Marcus Oxenden. This is my mother, Lady Elizabeth. You are at Winteringham Priory. Perhaps you know of it?’

Her eyes flashed to his face as she shook her head, wincing at the sudden lance of pain. If anything she became even paler, the blood draining from beneath her skin.

‘Thank you. You are very kind.’ Her voice was clear and steady but toneless as if her mind was engaged elsewhere.

‘Forgive me that I do not rise.’ Elizabeth held out her hand and smiled in welcome. ‘I find the cold weather difficult. You must tell me where you were going. I am sure that we can help you reach your destination. You must have a family—and friends—who will be concerned for you, to whom we should send a message. What is your name, my dear girl?’

The result of the concerned enquiry was devastating. It was not composure that held the girl in its rigid grasp but naked fear born out of blind panic. She pulled her hand from Marlbrooke’s light clasp to cover her face, to suppress a sob of anguish.