Moonrise

“Fine. Shall we say midmorning?”

Sarah nodded her assent, then turned to leave the room. Anthony watched the graceful line of her back as she walked toward the door. “Mistress Fairfax,” he called softly as her hand reached for the latch.

She stopped and looked back over her shoulder.

“If Master Partridge does not tell you how beautiful you are—tell you emphatically and often—then he doesn’t deserve you.”

Sarah again felt the heat from the fire all the way across the room. “Good night, your lordship,” she said quickly, and slipped out into the dark hall.

* * *

“I don’t think I fancy ‘Partridge.’ You could have come up with a grander-sounding name.” Jack lay sprawled across the foot of Sarah’s bed. He grinned at her over the top of the apple he was devouring. It was the fourth he’d consumed in the few minutes she had taken to tell of the previous evening’s conversation with the baron. Sarah tried not to think about what nocturnal activities might have caused her brother’s inordinate appetite this morning, but she couldn’t help a motherly scold.

“What time did you get home last night, anyway, little brother?”

The grin broadened. “You told me to stay away, remember?”

“It’s not a joke, Jack. Somehow I sense that this man is dangerous.” She pushed herself farther up in bed and hugged a pillow protectively against her middle. If nothing else, Anthony Rutledge was definitely a danger to her peace of mind. It had been hours before she had slept last night, and it hadn’t helped that she had heard no sounds of Jack’s return to his room next to hers. When she had finally slept, she’d had one of her disturbing dreams. They always started out the same...on that horrible day four years ago, the day of her father’s execution. She and Jack had been in the front of the crowd that day—lost, pitiful figures who were about to witness the end of the secure world they had known. But in her dreams she was no longer helpless. She was up on the platform with her father, fighting with his captors, dressed in solid black with a black silk mask covering her face. One by one she fought off the king’s men until finally there was only one left...and he stood over her father with a huge sword, more fearsome than any she had ever seen. From there the dreams would change. Sometimes her father changed into an eagle and flew away free into a bright blue sky. Sometimes that horrible sword would descend and then all she would see was red, great bright blotches that filled her vision and her head.

Last night the dreams had changed. Suddenly she’d been watching Jack in the meadow beyond Wiggleston. He’d been entwined hotly with Norah Thatcher, and then the figure changed again and it was not Jack anymore, but the baron. Even this morning she had vague memories... The baron’s dark hair falling forward as he bent his head toward milk white breasts. And they had not been Norah’s breasts...

“Sarah!” Jack’s voice was insistent. “What’s the matter with you? You’re pale as a ghost.”

She gave herself a little shake and swung her legs over to jump down from the bed. “Nothing’s the matter. I just didn’t sleep very well last night with a king’s man in the house and my brother out prowling the village like an overheated tomcat.”

Jack winced at the sharpness of her tone. “Who can understand you, Sarah? You’re the one who told me to stay away, and now you’re angry because I did as you asked.”

She sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry, little brother. It’s just that the man makes me uncomfortable. All that nonsense about my supposed beauty...”

Jack’s smile was tender. “But, Sarah, you can’t fault the man for having eyes in his head. You are beautiful.”

Sarah pulled her voluminous night robes close around her and looked over at her brother. There was definitely a difference about him, a new awareness of her as a woman and himself as a man. He would never have said such a thing even a few weeks ago. It made her uncomfortable, but she found the change intriguing. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Jack dropped his eyes. “I guess Father and I were never much good at telling you so.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Sarah shook her head with embarrassment.

“Yes,” Jack said firmly. “It does matter. I have the most beautiful sister in all the country and I’ve never even told her so. I ought to be horsewhipped...or at least forced to listen to one of Parson Hollander’s sermons.”

Sarah giggled. As usual, Jack could defuse the most awkward moment with his good humor. She was tired and more than a little confused by the feelings of the past day and night, but overriding everything else, she felt a tremendous surge of love for her brother. Without him, her life would be barren indeed.

She walked around the end of the bed and leaned over to drop a kiss on his blond head. “Anyway, you do see that it’s more important than ever that you keep out of sight. You’ll have to stay in the village until the baron is gone. And I want you to talk to Parson Hollander and tell him to spread the word among the villagers. If he asks them to keep your presence secret, I know they’ll cooperate.”

“What about the servants here?”

“I’m going to speak with Uncle Thomas.”

“Get Bess to help you.” Bess was the head cook, absolute ruler of the Leasworth kitchens, and the only woman besides Sarah that Jack had ever listened to.

“She’ll do anything we ask if it’s to help you,” Sarah said with a smile. “So, it’s settled. Now be off with you.”

“And you promise not to be angry with me for spending the night away?”

“You could stay at Parson Hollander’s.”

Jack’s grimace made him look like a little boy again, and forced Sarah to laugh. “Oh, all right,” she said. “Stay wherever you please, just don’t come back around here until I send word that it’s safe.”

“But what about you? I don’t like the idea of you being with that man unprotected.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she said airily. “I’ll be fine. Now get along out of here before the baron shows up for our riding appointment.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. Absolutely sure. I’m not the least bit worried about being able to handle Lord Anthony Rutledge.” She turned away biting her lip. As far as she could remember, it was the first time she’d ever told her brother a lie.

* * *

“Which of these beauties do you ride, Mistress Fairfax?”

Beneath her smile, Sarah was fuming. She had hoped to reach the stables before Lord Rutledge this morning to tell the stableboy, Arthur, that she would not be riding Brigand today. But the baron had knocked at her bedchamber door before she had even finished dressing, barely missing Jack’s departure.

As she had feared, the words were scarcely out of the baron’s mouth before the vigilant young Arthur stepped forward leading her beloved stallion. “This un’s Mistress Sarah’s horse,” he said proudly.

Sarah’s smile wavered as Anthony gave a low whistle and said, “He’s magnificent. I had marked him yesterday, and hoped to be able to ride him myself today.”

“He doesn’t take kindly to strangers,” Sarah said stiffly.

“Has he learned that from his mistress?” Anthony asked with mild amusement.

Determined not to let the man disconcert her again, Sarah ignored the remark. “I’ve ridden him since he was a colt. He’s used to me.”

Anthony reached out to run a practiced hand along the horse’s side. “What’s his name?”

Sarah gave a swift glance at Arthur, who was listening raptly to their exchange. Reluctantly, she answered the question. “I call him Brigand.”

Anthony’s hand stopped for a moment, then continued down the horse’s smooth flank. “A bloodthirsty name for a horse belonging to so lovely a mistress.”

When Sarah made no reply, he asked, “Would you consider selling him?”

“Never!” Sarah responded more vehemently than she had intended.

Anthony straightened from his examination of the stallion and turned to her with a half smile that took Sarah back to her dreams of the night before. “Not even to the king?” he asked softly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, regaining her innate dignity, “Brigand is not for sale.”

“I suspected as much. Still, it’s a pity. Perhaps I will be able to persuade you to change your mind during the course of my stay here.”

“You would be wasting your time to try, Lord Rutledge.”

“It would be an interesting challenge, then.”

His intense gaze was focused on her, not the horse, and suddenly Sarah felt herself unsure as to the topic of the conversation. Once again the baron was standing too close to her. It muddled her thinking. Wedged between the wall and her horse, she was unable to move away.

“Mistress Sarah won’t never sell Brigand.” Arthur’s eager young voice startled them both. At many estates, Sarah knew, a servant would be beaten for speaking without being addressed first by the master, but her uncle and father had always encouraged fair treatment and respect for all who worked on their properties. Their idea of Christian brotherhood was not mere abstract theology.

Anthony turned his easy smile on the boy. “I believe you, lad. Though it’s been said that I can be very persuasive when I want to be.” His dark eyes shifted back to Sarah.

“If we’re to get some riding in before the midday meal, we’d best get started. If you like, you may try out my uncle’s prize stallion, Chestnut. I think you’ll find him a worthy mount,” she said hurriedly. She wanted the morning to be over with.

Arthur, now fully under Anthony’s spell, rushed to ready Thomas Fairfax’s best horse for the baron’s use. It was a handsome sable stallion, as high as Brigand, but without quite the breadth of flank that gave Sarah’s horse its extraordinary strength.

They left Arthur staring after them in awe, and Sarah had to admit that they must make a striking sight as they made their way along the well-worn road to the village. Brigand and Chestnut were two of the finest horses in the area, and today both had riders worthy of such impressive mounts. They rode several minutes in silence, enjoying the rare December sunshine.

“If I’d known Yorkshire to have such a mild clime, I’d have visited before,” Anthony said finally.

“We’re fortunate today. Perhaps the sun is shining in your honor, my lord.”

Anthony lifted a dark eyebrow. It was the nearest the lady had come to coquetry since that obviously staged moment when they had first met back at the stables. Most of her conversation was disarmingly direct. He found her completely unlike the ladies he was used to back at court. Yet he remembered his impression that she had been lying about something the previous evening. The truth was, Mistress Fairfax had him perplexed and intrigued. It was an uncomfortable feeling for a man who prided himself on his skill in judging women.

It was on the tip of his tongue to answer with one of his courtly comments—to profess that the sun’s rays were no brighter than the dazzling brightness of her countenance, or some such nonsense. But he stopped himself and said simply, “If anyone should be honored, mistress, ’tis you.”

The unadorned compliment brought color to her cheeks. She answered him with a smile, and Anthony felt his heart skip a beat. “Shall we run a bit, mistress?” he asked brusquely.

“Of course. We can head through the meadow, if you like. The terrain is smooth and flat.”

Anthony nodded agreement and followed her as she let her beautiful stallion stretch out into an easy gallop. Her uncle had been right. Even with the constraints of her riding skirts and a sidesaddle, she rode superbly, moving in perfect harmony with the animal. He let his horse fall back a ways just to enjoy the view, then spurred ahead, not willing to let her get too far from him. When he pulled up to her, she urged her horse to more speed, forcing him to catch up once again. All at once it became a contest, one in which Sarah seemed to have total control.

Finally she let him match her speed and stay with her. They raced side by side for several minutes, then Sarah pointed to a low rise in the grass and began to slow her pace. “There’s a stream beyond. We’ll just let them take a bit of water,” she called, laughing and disheveled.

Her hair had pulled loose from its tight coils and fell to her shoulders in honeyed waves. Her gray eyes twinkled, and she looked so fresh and young that Anthony again felt the curious twist inside his chest. “We’ll have to arrange a race sometime,” she said with a little laugh.

“You’d best me, I fear. You ride like the wind, Mistress Sarah.”

“‘Tis the horse. No one can beat him.”

Anthony nodded. “I’m beginning to believe it.”

They had come to the edge of the stream. He jumped from his saddle, intending to help Sarah dismount, but she was on the ground before he could approach her. Anthony shook his head and observed, “The horse is twice your height, mistress, yet you jump from his back as easily as a cat.”

He moved toward her, trailing his horse’s reins behind him. “You’ve the eyes of a cat, too, sometimes,” he said. “Gray. I’ve never seen their color before.”

With his black eyes intensely focused on her again, Sarah felt the same agitation of the previous evening. In the space of a day, this fancy London courtier had made more observations about her person than she had heard in her entire life. Of course, at Charles’s court such talk was probably the fashion. But for a girl raised pure and Puritan in the countryside, it was hard to answer.

Part of the time she thought that her discomfiture served her well. Her uncharacteristic loss for words must make her look a fool in the baron’s eyes, and that was probably for the best. However, part of the time, she admitted to herself, she felt an overwhelming desire to impress the man.

Her father had shared his love of learning and books equally with her and Jack. She was educated far beyond what was considered desirable for a woman, and not just in the Puritan teachings of William Prynne and the like. With her father’s encouragement, she’d read Shakespeare and Donne, even Hobbes. And she’d come to hold her own in conversations with many of her father’s friends, who had been among the most learned of the land. She had a ready tongue and quick wit, and, for the life of her, she could not understand why both seemed to forsake her so utterly when in the presence of Lord Rutledge.

“I’ve been jumping off and on horses all my life,” she answered, for lack of any other response. But Anthony preferred to stay with the topic of her eyes.

“A cat’s eyes. But they turn storm-cloud gray when you’re angry.”

“I don’t believe you’ve seen me angry, my lord.”

“Not angry, then, but...incensed. As when you stood up for your uncle last night. I sensed that there was more behind your words. ‘Years of battle and betrayal,’ I believe you said. And there was anger, deep down.” He moved even closer and lifted a finger to point at her face. “And storm clouds there...in those lovely gray eyes.”

“The Civil War was hard on everyone,” Sarah answered carefully. “It’s not something I like to think about.”

“But when a king’s man arrives at your home, you have no other choice, is that it?”

She shook her head slowly. He was very near again, but this time she had no urge to step back. In fact, she felt almost compelled to draw even nearer. “Perhaps I was ready to dislike you, Lord Rutledge, for being a king’s man. But I find that you are not as I would have expected.”

Anthony’s hand had lowered to settle along her arm. Gently he pulled her an imperceptible space toward him. “And how do you find me, mistress?”

Sarah’s heart hammered in her throat and ears, making it hard for her to speak. “Not...disagreeable,” she rasped.

A glint lit the darkness of Anthony’s eyes. “Agreeable, then?”

She nodded.

“I find you very agreeable, Mistress Sarah,” he said in a voice that had grown husky. He bent toward her, his other hand at her elbow, closing the distance between them. Sarah swayed, her knees suddenly weak.

“Mistress Fairfax!” a shrill female voice called from the road.

Sarah stiffened and Anthony’s hands tightened on her arms. They turned in unison toward the sound of the cry. An attractive young woman was approaching them on a lumbering horse with no saddle. She was barefoot and her cotton skirts were hiked up around her thighs.

“It’s one of the village women,” Sarah said, a lump of disquiet lodging painfully in her throat. She had recognized at once the shapely form of Jack’s new friend, Norah Thatcher.

“What does she want with you?” Anthony asked, irritated by the interruption.

Sarah shook her head. Norah slipped from the broad back of the horse and ran toward them, breathing heavily. She stopped in some awe when she got close enough to take a good look at the baron, but recovered quickly and turned to Sarah. “Your...er...Master Partridge sent me to fetch ye, mistress.”

Sarah felt a stab of fear in her middle. “What’s wrong, Norah?” she asked, her voice rising with apprehension.

“Ye’s to come to the village right quickly, mistress.” She stopped and took a deep gulp of a breath. “It seems that the sheriff has arrested Parson Hollander.”

Chapter Three

Sarah rode stiffly alongside Anthony. Their huge mounts had long since left behind the poor farm horse with Norah Thatcher clinging to its back.

“Is it far to the village?” Anthony shouted.

Sarah shook her head. All at once things seemed to be spinning out of control. Gentle Parson Hollander had been arrested. Anthony had insisted on accompanying her to the village, and she didn’t know what they would find when they got there. She hoped that Jack would have enough sense to stay out of sight, and that he had had time to enlist the parson’s help in making sure the villagers knew about the “Henry Partridge” deception. She was confident that they would cooperate with the ruse. There was little love for the king in the town with the taxes being increased regularly to finance the Dutch war. And Jack and Sarah had been treated kindly since arriving at their uncle’s after their father’s execution four years ago. Most of the residents of Wiggleston knew how protective Sarah had been of Jack over the years. She could count on their help, as long as Jack and the parson had had time to spread the word.

“Mistress Sarah, are you close to this village parson? You look distressed.” Anthony was watching her with a thoughtful look on his face that did not help Sarah’s unease.

“He’s been the family parson as long as I can remember.”

“He’s a Puritan, then?”

Sarah hesitated. King Charles had proven remarkably tolerant in allowing Puritans to freely practice the religion that had figured so prominently in the overthrow of his father. But Sarah could not let go of her mistrust. Her father had been killed for his beliefs, and she did not feel comfortable discussing such matters with a representative of the crown. “Parson Hollander is the most godly man I know,” she replied at last. “It’s absolutely ridiculous to think of him being put under arrest.”

Anthony noted the evasiveness as well as the vehemence of her reply and decided to keep his questions to himself. After their near embrace in the meadow, he was more determined than ever to take Mistress Sarah to his bed before he left Yorkshire. He was even prepared to overlook the fact that she obviously knew more about the goings-on in this area than she was willing to let on to him. His mission would be greatly simplified if this Parson Hollander was the moonlight bandit. They should know soon—he prided himself on having an instinct about such things. For the time being he would let Mistress Fairfax keep her secrets.

Wiggleston was nestled at the base of a series of limestone crags that led down to the sea. Unlike bustling Kingston-on-Hull to the north, the village’s coastline was too rocky to be a commercial port. Except for an occasional poor fishing coble, the Wiggleston coves were occupied only by gannets and razorbills that soared in and out with complete sovereignty. To the west of the village, the cliffs turned into gentle Yorkshire wolds and eventually stretched out as vast moors, which still had a purple cast even in their winter dryness.

Sarah usually loved the moment when the sea came into view as she rounded Bratswick Scar on the road into town. But today she barely glanced out at the water. Her mind was too busy with the complications of the current situation.

“The sheriff’s house and gaol is not far. I can make my way by myself from here,” she said to Anthony. “Why don’t you go on back to Leasworth and spend some more time with the horses?”

Anthony shook his head. “I wouldn’t think of it. You’re upset. I’ll go with you and see what this is all about. Perhaps I can be of some help.”

Sarah gritted her teeth and gave a slight pull on Brigand’s reins to tell him to head around the big gritstone smithy and proceed along the neat row of brick cottages that made up the most prosperous part of town. At the end was the larger brick structure that housed the town gaol. A number of townsfolk were congregated in the village green just in front of it.

Sarah surveyed the crowd anxiously and let out a long breath when she saw no sign of Jack in the group. She stopped in front of an iron hitching post and jumped from Brigand’s back. Anthony was at her side almost at the same instant. He took her arm as they made their way through the crowd.

“Mistress Fairfax, thank goodness you’re here.” A reedy fellow with thinning hair pushed his way toward them.

Roger Spragg had been the town mayor for as long as anyone could remember, keeping his post by virtue of his untarnished record of absolute inaction. Sarah was surprised to see him so uncharacteristically agitated.

“What’s going on, Mr. Spragg?”

The mayor twisted his hands and smacked together the edges of his mouth, which seemed to be devoid of lips. “Perhaps we should send for your uncle, Mistress Fairfax. There’s king’s men in town and your...” He stopped and looked nervously over at Anthony. “Well, and now they’ve gone and arrested Parson Hollander.”

Sarah put a slender hand on the mayor’s sleeve to calm him down. She had the feeling he had been going to say something about Jack, which she couldn’t let happen. “I’ll go in and talk with Sheriff Jeffries, Mr. Spragg. Why don’t you tell these good people to go on about their business? They can’t be of any help here.”

Spragg gave a little whining sound. “I should go inside with you, Mistress Fairfax. These charges against the parson are outrageous.”

“I know.” Sarah bit back her impatience with the annoying little man. “I’m sure it’s all some kind of misunderstanding. But your duty now is to your townspeople.”

Spragg looked around at the gathering and nodded his head several times. “Perhaps you’re right, Mistress Fairfax. Duty comes first. I’ll try to calm these folks down.”

Sarah gave a forced smile and pushed her way past him. Anthony watched her with amusement. She wasn’t one to put up with foolishness, that much was obvious. He was looking forward to seeing how she handled the sheriff...and Oliver, if, as he suspected, his friend was behind this arrest.

In deference to the vocation of the prisoner, the questioning was taking place in the parlor of the sheriff’s roomy house. By far the fanciest home in the village, the floor had carpets instead of rush mats, and the furniture in the room they were entering was upholstered with tooled leather.

As Sarah and Anthony entered the arched doorway, the occupants of the room turned simultaneously. Anthony’s eyes skimmed over the stalwart figure of Oliver, who stood nearest them. He did not let even a flicker of his eye betray recognition. A large man was standing near the stone fireplace, bending over a clergyman who sat stiffly in a straight wooden chair.

Anthony almost laughed aloud when he saw him. This frail, gray-haired cleric was supposed to be the masked robber who rode like the wind and wielded a sword like a pirate?