A Rose in Winter

  “The quarters might seem a bit cramped, madam, but this is where Mr. Seton and I have passed many an hour on the high seas.”

  “Do you have a voyage planned for the near future?” she asked and hoped she was successful in disguising her interest in whether Christopher would soon be leaving England or not.

  “I am at Mr. Seton’s disposal while we’re here. When we leave will be up to him.”

  Erienne was somewhat astonished by the man’s statement. To think that a whole vessel and its crew catered to the whims of one man seemed most extravagant, and she could only wonder at the wealth that could afford such luxury.

  The three of them shared lunch on the ship. Captain Daniels had as many amusing yarns and stories as he had accounts of actual happenings at sea. Erienne was entertained thoroughly by the deft humor of the men, and despite her earlier qualms could not think of a specific time of relaxed conversation that she had enjoyed more.

  In comparison, the rest of the afternoon passed quite serenely. Vauxhall Gardens was for a summer stroll, but the quietness of it on a wintry day could not be denied. Erienne was content to let her escort lead her through the baroque pavilions and the tree-lined lanes. As promised, Christopher lent himself to a most gentlemanly comportment and treated her in a grand style, making her feel as if she were the only woman in the world. In the Rotunda’s “enchanted palace,” tea was served in arched alcoves around the perimeter, while an orchestra provided soft music as a background for a congenial conversation.

  In all, it proved to be a most enchanting day, and Erienne experienced a tinge of regret when it came to an end. She knew on the morrow she would be journeying back to Saxton Hall with her husband, and it left her in a melancholy mood as she watched the rented livery pull away from the Leicester mansion, carrying her escort with it. Christopher had held her hand briefly at the door and brushed a cousinly kiss against her cheek before making his departure. It was a simple contact, but the memory of it lingered far too long for her to be able to discount its effect on her.

  The mists hung stubbornly in the low spots as the Saxtons’ coach departed the Leicester mansion and ventured northward in the chill, brisk morning air. The sun, barely piercing the day with its light, was heavily swathed in fuchsia clouds that hung close over the horizon. The carriage rattled past farms that lay north of the Thames and crossed stone bridges where thickly curling vapors hovered over streams and marshes. As the day aged, the skies became gray and bleak, the air decidedly crisp. Tessie had relented to her mistress’ pleas to take shelter inside the coach. Though Erienne understood the girl’s timidity in the presence of Lord Saxton, not even the bulk of the two men who rode above could provide enough warmth to equal the interior. The young maid avoided glancing in the master’s direction and was content to nap in her corner while her mistress chose to do the same in the seat beside her.

  At noon they paused at an inn, and though the place had several guests, the common room fell deathly quiet as Lord Saxton guided his young wife to a table. His presence never failed to quicken the service, for all were wary of inciting his wrath. As usual, he declined to sample the fare, and after escorting Erienne back to the coach, excused himself briefly from her company.

  They were on the road again and settling themselves for another long jaunt when there was a shout in the distance and the small hatch behind the driver’s seat opened.

  “A coach comin’ up from behind, milord,” Bundy called down. “A big ’un with a small troop o’ riders.”

  Lord Saxton gave him a quick reply. “Be wary of them, and at the next wide place in the road, let them pass.”

  “Aye, milord.” Bundy closed the port.

  Erienne could see nothing from her seat at the rear, but the drum of heavy hooves coming toward them from behind was growing more distinct. Their own coach slowed and the ride became rough as Tanner edged it onto the extreme side of the road. A whip cracked with a loud report, and the jangle of harness grew louder. Erienne saw the horses first, and a carefully matched, magnificent team they were. The coach itself was large and black, with velvet curtains drawn tightly over the window. A driver and guard shared the front seat, while a pair of footmen were at the rear. Eight horsemen followed and were as well armed as any of the King’s men. Though the richness of the hurrying entourage was obvious, a newer-looking patch on the door showed where a coat of arms had once been.

  Erienne could not understand why such a high house should choose to travel with their coat of arms concealed. It was certainly not done with the intention of deterring the interest of thieves, not when there was so much evidence of wealth.

  Lord Saxton observed the passing of the conveyance without comment. His only reaction was to consult his small pocket watch after the coach had gone on ahead. Then he leaned in the corner of his seat and folded his arms as if he would nap, but an occasional glint of light reflected from within the eyeholes assured her that she was closely watched.

  They halted at another inn toward evening, and the place was abuzz with speculation about the mysterious black coach that had swept past without pausing. A few guests, unheedful of the one who kept to the shadows, boasted of having heard of a scarred and crippled lord of the North country who wore a strange helm and was reluctant to be named. They made odds that he was the one who traveled behind closely drawn curtains. Then finally catching sight of Lord Saxton’s awesome visage, those same ones gaped…paled…and sputtered in confusion. They murmured with as much amazement at his lady’s equally stunning beauty. Erienne had the vague impression that her husband enjoyed the difference in reactions and had a bent to play on it. But he also boldly made his claim on her, so none would overstep the bounds as the foolish roué had done on their trip south. One of those large, gloved hands lingering possessively on the small of her back readily conveyed the message.

  The black coach was apparently traveling the same route as the Saxtons’, for reports of it continued throughout the next day. The first white, downy flakes that settled over the road gave witness to its passing, but as they traveled farther north, no further hint could be seen in the deepening snow. The frosty mantling of white slowed their progress, and it was the following evening before they put Mawbry behind them. The gray bulk of Saxton Hall was a welcome sight even to Erienne, whose weariness forbade more than a nibble at dinner. The security of her own bed beneath her was a balm that brought her to the edge of sleep. There she hung for a space while her mind rooted through the rich loam of recent events. The vision of a smiling Christopher dissipated as the blank, staring mask of Lord Saxton pushed to the fore. The black leather visage stayed until she sank into an exhausted slumber whose depths brooked no invasion of frivolity.

  The number of days since their return had not fully aged into a week, and yet it seemed that hardly an evening passed without some claim that a night rider was seen roaming the northern hills. Doors of cottages, formerly left unbarred while the occupants slumbered in their beds, were now bolted hard and fast against any intrusion, casual or otherwise.

  Haggard was one who came panting to the sheriff and breathlessly told about the thing that had chased him in the night. His eager declaration that he was ready to bear arms against the creature, should he be so fortunate as to be gifted with a weapon, won him a position as one of the sheriff’s men. From then on, it seemed that Allan Parker could not move or turn without stumbling over the loyal man. Having lost Timmy, Haggard was eager for companionship, and he liberally displayed that readiness toward Allan. Haggard’s constant presence wore at the patience of the sheriff. Only a harsh command to “stay put” seemed to penetrate the thick skull.

  Christopher Seton came back to Mawbry, and word of the Yankee’s return filtered to the hall. Though Lord Saxton was not wont to talk of the man, the young maids of the household were most eager to gossip when the subject concerned him, sometimes within hearing range of their mistress. Molly had begun to prattle about the wench she had caught him with in the inn several weeks past bu
t refused to reveal the woman’s identity. As a result Claudia’s name was linked with his, since she had been seen in his company once or twice. By the time Erienne heard the rumors, they were well steeped with the indiscretions of the two. The stories left a sickening ache around her heart, a feeling she could not readily dismiss with arguments that she actually loathed the man.

  Lord Saxton made a request of his wife on that Friday afternoon following their return, and in compliance Erienne came down to dinner dressed in the same gown she had worn the night of her wedding. She understood why her husband favored the dress. Its décolletage was most revealing, and his reaction to it this evening was no different from the first time she had worn it. He waited at the bottom of the stairs, holding one arm behind his back as he watched her descent with close attention.

  “Madam,” he rasped in his hoarse voice, “you are a rare jewel, a rose among the briars, and with each day’s passing you grow more beautiful.”

  Erienne halted before him and saw his eyes flicker downward, giving her cause to wonder if the gown fully displayed her bosom as it had when he had stood behind her chair on their wedding night. She remained pliable beneath his regard, knowing that any attempt to cover herself would only stir his mockery.

  “I once said your beauty needs no adornment, madam, and though I am still of that mind, I think a small bauble would not detract overmuch.” He withdrew his arm from behind his back and dangled a heavily jeweled necklace before her eyes. “You would honor me if you would wear it, my love.”

  He looked up expectantly, holding the magnificent piece, and Erienne realized he was waiting for permission to put it on her. She nodded hesitantly, uncertain as to how long she could bear his touch against her bare skin. His hands slipped behind her neck, dragging the emerald and diamond necklace around the slender column. Inclining her head toward him, she waited with thumping heart as he tried to secure the clasp.

  “Can you fasten it with your gloves on?” she murmured.

  “Hold still a moment,” he bade huskily and behind her back drew off first one glove and then the other. Erienne held her breath until his bare fingers touched her, then she almost sagged against him in relief. They were warm, human, masculinely firm.

  A faint essence of a clean, manly scent wafted up from his clothing, stirring forth confused memories from the back of her mind and touching her with a strange sense of pleasure. Her mind groped feebly for the logic of the sensation, but the only memory she could recall with any clarity was that first moment when she had found herself in his bed after her fall from Socrates.

  The clasp of the necklace was fastened with a barely audible clink, and Erienne, expecting him to step away, was startled to feel his fingers on her back again, this time caressing her bare skin with soft strokes. Slowly she turned her head to look up into his masked face, and the eyes behind the small openings met her inquiring gaze.

  “My hands have trembled at the thought of touching you,” he whispered raggedly. “But I may have erred in doing so.”

  Delicately shaped brows lifted in mute question.

  “From this moment on, the temptation may prove too hard to resist. Having touched you, I only want you more.” He paused, then sighed heavily, seeming to fight an inner battle within himself. When he continued, his words were strained and halting. “Have I been a fool in taking you to wife, Erienne? Perhaps you will only continue to hate me or find another you prefer. Maybe I’ve been unfair to both of us and it was my own brand of cruel jealousy that could not bear to let you go.”

  “I entered into the vows with full knowledge and a will to see them out, milord. You are my husband, and I only beg some time to bring my mind to full harness. You understand well enough that there is a barrier between us. My fears are as difficult to me as your scars are to you, but in time perhaps both will cease to be the obstacles that keep us apart. If you will wait upon my adjustment, I have it in my heart and mind to be nothing less than a good wife to you…in every way.”

  His hand, as if on its own volition, came upward from her back and hovered out of range of her vision, as if he yearned to caress her cheek but fought against the urge. After a moment’s pause, he dropped it over her shoulder again. Behind her back, she could feel him jerking on his gloves, and on impulse she laid a palm against his chest, finding it firmly muscled beneath the crispness of his shirt.

  “You see, milord? I can touch you now, and it does not cause me to shudder.”

  Carefully, so as not to alarm her, he raised his gloved hand and gently rubbed his knuckles along her cheek. “My dear Erienne, beneath this twisted exterior there beats a human heart quite warmed by your beauty. ’Tis painful for me to wait, but I will endure anything knowing there is hope.”

  He straightened, and in a courtly gesture offered his arm. “Madam, you must be famished, and I have a great need of a chilly hall to take my mind from the craving lusts that gnaw at me.”

  With a laugh, Erienne dropped a slim hand on the dark sleeve. “Perhaps I should be the one to wear the mask, milord, or at least a few more clothes.”

  “If I had my way, there’d be less of the latter,” he replied as his eyes dipped to where the largest of the emeralds nestled coyly between the ripely swelling breasts. “But I should keep in mind that there are servants to consider.”

  Self-consciously she fingered the heavy necklace, aware of his devouring gaze. “When you look at me like that, I feel as if there is a definite dearth of the latter.”

  Her husband responded with a wry chuckle. “Madam, if looking is a hanging offense, then I’d rather fulfill every facet of my desire and be strung up for a lion than a lamb. I am most anxious to claim my husbandly rights, so if I misread your distaste of me and overwait the moment, be sure to inform me of that fact, and I shall most eagerly respond.”

  She sensed the smile that must have touched his lips as he stared down at her, and her cheeks grew flushed beneath his unwavering regard. She glanced away, drawing a soft laugh from the dark mask, and his other hand, coming to rest upon her own, squeezed her fingers affectionately.

  Erienne knew she was dreaming. She saw her own dark curls as she knelt in rapt attention beside her mother, who was seated at the harpsichord, playing, as was her wont, for the children. The impossibility of this awakened Erienne, and she lay without moving, totally confused, for the twanging tones of a harpsichord still floated eerily through the manse, drifting up from below. The instrument was out of tune, and the notes were struck with such force and intensity that the back of her neck crawled. She could almost feel the rage conveyed in the music.

  Several moments passed before she recognized the melody. It was an olden aire, and the words taunted her with their bitter poignancy, drifting through her mind with the haunting refrain, “Alas, my love, you do me wrong to cast me off so discourteously.”

  Erienne rose from the bed and quickly donned her dressing gown. She could not remember having seen a harpsichord in the house, but there were many rooms still unused, and she had not yet lifted every dust cover to view its treasure.

  Following the sound of the violent chords, she was led to a wing where the house had not yet been made habitable. Once in the hall, a soft light guided her to where a door stood ajar, and she carefully pushed it wide. A tall candelabrum sat on a small table in the middle of the room, its yellowed stumps of candles providing the light that had drawn her. The nape of her neck crawled again. The furniture was still draped with the heavy dust cloths, except for one piece sitting across the room, and there the covering had been thrown back. Seated before the keyboard half facing her, head and shoulders mercifully masked in shadows, was the silhouette of a man. The leather helm and black gloves were cast aside on the mantel of the harpsichord, and she could see the wildly tossed hair that must have grown in patchwork locks between scars. He almost attacked the instrument, seeming to rip the notes from it as he vented his frustration with the world at large and, Erienne feared, with her in particular.

  As
if with a will of their own, her feet moved forward, slowly, haltingly, then of a sudden the music stopped, dying off in an unmelodious chord as the man’s head jerked up. The eyes, she thought, gleamed with a half-mad feral glint.

  “Lord Saxton?” she queried in a breathless whisper.

  “Stand back!” The command was coarse and harsh. “Come no closer lest your sanity depart you, woman.”

  Erienne halted as his tone brooked no disobedience and realized for the first time that she had left her slippers upstairs. The stone floor was cold beneath her feet, and it sent a chill creeping up her limbs.

  Lord Saxton snatched the gloves and hid his hands while he donned them, then he grasped the leather helm and tugged it down, pulling the collar of his robe snug around the base, ignoring the laces that tightened the mask. He braced his hands wide apart on the mantel as he asked, “Do you play?”

  Erienne laughed. “Once upon a time, milord, but then only a few simple pieces, certainly nothing with the emotion you display.”