At Your Pleasure

  “I have plans.”

  The fervent note in his voice chilled her. Plans! Was there no end to his visions? “Are you mad? It is over! They intercepted your shipment of arms, David! And the gunpowder—you are caught! Your only hope now is for imprisonment rather than death!”

  “You do not sound so mournful for it!”

  “Do not—” She stopped herself, folding her lips, breathing hard. But no—why should she stop herself? “Do not dare impugn my love for you. I have proved it time and again.”

  “Love is well and good,” he said sharply. “But where is your loyalty? Do I have it? That is what I need to know.”

  He spoke as though her loyalty were worth aught. How could he not see the truth? “I would move heaven and earth to spare you,” she said hoarsely. “But the money I might have spent on bribes was put to your arms. And my husband—he will not even speak to me, and I . . .”

  I fear I will have to watch you die.

  She made herself reach again for David’s hand. He did not resist it, watching narrowly as she lifted and kissed his dirty knuckles. This was her brother: tall, lanky, unshaven, his eyes feverish, but not, by the feel of his flesh, from any physical ailment. He was on fire for some vision she had never been able to see. She had seen only him— and tried to do her duty by him, to repay his past kindness as love and kinship demanded.

  “You are still a Colville, then,” he said.

  She sighed. Such arguments wasted what little time remained to them. “Someone is caring for you,” she said instead. She laid his hand back on his pommel as she looked him over. His clothing was soiled but his bandages were fresh.

  He gave her a queer smile. “One wonders why they bother if they mean to behead me in the fortnight.”

  “Perhaps—” She could not bear to surrender all hope. “Should the king grant you mercy—my husband’s order now is only to imprison you, and others have survived the Tower—”

  His laughter silenced her. “Oh, dear sister.” He chucked her chin. “Dear, foolish Leo. Go, ride ahead now. Dream your silly dreams, and trust in me to find a way to make you happy.”

  His mockery was like a slap. She held his eyes and made her voice cutting. “Love you have from me, David. But trust? It burned with Hodderby. If you die, I will mourn you for the rest of my life. But I will never tell another soul that your actions were just.”

  She turned her horse then and rode forward. Like her husband, she did not look back.

  20

  In the far corner of the taproom, a chair crashed against the floor as two men leapt up to brawl. Raucous cheers swept the room. Braddock and Henslow slammed down their tankards to join the fray; the barmaid, hovering by Lord John, abandoned flirtation mid-syllable to trail after them.

  Lord John heaved a loud sigh as he watched her go. “I will be most glad,” he said, “to pass tomorrow night at Manston House.”

  It was not the first time he had observed this. Adrian himself had no pressing desire to sleep in the bosom of Lord John’s family, but the manor lay direct on the path to town, so he would allow it. There were members of his party who would benefit from a good bed.

  As for the Lamb’s Head, it offered other advantages, most notably the low crowd to which it catered. Its inn-keep—now screaming at the brawlers, who rolled across his floor as bystanders jeered—was not much interested in his patrons, neither for their journeys nor their comfort. A year’s worth of grease encrusted the table, and decades of smoke blackened the low-beamed roof. Its blowsy barmaids showed no curiosity beyond what could win them a coin, and its clientele verged closely on a mob.

  It was the mob whose opinion most interested Adrian. They were but two days’ distance from the capital now, and the banter that had sparked the fight provided every answer he’d required. These travelers were abuzz with anticipation of a public execution for the man who, unbeknownst to them, was locked upstairs under the watchful eyes of Adrian’s men. With the uprising crushed but the majority of its rebels imprisoned in the north, the south longed for a vengeful show of its own.

  Nora thought she knew what awaited her brother. She imagined, perhaps, that she would have weeks, even months, to try to win mercy for him. But his trial would be little better than an entertainment offered to the public to satisfy its bloodlust. David Colville would be dead within the month.

  This is not my concern.

  A table crashed on its side, showering ale across the spectators. Lord John cursed and sprang to his feet, dashing his sleeve over his eyes. “Damn these rustics!” As he lowered his hand, he jerked. “By God!” He shoved his arm in Adrian’s face. “Look! Some ass’s head has stolen my rings!”

  Adrian lifted a brow at the sight of the boy’s naked fingers. “A skilled thief, then.”

  “I have a mind to search this company!”

  A crash went up from the other side of the room: the brawlers had knocked over another table.

  “As you wish,” Adrian drawled. “They seem a compliant lot.”

  After a moment of visible indecision, the boy hissed a breath through his teeth and yanked down his jacket. “No,” he muttered, “no. Let them enjoy their misbegotten gains. And God curse them for it!” Stiffly he bowed to Adrian. “By your leave, I’ll withdraw.”

  Adrian lifted his drink in farewell, then took a long swallow to mark Lord John’s stalking retreat. For lack of larger joys, these small victories must be celebrated zealously.

  The brew was dark and strong, briny like seawater. He checked himself when he would have sipped again. It was an unwise impulse to blur his mind. He would make his decisions soberly and coldly. He would relocate that place within him where choices seemed simple, unshaded by any thought of her.

  He would unlearn this damned talent at seeing through her eyes.

  She had wanted to speak with him earlier this evening. Had tried to stay him when he took his leave. But he had ignored her. To give her an opportunity for explanations or pleas would be pointless, painful to both of them. He already knew what must be done.

  A hiss went up. “There’s a fine piece,” crowed some wag at the next table. He followed the man’s look and a curse tore from him. She stood in the doorway, showing less sense than a dormouse. At least that creature, looking in upon this chaos, would know to stay hidden.

  Instead, eyes rounding, she surveyed the scene—and then saw him, and firmed her jaw, and started into the fray.

  He was on his feet instantly, despite the darker impulse that seized him: to let her taste the consequences of her actions. She was determined to set her own course and walk it without care for where it led her. Why not let her confront for herself the troubles her mulish pursuit would encounter?

  But what a joke he was. He could sit here mustering indifference for hours, yet one glimpse of her broke his resolve. By God, the leers she collected as she wove toward him scraped his temper like flint. He knocked people aside, ignoring their shouts of complaint as he advanced on her. Stupid little fool! Did she imagine this rowdy lot would not take an interest? In her riding habit of rose wool, only half-spattered by the road, she looked provocatively misplaced. The fresh purity of her skin, the sleek shining crest of her uncovered black hair, the grave composure with which she endured the buffeting of passersby, even the coolness of her gray eyes acted as a goad. Adrian felt the effect himself: fragile things, delicacies that held themselves far above commonplace life, did not engender respectful admiration. Rather, they churned up a greedy sort of hunger, one that lured a man to smash what he could not have.

  He shoved another jackanapes out of his path, cataloging likely trouble in the expressions of those eyeing her, nudging each other, jerking their chins in her direction. It was not only her elegance that made her conspicuous. The simple provocation of her silhouette caused drunkards to imagine that her tastes would run as coarsely as their appreciation of her bosom.

  He had nearly reached her when trouble erupted. The fight spilled suddenly between them. One of the bra
wlers sprawled at her feet, gawping up at her. “Here’s an angel!” Seizing hold of her skirts, he cried, “Angel, show me your favor!”

  The filth-faced drunkard hanging from her skirts yanked Nora off her balance. Helpful hands caught her by the elbows, and for a moment she thought herself spared; but the hands instantly grew lewd, slipping to deliver a sly pinch at her breast, a firm grope to her buttocks. She whirled to swat them away, but all at once, there were too many hands to defray, and yellow, toothy grins encircled her.

  The crowd lurched. Bodies packed thick as pelts crushed into her, stinking of sweat and alcohol. She elbowed free of a sweaty grip but somebody, stumbling, caught hold of her hair and snapped her backward at the waist. She cried out as she clawed at the fingers that pulled at her scalp.

  They loosed her all at once; she straightened, gasping, to discover Adrian taking her assailant by the throat and physically tossing him away. Another vulgar, questing hand found her buttocks and Adrian stepped past her, laying the rogue out with a fist to the face. His arm closed around her waist; clearing a path with his elbow and shoulder, he hauled her forward.

  “You,” he growled in her ear, “were to stay in your damned room.”

  She had no breath to reply; she could only clutch him and try to keep her footing. The brawler who had caught her skirts stepped into their path again and Adrian caught him by the hair and hauled his head into an uplifted knee. Almost effortless, almost elegant, this violence; the man groaned and slumped to the side, falling beneath the trample of feet.

  People began to scream and shove harder. She could not understand what had turned the mundane chaos into a stampede, but everywhere now men were fighting, and those who tried to move away were thwarted by jeerers who pushed closer to encourage the brawlers. Somebody’s fist flew toward her, and before she could shriek, Adrian deflected it with his forearm. Finally, finally, she spotted the door, through which more men were piling in to join the fracas. Adrian broke through these newcomers and pulled her into the hall, where the smoky heat and noise subsided with shocking abruptness.

  “Move,” he bit out, letting go of her waist but placing himself behind her, directing her by the shoulders toward the stairs. “Up!”

  She had wished to speak with him. To confront him. To demand plain speaking, or any kind of speaking at all. She had not realized they passed this night in the seventh circle of hell, or certainly she would have stayed in her room!

  Face burning, her skirts gathered tightly in her fists, she hurried up the stairs. He marshaled her so closely with his body that every step brought him brushing up against her.

  At the top of the stairs he seized her elbow and took the lead again, dragging her down the hall almost too quickly for her to manage. The door to her room he knocked open with his shoulder. Grizel, who had been brushing down a dress by the fire, bolted up.

  “Out!” he roared.

  Grizel threw a panicked look toward Nora, who managed a jerky nod. The girl gathered the dress to her chest and hurried out.

  The door slammed. He leaned back against it, staring blindly into space, his breathing audible. His head turned slowly toward her, and the hard look in his face made her throat close. His silence crisped the air like an oncoming storm.

  He shoved off the door and stalked toward her. She would not back away. She was not afraid of him! Only she had never seen such rage in his face—save that night he had railed at her while Hodderby burned . . .

  He stalked past, stripping off his coat and waistcoat. In his shirtsleeves he looked out the window into the coaching yard. His grip on the sill turned his knuckles white.

  Whatever he saw made him spin back toward her. “I would throw you through this damned window if I thought it would fix your brain!”

  Her knees folded, landing her heavily into a cane chair. “I did nothing to provoke them. There was a fight—”

  He drew back his fist and slammed it into the wall.

  Powdery wattle rained onto the floor. Her tongue felt like lead, but a paralyzing prickle passed down her skin.

  “You little fool. Have you no care for yourself? To walk into that room—” His laugh was ugly. “But why do I ask! I am the fool to wonder! Again and again you have proved your reckless disregard for yourself! What is today next to your other exploits? A grope of your bosom—nay, even a rape on the floor—would be nothing compared to your idiocy with the gunpowder. Your life is but a toy to you, is it? You gamble with it so freely—”

  Mouth tight, he stared at her for an unspeaking moment. Then he snatched up the chair next to him and smashed it against the wall.

  “Stop!” She was on her feet. “Cease this childish—”

  “Childish?” he roared. “Childish?” He sprang toward her, and now she did scramble backward, for in his face was the fury of a marauding savage. She ducked around the bed and he lunged across it, seizing her arm and dragging her bodily over the mattress. A strangled cry escaped her as she spilled onto her knees on the floor.

  He hauled her up and pulled her to the window that overlooked the yard.

  “Look,” he said in a murderous voice, his hands hard as manacles on her shoulders. “Behold the company which you so blithely tempted today!”

  She held very still, not daring to move. The heat of his body surrounded her like a great, raging fire, and his bruising grip flexed erratically on her arms.

  He shook her once. “Look! Behold the work of childish men!”

  Half the brawlers had spilled out of doors. They had set upon one of the London-bound coaches, rocking it wildly as the coachman, atop the roof, screamed curses at them.

  “This rabble is bound for London,” he said in her ear. “Rape is a game to them—an execution a holiday. Imagine their joy if they learned your name.”

  Cold spilled over her. He could not mean . . . “My brother’s execution? Is that why they travel?”

  He snapped her around to face him. “Forget your damned brother! His cause is as dead as he! Are you so intent to follow him?”

  For an unending moment they stared at each other. She could not have managed a word. Her very lungs froze for horror.

  He made a noise of disgust and released her. “Christ. Tell me—have I married a Jacobite? I did not think so—but if I am wrong, prithee tell me now, so I may wash my hands of this lunacy!”

  “No.” The word came out brokenly.

  “No? No?” Viciously he mocked her. “No, you are no Jacobite? So only a madwoman then—a lunatic who destroyed her home for sisterly love! Hodderby is ruined, Nora! Your demesne is laid waste! But perhaps you aim higher yet. Tell me, how far will you go for your accursed family?”

  The blood had drained from her head. She put a hand to the windowsill for balance, but the world continued to spin.

  “Answer me!” He screamed so loudly that his voice lost all color. “Did I marry a drone? Are you a lunatic? So tenderly the Colvilles care for you—how far will you go to repay them? How far?”

  Such hatred in his voice! Such murderous anger. “I am done with their cause,” she said hoarsely. “I am done! But that does not mean I will watch David die gladly—or that I will let him go to the block without trying to save him! Surely you must understand that!”

  His expression went blank. And then he gave her a terrible smile. “Always a new reason,” he said. “Why do I bother? There is no saving you from yourself.”

  Turning on his heel, he strode toward the wardrobe that stood along the far wall. The heavy piece topped his head. The violence with which he threw his weight into it—and the ease with which it began to move, scraping and bumping over the floor—frightened her further yet. It bespoke an unnatural strength, born of berserker’s rage.

  Once the wardrobe blocked the door, he stepped away and with cold, unnerving precision began to unwind his neckcloth. Tossing that aside, he took up his sword from where it stood by the hearth, then sat, laying the weapon across his lap as though he anticipated the use of it.

 
He did not look at her but stared into the flames.

  Her throat tightened. She would not be afraid of him. She would speak. “Where is he now? Is he safe from them?”

  His mouth twisted. “As safe as can be, with that mob in the courtyard. They would make quick work of him.” Darkness moved across his face. “Or you,” he said. “Lacking the brother, those vermin would not scruple to make do with the sister.”

  Dear God. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I spoke to no one.”

  His smile looked cutting. “How wise.”

  The silence that opened then seemed to suffice for him. Sprawled in the chair, legs outstretched, his sword across his lap, he tipped his head to gaze on the water-stained ceiling. But despite his casual posture, she sensed an alertness about him. He listened closely to the noises in the coaching yard.

  Her eyes wandered across the evidence of the rage he now restrained—the cracked wall, the broken chair. In contrast, his stillness grew the more chilling. She had to try several times to find the courage to speak.

  “They must try him first, mustn’t they?”

  Glancing to her, he lifted a brow.

  “They cannot simply execute him,” she said. “He must be tried in the House of Lords!”

  “Your father was impeached.” He spoke as though to a dim-witted child. “The Colvilles lost that entitlement.”

  “But even a common prisoner is entitled to some sort of trial!”

  He looked away again. “Indeed. You must remind the lawmen so, when next they consult you.”

  He sounded almost bored now. It wounded her. In her place, would he let his siblings be put to the axe? Would he not do everything in his power to protect them? “Perhaps I will remind them! Perhaps I will petition the king myself! If he allows men to flout and abuse our laws, perhaps he is a fraud, and no true king for England!”

  His chin came down. He looked at her narrowly. “Sit,” he bit out.

  But his bullying suddenly enraged her. So he regretted marrying her. A just fruit for his use of force! She had not asked to marry him! She had not asked to be placed in this bind! “Why should I sit? Are you afraid to hear me speak? Do you think someone will overhear? Or will you yourself turn me in for a Jacobite? A fine turn that will be for your courtly ambitions, to expose your wife for a criminal!”