Anna Jacobs (3 page)

“If we ride steadily, we’ll be there soon after midnight. It’s a good thing there’s a nearly full moon tonight. We’ll take a rest when we change horses.” He eyed her with a dour look that didn’t bespeak confidence in her equestrian ability and added, “Can you keep going for that long?”

“I haven’t ridden for a year or two,” she admitted. Her Uncle Walter said frankly that he didn’t intend to waste his money on supplying mounts for indigent relatives who had no reason to go anywhere, anyway. “I think I can manage, though. I used to ride quite a bit before Father died.” When her father was on a winning streak, that was, and could afford to hire horses. She reached forward to pat the mare’s neck. “This one has a nice steady gait.”

His only answer was a grunt, and whether it was of encouragement or disapproval she couldn’t tell.

Later she asked more directly, “What’s my Uncle Ralph like?”

“Old. And dying.”

“Could you not tell me more than that?” she exclaimed, disappointed.

“You’ll see him for yourself soon enough.”

Which didn’t help much. “Well, what about Marymoor, then? Tell me about the house.” She heard his voice soften as he spoke.

“’Tis built of stone, with eight bedrooms and attics for the servants, though parts of it are in sore need of repair. It comes with some decent land, for those parts, though people who don’t know the district might say differently. It could be made more productive with an owner who was not set in his ways. I’ve made a start on mending matters, but it’s been slow going.’

“And you are what—the bailiff?”

“I don’t have a fancy title. I manage everything for your uncle and have done for a few years.” He shut his mouth firmly, as if he’d said more than he intended, and when she next asked a question, he told her curtly to save her breath for riding.

After another hour they stopped briefly at a tiny wayside inn to change horses and take some refreshment, but were off again within the half hour. This time she was riding a steady chestnut gelding, and she noticed that the ostler didn’t try to fob off Mr Pascoe with poor horses.

“Are we going fast enough, do you think?” she asked a little later.

“Who’s to say? It’s in God’s hands.”

She gave up trying to speak to him, enjoying the ride and above all, the feeling of freedom, praying fervently that she need never return to Newgarth.

Chapter 2

Time passed and gradually the long summer evening wrapped them in shadows so that they rode through a gently blurring landscape. It was lucky the fine weather had held, Deborah thought, for she didn’t even feel the need of her cloak.

The sound of hoof beats seemed to echo in her brain and cut out all other noises. As they rode she saw the dark shapes of animals here and there in the fields or the outlines of houses in the distance, but it all felt unreal. She was, she admitted to herself, getting very weary now, her back and legs aching fiercely from the unaccustomed exercise. Only determination kept her upright in the saddle.

Her companion must have noticed that, for he said abruptly, “We’ve just skirted Rochdale and a mile away there’s an inn where I’d thought to get a meal, for there’ll be little to offer you at Marymoor. We can get a change of horses there, too. Can you hold up till then?”

“Yes, of course.” Deborah studied him covertly, wondering why she was so very conscious of his presence beside her, when he barely acknowledged her existence most of the time. She was aware of him not just as a companion, but as a man—and one she found attractive. She had had so few chances to spend time with men of her own age and had resigned herself to spinsterhood, but she could still dream, couldn’t she? Dream of a home and family of her own. She sighed and gave a wry smile at her own folly.

Maybe this night’s business was folly, too. If so her Uncle Walter would make her pay dearly for her act of rebellion.

Whenever she looked sideways, Matthew Pascoe usually had his eyes on the road ahead. He spoke only when she addressed him. He was almost handsome, almost a gentleman, and totally unlike anyone she’d ever met before. She wished he’d let her know him better and she’d have liked to hear about those who lived at Marymoor, but he wasn’t generous with words.

Just as she thought she could stay upright in the saddle no longer, they came to a small wayside inn, not the sort of place gentry usually patronised. A lantern at the door showed a hanging sign saying The King’s Head with a crude painting of a man’s crowned head on it. Lights showed in the windows, so it couldn’t be as late as she’d thought.

As Mr Pascoe helped her down from her horse, Deborah’s legs buckled and she sagged against him helplessly. “I’m sorry—I’m not used to—” Her voice faded to nothing. She felt strange, breathless and as if she had no bones in her limbs, while he felt strong and warm. She looked apologetically up at the face so close to hers, but he was studying the small inn yard, not her. His firm arms were still supporting her, though, as if he knew she couldn’t yet stand on her own.

He looked down at her and gave one of his half-smiles. “Hold still for a moment and let me support you. You’ve done well for someone who hasn’t ridden for a while.”

So she rested against him, content to be there.

When a lad came out of the stables, Matthew called across Deborah’s head, “We’ll need new horses in half an hour, Billy. See to these, will you?”

“Yes, Mr Pascoe.”

Deborah, who had now regained some measure of control over her aching legs, realised suddenly how closely pressed against his body she was and flushed, trying to pull away from him. But he wouldn’t let her.

“Keep hold of my arm as we walk. We don’t want you falling.”

“I shall be all right.” But her legs gave way at the first step and she stumbled.

He was there again, to catch and support her. She hoped he hadn’t seen her blush, hoped he wasn’t aware of how her hand was trembling as she clutched him and tried to make her stiff legs move properly.

Matthew was all too aware of the blush and the trembling hand, but it pleased him rather than otherwise that she wasn’t forward in her ways. And he had, he decided, come to like her elegant profile, not to mention the determined and intelligent expression on her face. He couldn’t abide fussy, complaining women, but he thought he might be able to get used to this one without too much trouble.

As she clung to him, he had a sudden urge to brush those strands of soft, curling hair off her forehead. Which was strange, because he didn’t have much time for women nowadays. Ladies usually looked down their noses at him, deeming a man who worked for his bread below their notice, though some of them had signalled an interest in him since he’d gone to live with Ralph. But that hadn’t pleased him, either. He wanted nothing more to do with women until he was ready to marry. He’d sown some wild oats as a young man—well, who had not?—and had nearly been snared by one young woman. Luckily she’d lost the baby before he could be forced to wed her.

He’d taken a deal more care after that, not wanting to bring a bastard into the world, not wanting to make any child suffer for its birth as he had.

* * * *

Inside the inn they were ushered straight into a tiny private parlour as if they’d been expected. Deborah stifled a groan as she sank down on a hard settle.

“I’ll fetch you a nice glass of mulled ale, shall I miss?” the landlord said. “And send my wife to tend to your needs? Got a minute, Mr Pascoe?”

Matthew nodded.

The landlady bustled in, with a cheery word and a tray bearing enough food to supply the whole household at Stoneyfell Cottage. She pointed out a room at the back of the inn where her guest could tend to her personal needs and was gone, leaving the tray on a small table near the fire. Deborah went along the passageway to relieve herself and wash her hands, then came back, feeling more than ready to eat.

The smell of the food made her stomach growl with hunger. She wondered whether she should wait for Mr Pascoe, then noticed the tray was only set for one, so made a hearty meal of tender boiled fowl and cabbage, accompanied by a slice of pigeon pie, crusty new bread and a side dish of summer greens. To follow this there was a large piece of apple pie smothered in thick cream and a fresh chunk of crumbly yellow cheese. She ate every crumb, sighing in satisfaction as she finished it.

She’d have liked to linger over the table afterwards, because the food had made her feel sleepy, but she didn’t wish to keep Mr Pascoe waiting. Pushing herself up, groaning at the stiffness of her limbs, she went to look for him, impatient now to get this journey over.

In the corridor she bumped into two young men whose eyes lit up at the sight of her. When she tried to pass them, they moved to block the corridor, one in front of her, one behind, and she realised in dismay that both were drunk.

She addressed the nearest and said crisply, “Please to let me pass, sir.”

He chuckled. “Not till you’ve paid a forfeit, fair one.”

“A kiss, a kiss!” cried the other.

“No!” She tried to step back into the small parlour, but the man behind grabbed hold of her. She jerked away from his hands, but his companion had also closed in and before she could prevent them, they had tossed her hat away and tugged her hair loose from its pins. Laughing, they began to push her from one to the other.

“She’s a tidy armful!” one cried, trying to fondle her breast.

“Let go!” She jerked her knee into a rather tender part of his anatomy, as her father had taught her to do, and followed it by a kick to his shins. As he yelped in pain and clutched his privates, the amusement faded quickly from his face.

“You’ll pay for that!” he threatened.

Even as she opened her mouth to call for help, a voice roared, “Let go of her!” and Matthew Pascoe strode out of the shadows at the rear of the passage.

Deborah couldn’t hold back a sob of relief.

So quickly that he took them all by surprise, Matthew punched the nearest man in the face, sending him sprawling, and grabbed Deborah’s arm, drawing her behind him.

Even as he was squaring up to the other fellow, the landlord came hurrying up to join them, his expression horrified. “John Redley, whatever’s got into you this night?”

The younger of the two men took a step backwards, his face sulky now. “Just having a bit of fun.”

“That’s the last time you drink in this inn, if this is how you treat my lady guests.”

“She’s no lady, else she’d not be here.”

The young man’s companion, a stranger to the district, scrambled to his feet, glaring at Matthew, but Redley tugged at his arm. “Not worth it.”

Trying unsuccessfully to keep up a brave front they swaggered out, but both kept a careful watch on Matthew. Deborah sagged against the wall, then realised her clothing was awry and began to set it straight.

Matthew put his arm round her and guided her back into the small parlour, asking urgently, “Are you all right? They didn’t hurt you?”

She gulped back the tears that threatened. Only because she was so tired, she told herself. She didn’t normally allow herself to weep. “No. They just—annoyed me. I don’t know why they thought I . . . ”

He continued to hold her, patting her back and giving her a moment or two to recover.

Once again she was grateful for his support, trusting him to hold her and not try to take advantage, unlike them. In the silence she could hear his slow, deep breaths against the shallow sound of her own gasping. She tried desperately to pull herself together, but the feeling of utter helplessness as the men pushed her to and fro had terrified her. “I’m s-sorry.”

His voice was a soothing rumble above her ear. “What for? ’Tis them as should be sorry, and will be if I catch them here again.”

She must have shown her puzzlement at that remark.

“I own this place.” He gestured round with his head. “Not the grandest of inns, the King’s Head, but ’tis mine and does an honest trade.” He gave a bitter laugh. “’Tis all my damned step-father ever did for me, pass on this place when he died.” Then he shut his mouth, as if regretting this confidence, and pushed her away. “I’m sorry to rush you, but we need to set off again if you’re all right.”

“I must set my hair to rights first and find my hat.”

“I’ll get it.” He fetched it, then stood back and watched, seeing how her fingers trembled as she pinned up that wonderful mass of shining hair under a small cap, then set the hat squarely over it. She had clearly been shaken by the assault, and must be weary and uncomfortable after all their riding, but hadn’t complained once or asked to delay their journey.

Against his will something stirred within him. It was respect for her courage, he decided. He didn’t need telling that she’d done nothing to invite such attentions from those two young roisterers. She didn’t have a wanton look to her, thank goodness, even if she had a mercenary attitude to this possible inheritance. Well, only those with money could afford to despise it and she had none, that was clear!

He couldn’t get the memory of her hair out of his mind as they set out on the last leg of their journey. Soft and shining, it had flowed down her back like a waterfall when released from its bonds. His body also kept remembering how soft and womanly hers had felt pressed against his, remembering and reminding him of its need. She was a luscious armful for a man to hold.

He dismissed such thoughts from his mind with an irritated click of his tongue and concentrated on making the best possible speed. Pray heaven they’d reach Marymoor in time. If they didn’t, then Elkin would win everything and Matthew’s own future would be far from rosy, because Elkin wouldn’t want him living nearby.

Her future would be bleak, too.

* * * *

Deborah’s head jerked as she nearly fell asleep and she forced herself to sit more upright, though her whole lower body felt to be a mass of bruises now. She didn’t know how much longer she could manage to stay on the horse and was wondering whether to tell him that.

Matthew’s voice cut across the darkness. “We’re almost there now, just a few minutes longer. Can you manage?”

“Yes.” She hadn’t the energy to say more. At that moment, the moon sailed from behind a cloud, illuminating the dark, square outline of a house in the distance.