Come to Castlemoor (3 page)

“I may grow to
like
this place,” she said.

“I wouldn't be surprised,” I replied.

She nudged me with her elbow. “Did you see that blue-eyed brute?” she whispered. “The one with the brown boots and leather jerkin? I'll bet
he
could hold his own in a wrestling match! They grow 'em big here, Miss Kathy, and that's no lie!”

“You're shameless, Bella,” I scolded.

We passed a dry-goods store with bolts of shimmering silk and colorful cotton displayed behind the dingy gray glass windows, and a milliner's with surprisingly chic bonnets prominently exhibited. We smelled the delicious fragrance of newly baked bread as we passed the bakery, and kegs of nails and shelves of tools stood in front of the hardware store. The blacksmith's shop stood open, horses standing under the shed, flames roaring, sledgehammer pounding on anvil. A wagon rumbled down the street with three coops of chickens squawking in back, and a small boy hurried past us with a tiny brown pig in his arms. Darkmead was small and ugly, but it had its own flavor, and the fascination of the new and unexplored. I couldn't help but feel a certain excitement as we moved along this main street. London was far behind me, and the life I led there might never have existed.

A red-and-brown sign in the shape of a bull's head hung over the local inn the driver had mentioned. It was on a corner, overlooking the square, the lower floor a restaurant, rooms to rent above. We pushed the swinging wooden doors and stepped inside. It was dimly lighted, the walls a moss-green color, black oak beams supporting a low ceiling. Sawdust littered the floor, and the air was filled with smoke and the odors of beer and ale. The place was almost empty, two men sitting at one of the crude wooden tables, another man standing at the bar, the rest of the vast, shadowy room deserted. Bella and I stood hesitantly in the doorway. Old Rufus, the proprietor, came out from a back room. He was a burly, middle-aged man in a soiled white shirt and brown trousers. His sleeves were rolled up, and a thin black leather apron was tied about his waist. His face was ruddy, his eyes glowing black, his head a gleaming bald globe. He came toward us.

“I'm starved,” Bella said. “Let's get something to eat before we do anything else.”

“Very well. I'm hungry, too.”

Old Rufus nodded jerkily and looked at us with the glowing black eyes. He seemed to resent our presence, and I wondered why. “Miss Hunt?” he said.

“Why—yes,” I replied. “How did you know my name?”

He grunted and led us to one of the tables without answering my question. The other men in the room watched us silently. I wished I weren't dressed quite so elegantly. Old Rufus told us we could have roast beef and boiled potatoes or meat pie. We chose the beef. I asked him to bring us a pot of coffee while we were waiting.

“I wonder how he knew your name, Miss Kathy?” Bella asked when he had gone.

“The trunks, I'd imagine,” I replied. “They probably got here several days ago, and my name was plainly printed on them. They'll be at the house when we get there.”

More men came in, all of them wearing heavy jackets with the collars turned up. Although April was already here, it was still chilly outside, and I imagined Darkmead would turn cold as night fell. Old Rufus tossed a log in the enormous rough-stone fireplace and lighted the kindling. Soon a merry fire was roaring, orange-and-blue flames licking at the log and throwing flickering shadows on the wall. Even more men came in, a few of them with their women, dour, silent creatures in plain black or brown dresses. I was amazed at the subservient manner of these women. They did not speak unless spoken to, and they kept their eyes lowered, although I caught a few casting sly glances at our table. I felt even more conspicuous.

A barmaid in a vivid red dress served our food. She had tangled black hair and vivacious brown eyes, and the dress was cut far too low, flaunting the overripe body. Cheap golden bracelets dangled at her wrists. The men followed her with their eyes, and the women tried to pretend she wasn't there. I was almost pleased to see the lusty creature in this drab, solemn community. Hearing one of the men call her Mrs. Rufus, I assumed she was married to the proprietor, although that didn't keep her from throwing coy glances at various men. She settled behind the bar and began talking to one of the men standing there.

“Take a look at that,” Bella said.

“What?”

“The lad she's talkin' to. Have you ever seen anything so glorious? I declare, Miss Kathy, he's the most appetizin' morsel of man I've seen in
months!
Can you believe it?”

The man she referred to was leaning against the bar, one heel hooked on the brass footrail. He must have been six-foot-four and had a body that would have done justice to a Rugby player—well-turned legs, slender hips and waist, powerful shoulders. His raven-black hair curled at the back of his neck and spilled in disheveled waves over his forehead, and he had the bluest eyes I have ever seen, sapphire blue, snapping with life. His features were rather coarse but granite-strong, large nose, wide mouth, firm jaw. He wore mud-splattered black boots, tight black trousers, and a heavy brown suede jacket lined with sheepskin, the collar turned back to reveal the fleecy yellow lining. He was teasing the barmaid, his manner bantering and jovial and extremely male. The proprietor's wife seemed to glow in the warmth of his attention.

“Look at that tart lappin' it up!” Bella whispered.

“Jealous, Bella?” I inquired, smiling.

“Humph! I guess not. I guess
I'd
know how to handle a man like that! He thinks he's pretty big stuff with the womenfolks. Maybe he is with these country girls, but he wouldn't last long in London. I'll tell you that free of charge! He has mud on his boots and probably smells of manure.”

“I thought you were admiring him a minute ago,” I teased.

“Big louts like that don't interest me a bit,” she lied. “Finish your roast, Miss Kathy, not that it's fit to eat. When we get settled in that house, I'm going to cook some
decent
food!”

She lapsed into angry silence. The cause of her anger continued talking with the barmaid, exuding a robust charm that captivated the creature in red. Although the inn was almost crowded now, it wasn't rowdy. The men talked in low voices, and more than once I discovered groups of them staring at me in silence. I was glad when we finished the meal and were ready to settle the bill. Old Rufus came up to our table, beads of sweat on his naked brow, a napkin folded over his arm. “That be all, ladies?” he inquired.

“I wonder if you could tell me where I can find someone to take me to Castlemoor?” I asked quietly.

He stared at me, the burning black eyes suddenly flat. He made no effort to answer my question. The room grew painfully silent, all ears attuned to our table. I looked around, puzzled. The men were staring at me as though I had asked someone to commit a murder.

“Not the castle itself,” I clarified. “I—I own a little house on the moor, across the hill from the castle. That's where I want to go.”

“I know where it is, ma'am. Your brother stayed there. You ain't intendin' to live there, are you?”

“I certainly am,” I retorted in my haughtiest manner. I was on my feet now, Bella standing beside me. I was appalled at the rudeness of the proprietor and the blatant stares of the men. I could feel a blush burning on my cheeks.

“Will you tell me how I can get a ride there?” I asked icily.

“You'd best stay here till morning,” Old Rufus said.

“Why should we?”

“Night's fallin'.”

“So?”

“Ain't no one here goin' to go out to the moors when night's fallin',” he said. I heard some of the men grumbling in agreement.

“But—that's absurd,” I protested. “I'll pay—”

“It ain't a question of money,” he replied, his voice gruff. “In the morning there's dozens of men who'll drive you out for nothin', but no one will drive out there with night comin' on.”

“Why—I never heard of such a thing,” I cried.

I stared at the solemn, leathery faces of the men in the room. I saw hardened mouths and sullen eyes, and I saw fear, too. It was quite plain. These men were afraid of something. My brother had written that the superstition here was something to behold, but I never expected to find anything as strong as this. The moors were full of ruins, and legend had it that the ghosts of the Celtic dead rose from their rock-piled graves and worshiped the stone circles at night, but surely these men couldn't believe any such nonsense. Nevertheless, the fear was there, as well as open resentment of Bella and me, strangers, intruders.

“You mean to tell me there's no one here who'll take me to my house?” I said, my voice trembling.

“That's a fact, ma'am,” the proprietor retorted.

“You're all afraid? All you big, strong men are afraid—”

“No need to go insultin' us, Miss Hunt. There's things strangers ain't equipped to understand. I've got some nice rooms upstairs you and your maid can have for the night, and I won't charge you for 'em—”

“I'll take you, ma'am,” a slow, drawling voice said. “Soon as I finish my beer.”

There was a general stir among the crowd. All eyes turned to where the man Bella had pointed out earlier stood with a mug of beer. He gave the men a slow grin and lifted his mug to them, a mocking toast. He sipped the beer and clanged the mug down on the bar. He hitched his thumbs in the corners of his trouser pockets and started toward us, the grin still on his lips. The men grumbled in low tones. The few women looked at each other with pale faces. The air seemed to crackle with tension.

“Alan Dunne!” one man hissed.

“Aye, and a fool he is!” another answered.

“He's up to no good!”

“Aye, nor has he ever been.”

The man ignored the muttered comments. He came up to us and gave me a jerky little bow that would have been humorous under other circumstances. I saw that the blue, blue eyes were crackling with mischief, and the face, though rough-hewn and unquestionably coarse, had the amiable and endearing look of a naughty little boy's. He was in his early twenties, but despite this, despite his immense size, he reminded me of a boy who delighted in pranks.

“Alan Dunne, ma'am, at your service.”

Although he was speaking to me, his eyes were on Bella. I sensed his rather cocky, arrogant manner was for her benefit. She sniffed disdainfully and shot me a quick glance. He
did
smell of manure, but it was mixed with the odors of sweat and leather and hay and blended into a not unpleasant male scent.

“I've got my wagon out back, ma'am, if you and the little lady don't mind ridin' up front with me.”

“We'd be delighted,” I said, before Bella could make the cutting comment that was shaping itself on her lips.

“Fine, then,” he said. “I'll just take them valises you've got there and go bring the wagon around front.” He eyed the room with jaunty disdain and made a face. “I just wanted you to know
all
the men in Darkmead ain't a bunch of sissies!” he remarked loudly. He sauntered out of the inn as his fellow townsmen grumbled menacingly. I paid Old Rufus for our meal and left with my head held high. The swinging wooden doors made a swooshing sound as we stepped outside.

“I'd just as soon
walk!
” Bella said irritably. “Did you get a whiff of his clothes? Enough to knock you flat! And that drawl! I bet the oaf can't even read and write!”

“I thought he was charming,” I told her.

“Ah, Miss Kathy, you're no judge of the menfolks, and that's a fact!”

She smoothed the folds of her vivid pink skirt and tugged at the tight pink bodice, pulling it a bit lower than modesty permitted, and toyed with her glossy brown curls, arranging them casually on her shoulders. The toe of her slipper tapped merrily on the sidewalk, and there was an undeniable sparkle in her eyes.

“Bella,” I said teasingly, “I think you're getting ready to make your first conquest.”

“What? Why, Miss Kathy!” she cried, outraged. “That was a downright
wicked
thing to say! Whatever gave you such a crazy notion?”

CHAPTER THREE

The sky was darkening and taking on a greenish cast, and long black shadows were falling heavily over Darkmead, as though wrapping it up for the night. The air was cold, and I wished I had brought a cape, but Bella didn't seem to notice the chill. Any kind of wrap would have spoiled the effect she hoped to create with the tight pink bodice. She stood with her hands resting on her hips, her chin tilted haughtily. As Alan Dunne drove the old farm wagon around front, she gave a snort of disapproval. Her manner clearly indicated that she wasn't accustomed to riding in such a disreputable conveyance, and she made certain he noticed it.

The wagon was old, its wooden sides warped, its wheels creaking. It was piled high in back with foul-smelling damp straw and gunnysacks. The horse that pulled it was an ancient chestnut with a swayed back and enormous hooves. Alan Dunne tossed the reins aside and leaped down to help us climb up on the wide wooden seat. I climbed up first, but Bella scrambled over me so that she would be sitting in the middle. She arranged her skirts prettily and stared straight ahead, paying no heed to Alan when he sat beside her and snapped the reins. The old wagon creaked forward in a series of jerky motions, but the horse soon found his stride, and we rolled along the unpaved street smoothly enough.

“Don't you ever
clean
this wagon?” Bella snapped. “It smells like a stable, and a filthy stable at that!”

“Aye, I clean it now and then,” he replied in his slow drawl, “when I take a mind to. I wudn't expectin' to be haulin' any fine ladies around in it tonight, though. I had something else in mind.”