Death at Knytte (2 page)

A man emerged from the shadows behind the ancient barrier of earth, a short rather plump figure with a pistol in one hand. ‘Docket? What the devil are you doing here? You’ll have been heard all the way to Trembury. You’re lucky nobody took a shot at you.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I thought you should be told. Major Digby is about to leave his post. He says he’ll wait until the clock strikes the half, then he’s going home to bed.’

‘You were there to keep him up to scratch, Docket. If you were seen or heard the rogues won’t come near us now.’

‘There was nobody on the road, sir, if our villain is coming he’s going to be late, so there’s a chance I won’t have warned him off. I’m afraid Major Digby wouldn’t listen to me, but I thought you might want to ride back and speak to him yourself.’

Leaning against his gruesome support, the scarecrow made no move. Docket’s gaze travelled briefly over the ludicrous figure, before moving on to scan the farthest reaches of the straggling hedge, as if he expected to see something of more interest, but there was only his employer. Sir Martin Haylmer was Lord Lieutenant of the county, and also its chief magistrate, though nobody would have guessed it tonight, for like his young secretary, he was dressed in plain discreet black.

Sir Martin harrumphed. ‘I suppose I’d better. Damn the man, it’s all very well for him, he’s not the one whose name’s being bandied about as a joke in every blasted drawing room in the county.’ He stepped down onto the road to take the reins. ‘Give me a leg up.

Obediently Docket linked his hands and placed them
beneath the older man’s proffered boot to hoist him into his saddle.

‘You’re in charge here, Docket. I shan’t attempt to come back and risk scaring our villain off, that’s if he’s not already taken fright and ridden halfway to Hagstock by now.’

‘I’ll stay till first light, sir,’ Docket replied.

Sir Martin nodded. ‘You’d better take this.’ He thrust the pistol into the young man’s reluctant hand. ‘I’ll be at The Chequers.’

He turned the horse and was gone, riding fast. Docket took another quick glance at the tramp before stepping up onto the bank and down the other side, where his head and shoulders remained visible in the faint starlight. From somewhere close by a disembodied voice spoke. ‘Might’ve known the Major would be needed at home, with that pretty young wife waiting for him.’

‘Aye, perhaps ’tis catchin’,’ somebody else put in. ‘I ’ear his lordship at Knytte’s got the same trouble.’

‘So that’s why you was up before his lordship with a skinful the other day, Jeb. Hopin’ to catch it, eh?’

There was a gust of laughter.

‘That’s enough,’ Docket said shortly. ‘Woodham, see your men mind their manners.’ He ducked down and vanished from sight.

Below the ancient wooden stake, the shabby tramp shifted his pose, just a little, then with a barely audible sigh, he seemed to shrink against the wood at his back until he too was all but invisible.

Lucille’s footsteps faltered. A shape loomed ahead of her. It was a man, standing directly in her path. She wished for a second that she’d brought the lantern; she never carried it beyond the cloisters, for fear of its light being seen from the
house. The figure didn’t move, and gradually her heartbeat slowed. There was something strange about the shape of his head. She crept closer and a tremulous laugh escaped her lips as she recognized the finely sculpted hair adorned with an olive wreath. The man who had given her such a fright was Zeus, one of several statues that had lined the yew walk, until time and lichen had blurred their features. Jonah Jackman, the mason, had been given permission to set up a temporary workshop here among the ruins while he returned them to their former glory. Obviously this one had been moved since she passed this way.

The thought of Jonah made her bite swiftly at her lip, and for a fleeting second she pictured his hulking shape, almost as impressive as the statue that stood before her. The impulse was quickly stifled; Lucille squeezed past the god’s cold unfeeling touch and hurried to the archway leading into the gardens.

She was completely unprepared when a large shape detached itself from the dark shadow beneath the stone arch. A hand was clamped over her mouth and something was thrown over her head and pulled tight about her face; mouth, eyes, ears, all were muffled in thick cloth. Lucille was lifted from her feet, helpless as a new born child in a pair of strong arms. Her scream silenced before it left her throat, she was whisked into darkness.

P
hoebe Drake returned to the chair; her two charges were both asleep and had no need of her for the moment, but try as she might she couldn’t settle. She rose impatiently and returned to the window. As she looked out into the darkness she heard a faint sound; the cry of some small bird or animal perhaps, caught in a trap?

Biting her lip, the governess stared out into the night. The last time she’d heard those soft footsteps passing the nursery after midnight she had thought she’d seen something out there in the garden, though she hardly knew what.

The moon was partly veiled by cloud. Nothing stirred by the summerhouse. At first she thought she must be imagining the shadow crossing the grass beyond the lake but then the dark shape passed in front of a white-blossomed shrub and she knew it to be real. Whatever might be happening out there it was no business of hers, yet she felt reluctant to let the matter lie. A sudden thought occurring to her, she went through to the furthest room of the nursery wing, unused because the walls were damp. Here a window looked out onto the old monastery. With a sudden indrawn breath, Phoebe saw the faint flicker of light within the cloisters. She watched for a long time, but the light neither grew nor diminished.

Phoebe’s thoughts turned to her cousin. She knew there were rumours about Jonah, and she’d seen for herself how he’d
changed since he came to work here. Surely he couldn’t be out there in the garden tonight? Would he really be such a fool?

Another sound came to her, maybe the distant bark of a fox. All was still beneath the uncertain moonlight. Waiting, thinking, Phoebe didn’t notice that she’d grown cold. Eventually, shivering, she returned to her own room and wrapped herself in a shawl. She heard the boy mutter something in his sleep, and she hurried to his side, glad to have something to distract her from her thoughts.

Draped across a man’s shoulders, his bones grinding uncomfortably against hers as he walked, Lucille was completely helpless. She had been only yards from the summer house, but her captor had carried her much further than that. It was impossible to move her arms. Her ankles were held by strong hands; never in her eighteen short years had she been so brutally mishandled. Despite her terror she could still think. Was Mortleigh abducting her?

She’d been a fool to trust a man she hardly knew. A year ago he’d lusted for her, just one of the young men who constantly surrounded her, hoping for a kind word. Despite her automatic rejection of one so lacking in either money or position, when he failed to appear at a ball or a soirée she would feel strangely disappointed.

Exerting power over her suitors had been her greatest pleasure, but Victor Mortleigh was different; he’d never attempted to bid for her hand in marriage. He knew she would marry for money and a title. No matter if his dark good looks attracted her, or that her legs turned to water whenever their eyes met. Lucille stifled a sob as she recalled the exchange in the dining room, that brief meeting of hands as they passed in the hallway and the two whispered words she had barely heard; she’d thought they were born of a hunger
that matched her own, but this was where they led. Had he harboured a jealous hatred of her all through this past year? Was he seeking vengeance for her rejection, even though he’d never attempted to approach her?

Another thought swam through the panic that filled her. It might not be Mortleigh who bore her away. But she knew it wasn’t Jonah. The stonemason was a gentle lover, with manners far better than would be expected from one of his lowly birth. He would never treat her this way. A shiver ran through Lucille’s body. Perhaps her husband had discovered her betrayal. Perhaps she had made the journey through the cloisters too many times.

The best a disgraced wife could hope for was banishment to a religious house or a private asylum. She imagined herself at the beck and call of stony-faced nuns, or dragging out a miserable existence among the insane, subject to the whims of sadistic wardresses. At worst, her very life might be forfeit, for Lord Pickhurst was not a forgiving man; he took enormous pride in his title and his position. Being exposed to scandal, to ridicule, would be anathema to him, and he would wreak a terrible vengeance upon anyone who humiliated him.

Despite the old name she brought to their marriage, she had few influential friends; a man like Lord Pickhurst could have a disloyal wife disposed of in a dozen different ways, and tell the world what story he pleased. Perhaps she was to die this very night.

Lucille strained to hear something beyond the frantic beating of her heart, but she couldn’t even make out the
footfalls
of her captor. If he was carrying out the orders of her vengeful husband, who knew what fate awaited her. Given a chance, she would beg forgiveness, repent, and swear undying loyalty. Let her only try the strength of her charms one last time.

They must be far from the cloisters and the summer house by now. There could be yet another answer. Lord Pickhurst might be sleeping soundly in his bed, unaware that his wife was being abducted and Mortleigh’s few words might have been a joke, her own wishes making more of them than he intended.

It was surely unlikely, and yet — half-heard tales, whispered only behind closed doors, raced through her head. Fearful and scandalized, but enjoying the sensation their stories aroused, acquaintances whispered of white women sold into slavery. Fair hair and fair skin, youth and beauty, it was said that no girl was safe if once she was seen and lusted after. The victims of the trade were forced into harems against their will, to perform acts of the basest kind for brutal masters. In the past Lucille had dismissed such stories as fantasy, but tonight, helpless and alone, she was no longer sure.

They came to a halt. Tears pricked Lucille’s eyes. A
wordless
supplication moved her lips; let her only escape unharmed, and she would become a faithful wife. Only give her a chance to beg his forgiveness, and she would be true, no matter how his lordship’s dry skin and withered flesh disgusted her.

Lucille was put down. She shivered, although the summer night was warm. The surface beneath her felt soft and yielding, and the cloth that swathed her was being pulled free, yet she was still blind; wherever she had been brought to, the place was in total darkness. Drawing in a breath, she found the pleasant scent of herbs replacing the clogging unpleasantness of wool that had grown damp from her breath. A warning hand was upon her lips, but it was hardly necessary; at that moment she was thinking only of clean air.

‘Hush.’ The whisper was urgent. Lucille nodded, in fear of her life.

‘Promise you won’t scream?’ he murmured, the pressure on her mouth intensifying. Again she nodded.

The hand was removed. There were slight rustling sounds; Lucille turned her head from one side to the other, trying to work out what they were, but before she could make any sense of them, they ceased, and the man’s hands felt for her in the darkness, working their way to the belt of her robe, and fumbling with the knot which secured it. She gave a little gasp; his face was so close to hers that she could feel his breath, hot on her cheek.

‘Undo it,’ he whispered.

Trembling, Lucille obeyed. Once the knot was released he slipped the garment off her shoulders. Her flesh shrinking, her breath so quick and shallow that she was sure she would faint at any second, she remained immobile as the man pulled her nightdress up and over her head.

There was a low laugh and a sound of movement. Her abductor had taken a step away from her. Lucille heard a scraping sound, and the chink of metal on glass. The flare of light as he lit the lamp was so sudden that she was still momentarily blind.

When sight began to return, she saw the man standing with his back to her as he tended the light. He was naked. Her eyes widened; both Jonah and her husband were modest in her presence, taking refuge in darkness or the enveloping covers of a bed.

Shock and fury overcame her. She knew his identity at one glance, despite his nakedness. Forgetting both her fear and her promise to be silent, Lucille launched herself from her couch, intent on raking his bare flesh with her fingernails. A wordless screech of anger issued from her parched lips.

Mortleigh grinned savagely, capturing her flailing hands before they reached him. ‘Such unladylike behaviour must be
punished. I’ve tamed wilder things than you, my sweet.’ He pulled her against his chest, stifling her cry by pressing his lips hard against hers. Breathless, realizing she was still helpless and a captive, she yielded under his touch. Against her will, she felt excitement spreading through her body. His skin was soft and warm against hers and he smelt of some musky perfume. She could feel his arousal, and couldn’t help but respond to it.

Despite his immense stature, Jonah had never been a masterful lover, and while their encounters had been more satisfying than nights spent with her husband, Lucille had always wished for something more. Nonetheless, she was Lady Pickhurst, and Mortleigh was treating her like some common whore.

His mouth was open upon hers. With careful deliberation she bit hard on his lower lip. Instead of pulling back as she expected, Mortleigh dragged her closer against him, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. He pushed a knee between her legs, turning and tossing her down. She tasted his blood, hot and metallic, then all thought was extinguished as his weight landed full upon her body, squeezing the air from her lungs.

Struggling for breath, she tried to call out, Mortleigh shook his head. Still keeping a tight hold on her hands, he put his mouth to her ear and nipped it gently with his teeth. ‘You promised, remember. We’re well hidden here, my lady, but will you chance being within earshot of your husband’s household? How do you think he’d like to discover us together?’

In answer she tried to butt his face with her head. Dragging one of her hands up to his face, he bit hard at the fleshy base of her thumb. An involuntary squeal of pain forced its way past her clenched teeth.

‘Shriek if you must,’ he said. ‘Anyone who hears will think it’s the yowling of a cat. Perhaps they wouldn’t be far wrong.
Do you still wish to play rough, sweet lady? Don’t pretend innocence. I read the message in your eyes as clear as day, despite the way you sat at table like some modest little milk and water miss, intent only on warming the bed of that vile old man. You’ll find me far better company.’

‘There was no need to lay hands on me! You’re vile. I hate you.’ Lucille attempted to pull free, but his grip was too tight. ‘Let me go! My husband will have you whipped.’

‘You think so?’ he said, his mouth twisting in a smile. ‘How will your ladyship explain your wanderings about the grounds at night? Perhaps you had a sudden whim, to smell the roses by moonlight? Or does Lord Pickhurst know that you leave his bed to grunt and roll and sweat in the arms of a peasant.’

At this Lucille ceased struggling, staring up at him with wide frightened eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

He forced her hands apart, gently kissing the palm of each. ‘Come now, I’m no fool. Forget the tumbles you’ve enjoyed with your rustic lover. I’m here, as you wished. For tonight you shall have different fare. I, at least, am a gentleman.’

‘How can you give yourself that title,’ she said, trying not to acknowledge how her traitorous body responded to the caress of his lips, which were now moving enticingly up her arm. ‘Your behaviour was that of a vile ruffian.’

‘You think so? But literature tells us that men have claimed their women by force for hundreds of years. If you’ve changed your mind you may leave, I shan’t stop you.’ He had reached her shoulder. Lucille could not prevent the response that shivered through her body; there was an ache in her loins, an involuntary lifting of her breasts towards his roving mouth.

‘You see, you can’t deny me my prize.’ He released her hands. She made no further attempt to stop him. His fingers were gentle now, and his touch was soft and sure. Mortleigh 
was nothing like the other two men she’d lain with. She didn’t resist as he caressed her aching breasts, and she gave a tiny moan of protest when he lifted away from her again.

Mortleigh knelt at her side. ‘Patience,’ he said. As if intent on familiarizing himself with every inch of her body, his fingers roved together over the arch of each foot, around slim ankles and up her calves to her knees, his lips following where his hands led. He explored every curve of her limbs by inexorable and tantalizing inches, fingertips meandering lightly across her tingling flesh, until they were trespassing on forbidden territory. Lucille’s breathing was fast and ragged; no-one had ever given her such pleasure, or such an aching hunger. She should be angry with this man brute, but he understood her needs far better than she could have dreamt. After her bucolic beau’s tentative fumbling, and her husband’s breathless efforts, she revelled in the attentions of a lover who was truly accomplished at his art.

As he stretched his hands around her hips, speaking no word, lingering now and then to kiss and lick her tingling flesh, Lucille cried aloud with delight. She felt his lips lift in a smile against her skin.

Unable to contain herself any longer, she flung her arms around him, her fingers clutching; the nails she had longed to rake down his face scored deep scratches down his back instead. In response Mortleigh bit down hard upon the curve where her neck met her shoulder, one sinewy hand taking a hold on her throat so she couldn’t counter his attack.

For a fleeting second Lucille’s fear resurfaced. He was strong. If he chose, he could snuff out her life with no more effort than it took to swat a fly, and perhaps with no more compunction. Aroused, furious and enamoured all at once, she clawed more deeply at his naked flesh with her fingernails. Mortleigh gasped and pushed himself away from her. ‘I’ve
captured a wildcat.’ He smiled, and there was something akin to evil shining from his eyes dark in the lamplight.

Silent, meeting his eyes, Lucille wasn’t afraid. They were well matched. She pulled him back down to her. Finding his exposed neck with her mouth, she bit him in her turn, before curling her legs around his body in open invitation. Their passion rose together; Lucille felt she might die in his embrace without regret.