Forbidden Lord (5 page)

Eleanor saw his eyes darken, but not even an eyelash flickered to betray that the sight of her weapons alarmed him. He raised a dark eyebrow with a mocking amusement that exasperated her and brought her chin up with a proud hauteur. ‘I am accomplished with the use of all three, should the need arise—besides, the sword was my father's and I refuse to part with it.'

‘It's not too late to go back.'

‘I'll never go back,' she said vehemently. ‘Better to be set upon by a band of cutthroats than to go crawling back like a whipped dog to Frederick Atwood. If we are accosted and it's a fight they want, they shall have one. My weapons are just proof that I can take care of myself.'

William's expression told her he was unconvinced, but faced with her courage and lack of fear he was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt. Dressed as she was with her long, elegantly turned legs outlined in hose, his grin was audacious. ‘You speak brave words, Mistress Collingwood; however, the hat may hide your hair, but, despite your male garb, the rest of you is a bit of a giveaway.'

‘I don't think so. I've gone to a great deal of trouble to make myself inconspicuous. Dressed like this I am not an object of curiosity and will be able to ride to York very much as I like.' With her hat pulled well down and only her amber eyes glowing beneath the brim, she was certain no one would recognise her for what she was.

‘I seem to recall your mother's sister lives in Kensington
or some place close by. Wouldn't it save a whole lot of trouble if you went to her instead of going all the way to York?'

Eleanor's chin lifted haughtily and her lips twisted with distaste. ‘Aunt Matilda! She is in France visiting friends and not expected back for several weeks. If I were to go to her house while she is away, my stepfather would find me and bring me back, which is why I must go to Hollymead. Besides, it would be no easy matter living on my aunt's charity. She never hid the fact that she hated my father and was always taunting my mother, telling her that he was a good for nothing and their marriage a mistake from start to finish.'

‘Don't you think that with your mother's death she may have softened in her attitude?'

Eleanor looked at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses. ‘Aunt Matilda? Never. She has no kindness in her. Her poor husband was so hen-pecked I'm surprised there was anything left of him when he died. After Father was executed I spent only six months in her house and those months were a lifetime. It was like wearing shoes that were too tight every day. At a time when my mother and I were grieving for the loss of my father, she never let us forget that she was keeping us for nothing, delighting in our humility. I have no desire to enter her house again in a hurry.'

‘Then I can understand why you want to go to Hollymead,' William said, his voice surprisingly gentle with understanding. ‘Did you manage to leave Fryston Hall unseen?'

‘No—no, unfortunately I didn't,' she said haltingly. ‘Sir Richard Grey, my stepfather's nephew, knew what I had in mind and was waiting for me. I confess to being confused by his manner.'

‘You were? Why is that?'

‘He wanted me gone. The reason why I found impossible to fathom.' She frowned, genuinely puzzled by Sir Richard's odd behaviour and unable to make any sense of it. ‘Why he wanted me away from Fryston Hall I cannot imagine. Are you acquainted with him?'

Apart from a slight narrowing of his eyes, William's expression remained inscrutable. ‘We are acquainted. The man's a ne'er-do-well—and, like his uncle, blinded by his own ambition. Since he inherited a title and nothing else, he's devoted his life to spending the money of those rich relatives who'll have anything to do with him. He's Atwood's heir, so no doubt he will hurry his demise if he can.'

‘My—stepfather also accosted me. According to Sir Richard, he saw me talking to you. He knows how much I want to return to Hollymead and when you said you were to travel north to York, he knew I would want to go with you.'

‘Despite holding me to account for your father's death.'

The hint of sarcasm in his tone did not go unnoticed by Eleanor. Her face gave no sign of softening and there was a coldness in her amber eyes as she pushed her woollen cloak back over one shoulder.

‘What you did cannot easily be put aside. I will never do that. The harm you have done my family will always stand between us. My mother suffered greatly because of your traitorous deed, and when she died, with each passing day my own lot grew more desperate the longer I remained in my stepfather's house—that, too, was because of you.'

William considered her apace. His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. There was something hidden there, some regret or sorrow, but he simply slipped his hat onto his head and said, ‘You set your verdict against me before I could voice a plea. So be it. There is no argument against a closed mind. And so, did Atwood simply let you walk out of the house without trying to stop you?'

‘No. It—it wasn't that simple.'

William glanced at her questioningly. ‘No? Did he try to prevent you leaving?'

‘Yes.'

‘Was he violent?'

She nodded. ‘But I still managed to get away.'

‘How? Atwood is a big strong man—too powerful for a defenceless girl.'

‘Sir Richard hit him over the head, rendering him unconscious.'

William cocked an eye at her and his lips twisted in a wry smile. ‘Did he now! He must have been desperate to see the back of you.'

‘He was. Very.'

A wicked, knowing gleam entered his eyes, giving Eleanor cause to think he knew something about Sir Richard that she didn't. ‘I can't for the life of me imagine why.'

Seeing Lord Marston was clearly at pains to control his humour caused by some private thought, Eleanor's glare was scathing. ‘Don't mock me,' she flared, her amber eyes flashing fire. ‘Don't underestimate me either. I don't fear the consequences of my actions—even though you provoke me with your mockery. Women may be regarded by everyone as being subordinate to men, but I own no man my superior—not you or Frederick Atwood.'

‘I can see that.'

‘I am not afraid of him. Nothing that he did could touch me. When my mother died I was a dutiful stepdaughter and accepted the hard lot fate dealt me, but I was determined I would be free of him—from his lust-filled glances.'

‘Then I am surprised you chose to stay when she died.'

‘I didn't choose to remain. At the time, I had nowhere else to go, and anyway, there were reasons why I had to stay, one of them being Catherine's wedding. There were many preparations to be made and she was relying on me. I—I was always uncomfortable about the way my stepfather looked at me,' she said, embarrassed to be talking to him of so intimate a matter and lowering her eyes, ‘and it is only in recent days that he began making unwelcome advances, which made me realise that he covets me in a way that makes him dangerous.'

‘The man has a fiendish temper. You can be sure he will
come after you. Your leaving will have touched his pride, and his resolve to pay you back will harden more each day.'

‘That I know, but I feel an overwhelming relief at having succeeded in escaping him at long last.'

‘We have yet to reach York,' William grimly reminded her. ‘Before you know it, his men will be hard on our heels.'

‘Then we'd best get started.'

‘If we are to be in each other's company for days, try to be more agreeable and summon more warmth. I will not endure a surly companion.'

Silently Eleanor seethed at his boldness, his rudeness. Inside she rebelled, but she knew she would have to accept his terms and compromise, and that was what he would have, and that unwillingly and without grace. But she dared not show too much animosity until her feet were safely on Hollymead's solid ground.

‘Be assured that I shall endeavour to do my best,' she replied tightly. A silver flame in William's gaze kindled bright, burning her with its intensity.

‘It would be appreciated. We'll stop after a time for something to eat. If you tire, tell me and we'll pause a while.'

‘I am gratified by your consideration, but I require no special favours. I can ride as well as anyone and for as long,' Eleanor told him, her head held high and aloof. Seeing the giant Godfrey leading his horse across the yard towards them, his ruddy face above the golden beard devoid of any expression, she stiffened. ‘Is your servant as fearsome as he looks?'

William watched Godfrey mount his horse, a huge chestnut warhorse with four identical white socks, and smiled. ‘Don't be put off by the way he looks. He is from Glasgow, the son of a boat builder. We met on our travels two years ago. He's been with me ever since.'

‘He seems very quiet. Does he speak English?'

‘Very well, as a matter of fact, but he never utters more words than is absolutely necessary. Don't worry,' he said,
chuckling softly when he saw her cast Godfrey a dubious look, ‘he's quite harmless unless crossed. You'll get used to him.' As they rode out of the inn yard he turned and looked at her, his face relaxed. ‘I salute your courage and your boldness, Mistress Collingwood. You are undeniably brave—and reckless, running away on some wild escapade with very little thought of the consequences. This is clearly your style and I admire such spirit in a woman.'

Surprised by his compliment, she stared at him and smiled broadly. ‘Thank you. That means a lot—coming from you.'

It was cold and wet that early morning as the three of them set out on the road north. At Hollymead it would find Eleanor in an equally cold place, but better that than what was left of the winter in Frederick Atwood's house.

 

Frederick Atwood's face was twisted into an ugly expression. When he told Catherine how he had attempted to stop Eleanor running off with William Marston, the look of malevolence that was added to his bitterness was quite terrifying, and he meant to make her sorry for leaving Fryston Hall.

Catherine burned with indignation and her expression was fierce. Eleanor's courage to stand up to her father meant nothing to her, but the fact that she had left Fryston Hall with William did. She would never forget how Eleanor had humiliated her and she was shamed to have such a wanton for a stepsister. Seated beside Henry in the carriage taking her to her new home in the riverside village of Chelsea, inwardly she seethed. So much for Eleanor's hatred of William. She had somehow inveigled her way into his company, dazzling him in a way Catherine would never forgive. When Henry fumbled for her hand among the folds of her sapphire-blue velvet gown, she cringed and closed her eyes to hide the feral glitter in their depths, and her revulsion and disappointment in her new husband. Just twenty-four hours into her marriage and she was struck by a realisation that Henry was not, and never could be, William Marston.

Her heart was filled with a dreadful blackness that would grow as day followed day and night followed night, when she would have to endure the disgusting things Henry did to her body. Making Eleanor the object of her suffering, the hope of revenge would become the sweetest thing of hatred on earth—and yet her feelings were not as clear-cut as she would like.

The closer they got to Henry's house, for the first time in her life Catherine felt vulnerable, afraid and very lonely and she was surprised to feel tears prick the backs of her eyes. Behind everything there was a feeling of regret, of loss, for despite everything Eleanor was the closest she had come to having a sister.

W
hy Eleanor's mother had married Frederick Atwood Eleanor would never understand. Of course a woman was brought up to be a wife and mother and not think of herself as a man's equal, and indeed she had more status as a married woman. When one of the partners died, both men and women frequently remarried with speed regardless of whether their previous marriage had been a success or not.

Unlike her mother, Eleanor had not been sent away to live in another household, where she attended the lady of the house and learned by watching her how to behave in polite society and was taught how to look after a house and bring up children. Eleanor had been educated at home by her mother and Uncle John, who taught her to read and write and also French and Latin.

When her mother had died and they had shut her away in the blackness of the Atwood family vault, the sun had gone out of Eleanor's life. But now she was going back to Hollymead—a safe haven in a dark world. A quiver of excitement raced through her and she felt Tilda respond as though she had transferred her feeling to her mare. Freedom, that's what she wanted. Freedom. Exultant, she wanted to
take off her hat, throw it in the air and shout for joy, and it was only the grim faces of her two companions that kept her hat clamped on her head.

But William was not unaware of her change of mood. Slowing his horse he glanced sideways at her, cocking a handsome brow as he gave her a lengthy inspection. ‘Why, Mistress Collingwood, I do believe you are smiling.'

Looking across at him, she was unable to prevent her happiness bubbling to her lips and letting her laughter flow free. ‘You would, too, my lord, had you been under my stepfather's rule for almost four years. Free of his restrictions, I feel reborn and I'm already enjoying the adventure, which is stirring the life within me and I'm sure will carry me forward to some exciting future—what, I have no idea, but if it is up to me it will not be dull.'

Her enthusiasm brought a smile to William's lips and a gleam of admiration in his eyes. ‘That is an extremely daring proclamation.'

‘Prior to this, the most daring thing I have ever done is answer my stepfather back. My rebelliousness and disobedience almost made him have a seizure. This will probably kill him—God willing,' she cried joyously.

William's smile broadened at her exuberance, his teeth gleaming white from between parted lips. ‘It will take more than the disobedience of an eighteen-year-old girl to kill Frederick Atwood.'

She looked at him curiously, thinking how incredibly handsome this man was. The tanned flesh of his face gleamed with the health of one who has enjoyed freedom in a tropical country. Where had he been, she wondered, these past three years, and why had he disappeared from Catherine's life so suddenly?

‘How do you know how old I am?'

‘You were five years old when my father took me to Hollymead. I was fifteen at the time—I remember because my
father had presented me with a horse for my fifteenth birthday the week before. I rode it that day.'

‘Your memory is better than mine. How strange it is that I don't remember.'

‘Our meeting was brief and you were intent on playing a game of shuttlecock with your friends.' Falling silent, he continued to look at her. ‘Were you really planning to travel to Hollymead alone?'

‘Yes. That was what I intended.'

‘Do you not understand what could happen to you? The bands of thieves and miscreants who roam the countryside would see you as easy prey.'

‘Then it's fortunate for me that I am well armed and that you allowed me to accompany you, Lord Marston.'

‘You needn't be so formal, Eleanor,' he teased with a devilishly wicked grin. ‘You may call me William or Will as you please. ' Tis a good many miles to York, so it is better to be easy with each other. We got off to a poor start, but there is no reason why we cannot be civil to one another.'

Putting aside everything she held against him for the time being, Eleanor agreed—but only for the time it took them to reach their destination, she was quick to tell him. Men like William Marston found it easy to manipulate a woman's heart and she wanted nothing to do with any of that.

 

The journey would prove to be long and tiring and an entirely new experience for Eleanor. Two hours into the journey and her euphoria had diminished somewhat as her shoulder began to ache with grinding insistence, from which she could find no ease as she galloped along at a gruelling pace and struggled to keep up with her companions.

 

At midday they stopped for refreshment. Providing a reasonable standard of food and service, the coaching inn was not short of customers. They were from all walks of life, of
every description and travelling in every direction. Eleanor's temper was on short rein as she ate her kidneys and beef, washed down with ale.

William observed her closely, studying her face as she shoved her food around her trencher. He had seen her wince as she had dismounted, holding her arm close to her chest, which told him she might be injured. She had told him that Frederick Atwood had been violent towards her when he'd found her leaving—how violent had he been?

On leaving the inn, he heard a muffled groan of pain escape her lips as she mounted her horse and her face was pale and drawn.

‘Wait,' he said sharply, looking up at her as she was about to turn her horse in the direction of the road. ‘You're hurt.'

‘A mere twinge,' she lied. ‘It's nothing, truly.'

William was determined. ‘Get down.'

Eleanor's eyes struck sparks of indignation. ‘What?'

‘I said, get down.' Without waiting for her to obey, he reached up and clamped his hands tightly about her slender waist, and she was seized from the saddle as if she were a child. ‘I can see your shoulder pains you. Before we go any further, I'll take a look.'

‘You most certainly will not. The devil take my shoulder! Kindly let go of me and please don't fuss.'

Ignoring her remark and her glare of indignation, he grasped her elbow and marched her back inside the inn and into the privacy of a small room the landlord quickly put at his disposal.

‘Show me,' he demanded.

‘You want me to take my clothes off?' she retorted, shocked at the mere thought. ‘I most certainly will not. This is quite outrageous.'

‘I agree, but if you won't help yourself, then someone else must do it. We have only just embarked on an exceedingly long journey and I want to be assured that you're up to it before we go any further. Now, let me see your shoulder.'

Seeing he was deadly serious, on a sigh Eleanor removed her doublet and pushed the shirt and flimsy undergarment down off her shoulder, just short of uncovering her breast.

Seeing the ugly bruise that stained her delicate skin like spilled elderberry juice, William uttered a violent curse and his angry gaze settled on her face. The cold fire in his eyes bespoke the fury churning within him. He held himself on tight rein until the rage cooled. What was left was a gnawing wish to see Atwood dangling from the end of a rope. He was not a man, but a rabid beast with a twisted mind who had abused the daughter of Edgar Collingwood.

There was a silence for a while as deftly William's fingers began to examine Eleanor's shoulder. At first her skin began to prickle with outrage, yet at the same time she felt alarmingly vulnerable and exposed. Something stirred in her breast, making it suddenly difficult to take a breath. Every nerve in her body piqued at the feel of his touch, which was like a brand of fire against her skin, and a searing excitement shot through her breast. She felt overpowered by his nearness. Her whole body throbbed with an awareness of him, but she would not give any hint of her weakness.

His snug-fitting leather jerkin and high boots accentuated the long lines of his body, and she noticed again the incredible silver-grey eyes intent on her shoulder. It was impossible not to respond to this man as his masculine magnetism was dominant in the room. Little wonder Catherine had been enamoured of him and, Eleanor suspected, was still in love with him.

His face was creased with concentration, his fingers strong and soothing. His touch was impersonal, as if he were examining an object, yet it was gentle and Eleanor did not feel like an object—far from it. She felt cosseted. There was something agreeable in his touch, almost sensuous. Her whole body felt as if it were unwinding, growing weak with the pleasure of his ministering. Vividly conscious of her close proximity to him, she abruptly turned her thoughts away from this new and
dangerous direction and averted her head, before he could realise just how much he affected her.

She had everything mapped out and did not want complications, especially not of this kind, and, she suspected, neither did he; she was almost ashamed to acknowledge her feelings as she watched him. What kind of man are you, William Marston? she wondered, and realised she had no idea at all.

‘Catherine,' he murmured unexpectedly. ‘Is she happy?'

Eleanor turned and looked at him as he continued to examine her shoulder. ‘Is every bride not happy on her wedding day?'

His eyes were chilled. ‘You prevaricate, Eleanor. I asked you if she is happy.'

Eleanor nodded, her gaze focused on his bent head. She felt the sudden urge to shove back the heavy lock of his hair that had fallen forward to better see his features. It was evident that Catherine mattered to him, which made her wonder at the depth of his feelings for the woman he had left. If he still loved Catherine, then she could only imagine how desperate he must be feeling, and that he was handling it the best way he knew how, but there really was no excuse for the pain he had caused her.

‘I thought she was, before you arrived and disrupted the wedding celebrations. Now I have no concept of how your reappearance will have affected her. Henry Wheeler is a good man, but he was not her choice of husband. She—was to have married you. I can understand why you are concerned. Why did you leave without a word?'

As he towered over her, William's lean, hard face bore no hint of humour. His lips curled with bitterness and a coldness entered his eyes. ‘For the answer to that question, Eleanor, you will have to ask your stepfather. He holds all the answers in his twisted mind. One thing I would like to know,' he said, holding her gaze steadily, ‘is did he turn Catherine against me?'

‘No,' she replied harshly. ‘You did that all by yourself when you disappeared without a word to her. Why did you?'

William looked her squarely in the eye, his own glinting like hard metal. Anger roiled through him. What did she expect? For him to reveal all, to bare his soul to her? He may have agreed to take her to Hollymead, but he needed neither her respect nor her kind regard.

‘Whatever poison Atwood has filled your head with, Eleanor, I never meant to hurt Catherine, so let that be the end of the matter,' he reproached curtly. ‘I am not a man to start a quarrel with you, but I will give you this word of advice. If you persist in baiting me with your tongue, you'd best get on your horse and head right back to Fryston Hall. Your barbs are beginning to irritate me.'

Eleanor's eyes were blazing as if they had a fire behind them. ‘I will not go back. I do not care for your company, but I am stuck with it and glad of your protection. Threaten me all you like, but do not think I am afraid of you.'

‘Then you should be,' he mocked, his tone caustic. ‘And perhaps you have cause. Where I have been for the past three years has frayed my courtly manners and I often forget how to behave like a gentleman should. So, if you are to continue to ride with us, do you agree to declare a truce for the time it takes us to reach Hollymead, where we will part company with good grace, I hope? Come, Eleanor, surely we can benefit from a surface friendship on the long journey north.'

The colour drained from Eleanor's cheeks as his words sank in. A light blazed briefly in his silver eyes, then was quickly extinguished. She was deeply conscious that his easy, mocking exterior hid the inner man, and as she gazed into those fathomless depths of his eyes, some instinct warned her that his offer of a truce could make him more dangerous to her as a friend than he had been as her enemy.

There was a withheld power to command in him that was as impressive as it was irritating. If she agreed to a truce, she was determined he would not get the better of her. She would not let him reach her, for by shielding her innermost self from
the touch of another human being she would always be strong and complete and in control.

His brows lifted in mocking challenge. ‘What do you say?'

Gnawing on her bottom lip as if she could not quite make up her mind, she nodded. ‘Very well—but only for the time it takes us to reach Hollymead,' she was quick to add.

‘Agreed. Now, as far as your shoulder is concerned, there is nothing broken—just badly sprained. I'll ask the landlord for some witch hazel to apply to the bruising—and it should be bound.'

‘And you would know how to do that?'

‘My years as a soldier taught me many things, one of them being that a soldier may owe his life to his knowledge of tending wounds.'

‘I'd rather not have it strapped. I can't possibly ride with one arm.'

‘Then we'll ride at a slower pace so you don't suffer unnecessary discomfort.'

‘No. I don't want to hold you back.' She sighed with capitulation when she saw the determined gleam in his eyes. ‘All right. I'll ask for help when I think I need it, so there, does that satisfy you?'

When he unexpectedly smiled broadly, Eleanor noticed how white and strong his teeth were and how the tiny lines at the sides of his sharp eyes creased up attractively. He really was so handsome, so well made, so perfect to look at. Little wonder the women of the Court pursued him.

For a moment she was confused and found herself striving for normality. It was difficult to organise her thoughts when those amazingly silver-grey eyes were focused on her so intently. Before the rogue thoughts could progress further, she lowered her eyes, quickly shaking off the strangeness of the moment that had caught her unawares. What was she thinking of? This man was practically unknown to her, and yet just for a moment she had felt drawn to this handsome, desirable
stranger. Men like William Marston found it easy to manipulate a woman's heart and she wanted nothing to do with him.