If He's Noble (Wherlocke Book 7) (Paranormal Historical Romance) (6 page)

“I must give you the money I have. It has occurred to me that you have been paying for everything yet I have brought money for this journey. And I can see you thinking of how to refuse it. Do not bother.”

“It does not make a man comfortable to accept money from a woman.”

“Not even when it is her business that has given them the need for it?”

“I do not need it.”

There was the definite hint of manly insult behind those words and she almost smiled. Men’s pride could be a strange thing. No woman would concern herself. If two women traveled together, both paid a share. Somehow she had to make him understand that that was all she was doing, carrying her own weight as much as she was able.

“I began this journey. You are here because you know I needed someone to protect me and help me find my brother. I was fully prepared to pay my way for the whole journey. All I mean to do is give you that money. If naught else, it will make it easier for us to continue to afford the rooms and meals we keep having to pay for at the inns along the way. It is not even payment for being my guard, just a sharing of costs. If I was traveling with a woman, a friend, it would not only be readily accepted but expected.”

Bened sat back on his heels and looked at her. He realized they were having a clash of pride. She needed to help pay and he needed to be the one who took care of her. Yet, she was right, if it was two women, or two friends, or even two relatives, a sharing of the actual cost of the journey would be welcome, even expected. He would just make very sure that he used only half, no more and no less.

“Then set it with my belongings and we will split the costs for the rest of the journey.”

She wanted to point out that he should take what was owed for the journey costs thus far but bit back the words. It was all the concession she would get and pushing harder would then start to prick his pride. Nodding, she hurried to collect her funds and tuck them into his saddle packs. By the time she returned to his side, their bedding was set out. It did not look much more welcoming than it had rolled up and sitting behind the saddle but she promised herself she would not complain.

His reasoning for the need to spend the night on the ground was sound. Villages at night were a warren of shadowy places where their enemies could easily hide. If her aunt’s men had arrived first they would also know the grounds they fought on much better than Bened did. He always reconnoitered when they entered a village and entering it at nightfall would make that almost impossible and dangerous.

Despite her good intentions, she could not fully repress a grimace when she sat down on the bedding he had laid out for her. There was no softness despite the thick bottom blanket and the grass. Men did this a lot, she reminded herself, and she would do her best to endure it. She forced herself not to think about what might be crawling through the grass beneath her bedding and watched him prepare a fire.

“Shall I collect some wood? One thing I do know is what is good for burning. Papa used to have us sit out at night so he could teach us about the stars and we would often make a fire even though the light from it could sometimes make seeing the stars a little difficult. At least you could hurry back to it when you got cold, though.”

“A supply of wood would be helpful.”

Bened watched her wander off and held his smile inside until she was out of sight. She did not like being ignorant of sleeping outside and all it entailed. He suspected she was one who did not like being ignorant about anything. The talks in which she told him about her father, even her brother, revealed two very intelligent men with a greed for knowledge, who did not exclude her from that part of their lives.

She had had a good family and her aunt had taken one of the biggest pieces away already and was aiming for the rest. It had to hurt yet she had held strong through each new discovery about the depth of the betrayal of one of her own. What he did not understand was how, with so many smart people in the family, no one had noticed the adder in their midst. All he could think of was that, they themselves being incapable of such a thing, they had never considered the woman’s envy and anger a true threat to their very lives. Such naïveté had buried too many people.

He was pleased when the wood she brought back proved her claim that she knew what was good for burning. Then he caught sight of the plants she carried. “What are those?”

“Medicinal plants.” She hurried to her bag, dug around inside, and pulled out several little cloth bags into which she put the plants. “They have gone to seed so I am hoping if I can get them home, I can plant them in the garden. I hesitated for a bit as I rather like wandering through the woods hunting for plants I need and then preparing them but there are so many, I will still be doing that a lot.”

“There are enough wooded areas near your home for that to be useful?”

“Yes. When my father discovered my interest in plants, especially herbs and medicinal ones, he told the ones who care for the lawns and all, to stop clearing out around the trees that surrounded us, to let it go wild. He said we had all the lawn we needed so why use so much time to try to make a wooded area look so prim. They did and now we have quite a few acres that have gone back to what they should be. Papa was especially pleased when he discovered such a thing also provided us with wild mushrooms. That required a great deal of study as some of the ones that are poison look a lot like the ones that are good.” She carefully tucked the little bags back into her satchel.

“I think your interest in herbs and plants is a bit more than a hobby,” he teased.

“I will confess that I can become quite lost in coming up with a new, useful potion, lotion, or tisane. My father and brother would bring me books or even plants when they traveled. Sad to say, not all the plants took as they came from far warmer places but the books were often a wonder.”

“So you know more than one language.” He watched her blush and look uneasy.

“I do know several.”

“Do you know the Welsh tongue?”

“No, I fear not although I do know a little Scottish Gaelic. Mama was a Scot.”

He nodded. “Another language too few are using anymore.” He set up a roasting spit and then sat back. “I need to go ahunting for our meal. I have seen the signs that there a lot of rabbits about so I should not be away long. Anything makes you uneasy, just let out a hearty scream. That sound carries far and wide in areas like this.”

“I do not suppose you saw any signs of pheasant or quail.”

He laughed. “Nay, but I will be quick to grab one if I see one. Roasted rabbit is not bad.”

“Oh, I know that, although we usually have it in a stew or some kind of meat pie.”

“They are more tender that way.” He stood up and fetched his rifle, carefully reloading it. “I actually prefer to hunt rabbit with bow and arrow but do not carry such a weapon around with me.”

“Dead is dead when it concerns a rabbit, I would think.”

“True. It is just that the arrow is easier to remove and makes no sound. The sound of a rifle shot carries far. Remember, as loud as you can make it, scream if you think there is any threat near at hand.”

“I will.”

She watched him walk away and the moment he was out of sight she began to feel uneasy. When she wandered the woods it was in the daytime with the full knowledge that her home was but a fast run away through the trees. Most of the time, she was able to keep it in sight as she wandered. She had never been alone in a strange stretch of woodland, far from anyone she knew, with night coming on. Primrose sternly told herself to find her backbone and stop fretting, and then turned her mind to what she would do with the seeds she had just collected.

As the sun went down and a chill entered the air, Primrose moved closer to the fire and warmed her hands. She had never greeted the night outside unless with her father and brother. As the birds grew quiet and the light faded away, she was not sure she wanted to. There was a great deal to be said in favor of a roof, four walls, and a proper bed.

When Sir Bened returned to camp with a fat, dead rabbit, she decided there was also a big advantage to not actually seeing all the preparations for the meals she ate. She kept her gaze averted as he prepared the animal for roasting and put it on the clever spit he set up over the fire. When she heard him moving around, she forced herself not to look for she suspected he was cleaning up after those preparations needed to ready the animal for cooking.

“Squeamish?” he asked as he sat down across the fire from her.

“Not that I know of. I just did not want to see what you were doing.”

“You have spent your life in the country. Surely you have seen an animal butchered?”

Primrose had to think about that for a moment and was a little surprised when she had to say, “Actually, no, not that I can recall.”

“You were kept that sheltered?”

She frowned. “Not really. I know farm life, including things about breeding that many think no lady should ever know. Yet everyone was always very careful to never do any butchering where or when I might see it.” She bit her bottom lip for a moment. “That is a little odd, is it not?”

Bened had to nod in agreement. “It might be something your father thought no well-bred lady should be subjected to.”

“Yet no one hid that what I was eating was raised on Willow Hill land. There was a great pride in the fact that our farms supplied us and the people of Willow Hill so well. I can tell by how you spoke that it is a very odd thing for a countrywoman to have never seen it done so why would my father, country raised, care if I saw it?”

“Many women from the country know nothing of the breeding of stock because someone decided it was not something a well-bred lady should know despite how much of her comfort depended on the value of that stock. I have met gentry women who cannot read, were never taught, because their elders felt it would give them too much knowledge about the evil of the world or of indelicate matters.”

“I wonder how many soon worked to gain that skill and went on to read books that would turn their mother’s hair silver.”

Bened laughed. “No doubt there are many. The women in my family would certainly do that.”

“You have a very large family. I recall that much from the talk I have heard.”

And for a woman whose family had dwindled to two he suspected such a thing fascinated her, he thought with a pang of sympathy. “Very large and growing all the time. It is good to see after a lot of hard years when any one of us could find ourselves victims of witch hunts. The gossip might grow irritating at times but it is far less troublesome than knowing at any time you could find your home surrounded by superstitious people with torches.”

“Our branch of the Woottens is but a skinny twig. We always seemed to be on the wrong side of things. Catholic when Elizabeth was queen. Protestant when Mary took the throne. With the king when Cromwell came to power and with Cromwell when the throne was restored. By the time Papa was born, his father was all that was left and one of his two sons has bred no children. It is sad to think that one’s bloodline is vanishing.”

“There is still you and your brother.”

“True though I will not carry on the name if I marry and have children, nor can I ever inherit the barony. Of course, if dear Aunt Augusta has her way that will definitely mean the end of the Woottens of Willow Hill.”

Bened began to better understand her dogged pursuit of her brother. The unwanted marriage and fear for her brother’s life as well as the need to let him know he was now the baron were acceptable reasons for what appeared to be a very reckless act, but this went even deeper. He was certain she had been well versed over the years on the waning of her bloodline, imbued with the need to continue it. Although she might not see it herself, that also drove her to place her reputation and even her life at risk. She could carry on the bloodline herself but, as she said, not the name and the barony although a son of hers might be able to take it on if her brother bore no sons. Because of the man her uncle was, the barony and the name would really die with her brother if he was taken before he could marry and breed a son or two.

As they dined on the rabbit he related a few of the more humorous tales concerning his family. It pleased him when the sadness brought on by recalling how few of her family were left began to fade from her eyes. It was a heavy weight she carried on her slim shoulders. Bened began to realize that, for the first time in his life, he actually wanted to hurt a woman. He wanted to put a bullet in Augusta Wootten.

He also noted that Primrose showed no concern or fear during his tales of his family when he mentioned various gifts each possessed. She was curious, even fascinated, at times but never showed a hint of fear. Even in this enlightened age that was rare.

“Do you have your pistol?” Bened asked Primrose.

“I do. Loaded and close at hand. Do you need it?”

“Nay. Have my own, my rifle, my sword, and a few knives.” He grinned at her look of surprise. “I always travel well armed.” He stood up and brushed off his backside. “I need to go and look about but wished to be certain you were still armed.”

“Look about for what?”

“Any sign of your aunt and her hirelings. I need to know if they are following us since we had the brief problem with the man while on the road, or if we are just keeping apace with them. Are they in front or behind? Will you be fine waiting here? I will not be long.”

“Go. I will be fine,” she said, hoping he could not sense the lie.

The moment he disappeared into the night’s shadows, she felt the fear begin its slow climb into her heart and mind. It was an old fear, one from childhood that had never faded, was only strengthened when she had become lost in the woods and unable to find her way back to the manor. That had been an odd event for no one, not even her, could understand how she had ended up so deep in the woods between the manor and the church cemetery, or who might have led her there. Fright had stolen her voice and, some feared, her mind. For days she could not even sleep in her own bed, the room too dark, and she would slip down to her father’s or Simeon’s room to curl up on the floor next to their beds. That had faded, eased enough so that she returned to sleeping in her own room again, but now she wondered yet again who had caused her to suffer so.

It was becoming apparent that there were a lot of puzzles and unanswered questions about her past, a lot of very large holes in her memory. Primrose knew that many people recalled little of their childhood but surely one should recall the things that left one with a strong fear, a lingering pain, or some other thing that had caused a fierce emotion. She stared into the fire and decided she needed to dig out some of those memories. Something told her they could be very important now.

 

 

Bened searched the ground and frowned. Someone had died here and it had been a bloody death. There had been three men standing behind one. That one had struggled but so briefly that Bened had a good idea of how he was killed. Someone comes up from behind, gets a tight grip on him by his hair or collar, yanks his head back, and cuts his throat. Quick, efficient, and bloody. It could explain what had brought him to this spot to look for signs of their enemy. He had seen the ravens around before the sun set, and ravens and death went together like men and women. Somewhere nearby there was a body. He moved carefully in a straight line from where he had found the blood and paused to study some more prints in the ground. A woman had stood there while the killing was done, just close enough to have been splattered by blood.

A few steps more and he found the tracks of a carriage. It had drawn up, sat in place just long enough to make its marks in the ground deep enough to remain for a few days. Bened could easily envision the scene, as easily as if it had been drawn for him by a skilled artist.

Augusta had come here to meet with some of her hirelings, bringing a new crew with her. They had all waited but only one of the previous men had appeared. Bened suspected who it was and wondered if the man’s last thought had been how he should have heeded his friends. The new slew the old while Augusta watched. It was a good way to let the new hirelings understand how she rewarded failure. Now he just had to find the body.

Going back to where the killing had taken place, he soon found the prints of two men carrying a heavy weight off into the woods. They had not carried it far. His stomach roiled at the smell and the sound of creatures dining on the dead. Fortunately they scattered when he appeared. There was not much left but enough for him to know it was the one called Mac. The man had certainly been no saint but it was a hard way to end. Shaking his head, he started to make his way back to his camp. Seeing no more recent signs of the enemy nor sensing them in any way, he felt it was safe to rest now.

He stepped into the clearing where they camped and, at first, was annoyed that Primrose barely noticed him, thinking she had been keeping a very poor watch for troubles. Then he saw that she was trembling. As he crouched in front of her, he realized she was crying. The blank look on her face worried him and he grasped her by the shoulders to give her a little shake. She stared at him and slowly her eyes sharpened. Then she hurled herself into his arms, clinging to him in a way that left every inch of him hardening with interest. Shifting to sit more comfortably, he rubbed her back and sternly reminded himself that now was not the time for lusting. She was deeply upset.

“Are you that afraid of being alone in the dark?” he asked.

“Not anymore. I think I will be better soon.” Primrose took a few deep breaths and let them out slowly as she pushed away the last dregs of the childhood fear and grief that had grabbed her so tightly. “I know where the fear comes from now.”

He brushed her hair back from her face and looked down at her. “What do you mean?”

“I always wondered why I had never really grown out of that childhood fear of the dark. I had no thoughts of things under the bed or anything such as that. It was a blind fear. So I got to thinking of something that happened when I was small, just after my mother died, and the more I thought on it, the more I remembered, especially when I did not allow the fear and sorrow thinking about that time always brings to force me to leave it alone, shake it from my mind.”

“What did you recall, Rose?”

She smiled faintly as she rested her cheek on his broad chest and soaked up the pure strength of him. He was calming her as he always did although how he could do so with no words, she was not sure. If it was some gift he had it was a good one. It helped conquer the last of the fear and grief she had been crippled by.

“I was five, nearing six when my mother died. It was hard for she had been a very loving mother. I thought to find some of that when my aunt and uncle came but soon realized there was none of that warmth or softness there. Anyway, one night I woke and ached for my mother as only a child can. I understood death as much as a child that age can but I still wanted to visit my mother. I went looking for Papa but he was lost in his own grief somewhere and I found my aunt in his office. Now I can see her sitting at the desk with his ledgers open in front of her but at the time something like that meant nothing to me.”

“What did she do?”

“When I said I wanted to see my mother she smiled. She said she would take me to see her and she did. She walked me through the woods to the graveyard, stood me in front of my mother’s grave, and said there was my mother. That she was in the ground and feast for the worms now. Then telling me that we all end up there, some sooner than others, she walked away. No hug for a crying child, which is what I think I had been really looking for.”

“She left you in a graveyard at night?”

“Yes, but once I realized I was alone I tried to get back home. I knew the woods but had not realized how different they looked at night. I ended up horribly lost and was crying and yelling for people until my voice died. Then I guess, from what was said, I went away into my head. They found me lying on the ground. I could not speak and when they tried to put me to bed that night I made the only noise I could actually make for months afterward. I screamed. Poor Papa had to sleep in a well-lit room for quite a while before I could be left alone in my own bed. Sometime during those months I completely forgot how I had ended up in the woods at night and anytime I tried to recall I was pushed back by my own fear and grief for my lost mother.”

“And so your father could not know just what sort of evil he had let into his house and let it stay,” he said as he held her close and rested his chin on her head.

“I know. I think there may be other things. That childhood adventure did, I think, leave me susceptible to burying all sorts of things deep inside and not looking at them again. I am going to start digging them back out. There may be some answers there.”

She sat back a little and smiled at him. “Now that I have calmed, it is a relief to know the truth. It always troubled me that I was so childish I had never gotten rid of that fear of the dark, the kind that children have. As I said, I know there are no monsters under the bed or nasty things in the closet or any of that. I should not have been as disturbed by being alone in the dark as I have always been.”

“You caught her looking at your father’s ledgers. If you had ever mentioned it, I fear you would have had some accident.”

“Oh, I did not think of that. She was probably hoping they would not find me, that I would have an accident trying to find my way home. There are certainly enough pitfalls in the woods.”