Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (45 page)

"We're both coming," said Arthur.

"No, dear. I really don't think—"

"We must, Etta! You might forget to grid your loins on the
way!''

It was, she thought with an inner quake, very possible.

After a long and emotional reunion with Orpheus and Mr. Fox,
Diccon
left the paddock and wandered across the field behind the manor,
irritated because he still tired so easily.

Vaughan came to meet him and called a greeting. Still Sir
Lionel's
house guest, he'd promised to come and look over the damage to the old
wing this morning; something Diccon had not been able to bring himself
to do.

"Beautiful day, Major, sir," he said, his eyes keenly
appraising his friend.

"Very," agreed Diccon. "Well, what's your verdict? Am I alive?"

Vaughan laughed. "You look less like a corpse every day. I
really believe you'll survive."

"I am still
persona non grata
at the
Warrington establishment, I take it?"

"The old boy judges you ripe for Bedlam."

"Add to that my despicable conduct with regard to his heir."

"It was his heir who was despicable—not your conduct. I told
him any
self-respecting officer would have done the same. Myself included."

"Did you! That was good of you, Joss. But in the matter of the
sheikh, did you also judge me ripe for Bedlam?"

"Oh, absolutely. But—I'm… Well, what I mean is—" Vaughan
finished in
a rush, "I'm jolly proud that you number me among your friends, dear
old looby." Very red in the face, he mumbled something about "giving
Mac an assist," turned to bolt, then stopped dead.

Seven horsemen were approaching at the gallop. Seven followers
of
the Sheikh Ibrahim, mounted on superb black Arabian horses, riding
abreast, robes flying, and high-held scimitars glittering wickedly in
the morning sunlight.

"Jupiter," muttered Diccon.

Vaughan sprang to his side. "And I left my pistol in the
saddle
holster," he said grimly. "Fiend seize the fellow! He's taking revenge
on your blasted ancestor!"

The Arabs were upon them with a thunder of hooves and a chorus
of
ear-splitting battle cries. There was no chance to run; no hope of an
attempt at defence. Side-by-side, pale but unflinching, Diccon and
Vaughan faced that thundering charge, waiting to be cut to ribbons.

At the last instant the Arabs divided and circled the two men.
Still
shouting, they raced around them in a dwindling circle. Abruptly, they
slowed, formed a single line facing the Englishmen, and were still.

The central rider walked his horse forward and, scant paces
from
them, halted once more. The curving blade of the scimitar shot out. It
was all Diccon could do not to recoil but then he saw that a small
velvet bag was tied to the end of the blade. He reached out and removed
it.

At once that deafening war cry rent the air. The riders who
had sat
as if carven from stone spurred their horses into another encircling
gallop gradually widening until, whooping and howling they raced off
and out of sight.

"Phew!" gasped Vaughan. "Life around you is never dull, old
pippin!
I suppose your almighty sheikh is demanding satisfaction, is that what
those flamboyant manoeuvres were all about?"

Diccon took a piece of paper from the bag, scanned it, and
held it out with a hand that trembled.

Vaughan was no less shaken and it was some moments before he
was able to croak, "Oh… egad!"

MacDougall smoothed the back of Diccon's coat and said
approvingly,
"Right bonnie ye look, and no mistaking!" He pulled out a chair. "Sit
ye doon, sir, and have a wee bit brrrandy while I pole up the hacks."

Diccon took up the "wee bit brrrandy," stared at it, and put
it down again.

He smiled foolishly at the open door, wondering what Marietta
was
doing on this bright and breezy afternoon, and what she would think of—
A carriage was stopping outside. He took up his helm and crossed to the
door. Mac had been speedy.

He was mistaken. There was no sign of his coach, or
MacDougall. The
dilapidated Warrington carriage, the roof piled with baggage, stood in
the courtyard and Lem Bridger was handing Marietta down the step. She
wore a bonnet and a travelling coat, and, as usual, at the sight of her
his heart bounced up behind his teeth. He walked quickly towards her,
and she turned and saw him. "My goodness!" she exclaimed. "Full
dress regimentals? How splendid you look, Major. Are you
summoned
to Whitehall?"

"Yes. But never mind about that. Where are you going?"

"Away," she said with a sigh, walking to the house with him.

"Away? What d'you mean—away? Away where?"

She shrugged. "Something has to be done. Eric borrowed
my—our—savings. We're properly in the basket now. So I've decided to
take a post as governess."

He stopped walking and looked down at her, aghast. "That's the
most
nonsensical thing I ever heard! You won't make any money at it. And
besides, you know Vaughan will provide for your family."

"I expect he will, when they are officially betrothed. But he
wants a long engagement so that Fanny can have a London Season."

"Yes, but—"

"He has offered, of course, but Papa says we cannot take
charity from a comparative stranger. He has his pride too, Diccon."

"Does he! I wonder that he didn't—" He bit back the angry
words, and
demanded, "Where are you going to look for this post, I should like to
know? And what will you do until you find one?"

With brave but pathetic resignation she said, "Oh, I shall
manage.
Somehow. I have, in fact, already accepted a post—at least for a trial."

"You
have
! When did all this transpire?
And where is this fabulous opportunity?"

"I wrote after it last month. I didn't tell anyone at the
time. But
I received a reply yesterday, and with Papa in such a taking, and my—my
last hope… gone." She peeped at him from under her lashes. "I can at
least spare my family the upkeep of a spinster daughter. So I'm off to
Edinburgh, and—"

"Edinburgh?
Sspinster
? Oh, come now!
You're doing it up too brown—What I mean is—"

"It's quite all right," she said wistfully. "I understand,
Diccon.
But you have been so good—I just had to—to say…" she turned from him
and dabbed at her eyes, saying on a sob, "… good-bye."

His eyes narrowed. He demanded, "Understand—what?"

"That I have no portion—"

"You mean dowry."

"Well, yes. And you need—or will want to find—a lady of wealth
and position."

He looked down at her demurely bowed head, and drawled,
"Like—Mrs. Maitland, perhaps?"

"She is very wealthy, I hear. And—you know she has always
yearned for a title."

"Has she, indeed!"

"She may be a touch—scratchy. But I expect she will be willing
to restore Lanterns."

"How very good of you to plan such a delightful future for me.
And
just think, I could stay here and see Arthur every day, and think of
you in Glasgow, and be—"

"Edinburgh."

"—Edinburgh, and be perfectly content at long last!" He
snorted. "Oh! If
ever
I needed two hands!"

She peeped up at him again and saw laughter mingling with the
indignation in his eyes. "Why, dear Diccon?"

"To spank you." He dropped his shining helm, seized her arm
with
unexpected strength and pulled her to him. "Hard! A governess, indeed!
Who put you up to this blatant attempt to force my hand?"

"Arthur," she admitted shamelessly. "He's afraid I'll let you
get
away and he wants you for a brother-in-law, even if you judge me unfit
to be your wife, so—"

Much tried, Diccon uttered a ferocious growl and cut off her
confession with remarkable proficiency considering that he had only one
usable arm.

"And—besides," gasped Marietta when she was able to speak. "He
likes
Mr. Fox, so you see I had to do as he asked, regardless of my own—"

After another blissful interlude they discovered to their
mutual
surprise that they were sitting on the step of the main entrance and
that Marietta's head, bonnetless, rested comfortably on Diccon's right
shoulder.

"Are you sure, my lovely one?" he asked, kissing her ear. "I'm
not
one of your London beaux always ready for an endless round of parties
and routs and musicales."

"Nor am I," she said. "Even if we could afford it."

"And I'm not a brilliant conversationalist, but tend to stand
about
like a speechless dullard, besides being cursed with my antiquated
notions—as you've seen."

"Well, that's true," she agreed, reaching up to touch his
empty sleeve with a very gentle finger.

"Besides—and you must face it, Marietta, you're such a lovely
little
thing, and—well, I'm probably going to be a bit of a nuisance, which is
easy to dismiss now, but will likely get tiresome after a while."

She nodded. "I expect it will. And I would be much wiser to
refuse your splendid offer—"

"Which I haven't yet made."

"Which you have as good as made, sir! But the problem is that,
though I searched the whole wide world, how could I hope to find
another almost-nobleman to compare with the man I so love and honour
and simply cannot exist without, or—"

She was interrupted at some length. With his lips brushing
hers, he
murmured, "So you came here to entrap me, you saucy schemer. I suppose
all those portmanteaux and band boxes atop your coach are empty?"

"Yes. I would have come sooner in fact, but I couldn't very
well entrap you when you owned an
objet d'art
worth a million pounds."

"But you would be willing to entrap me had I not a penny."

"Not
one
penny?" She chuckled. "I don't
think you're quite that deep under the hatches, are you, my love?"

"Not… exactly." He took his arm from around her, and drew from
his
pocket the bank draft that had been most dramatically delivered by a
troop of magnificent Arabian horsemen.

Marietta glanced at it, and her own breath was snatched away.
"Oh!… Oh,
Diccon
! The sheikh?"

"He says it is the reward, and not even half what he was
really
prepared to pay." He pursed his lips. "Still, it's an enormous amount.
Do you think I should refuse it?"

"No!
I do not! Oh, my dear! How wonderful
of him! We will
be able to restore Lanterns, just as you've so longed to do! There will
be room for all of us. And—"

"Oh, no there won't! On the estate—yes. At Lanterns, just you
and I,
beloved, and our staff. Er, for a while, at least." Marietta blushed,
and he chuckled and kissed her temple. "Now I'll take you home in my
coach, and Lem can follow."

In swift alarm she cried, "You're not going to start for
Whitehall today?"

"No. In a month, perhaps."

"Deceitful man! Then why are you so magnificent in your
regimentals?"

"Because I must call on your sire and make a formal offer for
my
lady, and the uniform makes me look—well, a little more impressive, I
hope."

"You are always impressive, Major. Besides," she added with a
giggle, "what you have in your pocket will impress my sire enormously."

They had reached the coach. Of Bridger there was no sign, but
a
trill sounded from the open door, and Friar Tuck yawned, and stretched
his front legs over the edge of the seat.

"Arthur!" gasped Marietta, repentantly. "Oh dear! I quite
forgot!"

"I knowed you would!" The little boy blinked at her. "I
shouldn't of goed to sleep. Did you grid your loins?"

"Did she—
what
?" asked Diccon, intrigued.

"Never mind!" said Marietta.

He grinned and kissed her ear again.

Cheered by this demonstration, Arthur said, "Oh. Did she do it
right, Sir G'waine?"

Diccon put his arm around his love and smiled down at her."She
did
indeed," he said, knowing his lonely years were done. "She did it
exactly right!"

"Good," said Arthur. "Then I think I'll go and see— I said—"
He
stopped. They weren't listening, but it didn't matter because there was
no longer any doubt that he'd have Diccon for a brother 'law.

Accompanied by Friar Tuck, he skipped off happily in search of
the Lord of the Larder.