I Loved a Rogue The Prince Catchers (22 page)

Pressing the ring into her palm, she felt its heat like the heat of Taliesin’s skin beneath her hands. “I don’t understand how this is connected to my family.”

“That, Miss Caulfield, is another research project altogether, I suspect.”

She slid her finger below the lines of names and titles. The artist had penned the elaborate T symbol again in black beside two words in bold red ink. But to the symbol, the penman had added three wavy lines radiating from the left side of the horizontal bar as well as a small, curled base to the letter. Highly stylized, still, it almost looked like the head and neck of a . . .

No
.

She touched her fingertips to the thick red letters. “Mr. Fish, what do these words say?”

“Aha, yes, the modified crest.” He said with a nod. “It says ‘Horse Lords,’ Miss Caulfield.”

SHE DID NOT
tell Taliesin or Mr. Saint what she learned in Mr. Fish’s workshop. With Betsy she accompanied them to the satellite office of Lloyd’s insurance company. There a clerk dug through records two decades old and found the receipt of the benefit payment to the investors of
Lady Voyager
upon proof of its dis-appearance.

“What proof was there?” she asked. “I was on that ship and only I and my sisters washed ashore the following day,” and a captain’s box now in the keeping of a peculiar old baronet.

The clerk peered at her imperturbably. “Its failure to appear at any British dock within a year of its anticipated disembarkation is sufficient proof, madam.”

A year. Had the person who was supposed to meet them waited that long at port?

“What port was it intended to sail into?”

“I do not have that information.” His brow pinched tighter as he glanced at Taliesin, then at Mr. Saint’s sword. “Will that be all, madam?”

Outside the office, Mr. Saint curved his palm around the hilt of his sword. “How else may I be of assistance to you, Miss Caulfield?” His emerald eyes were unreadable beneath the brim of his hat.

“I’ve no other questions at present, Mr. Saint. Thank you for this help. I will always be grateful for it, as will my sisters.”

“It has been my honor.” He bowed then turned to Taliesin. “Wolfe, until next we meet.”

They clasped hands. “You know where to find me.”

Mr. Saint grinned. “For now, Gypsy. Always only for now.”

The swordsman remained standing before the door to the insurance office as they walked away.

“Miss Caulfield, if you will?” he said behind them.

She turned around and he walked toward her. Leaving Taliesin and Betsy, she went forward. “Yes?”

“I like you,” he said to her below the clinks of boat rigging and the clatter of cart wheels. “You are intelligent and forthright and deuced pretty, and it is admirable of you to have set off on this quest, however unlikely you are to find the answers you seek.”

She frowned. “Thank you, I think.”

“But allow me to make one thing clear to you. Taliesin Wolfe has saved my life several times. I love him as a brother.” His emerald eyes glittered. “If you destroy him again, know that you will have me to reckon with.”

Destroy
him
? The boy who had abandoned her?

“I think you misunderstand matters, sir.”

“I hope I do. Godspeed, Miss Caulfield,” he said, and strode away, the length of steel swinging from his hip like glittering splintered ice.

At the door to their inn, Betsy said, “If we’ll be leaving town tomorrow, miss, I’ll be off to fetch your linens from the washerwoman.” She went, casting a puckered glance back.

Eleanor went into the inn and to the stairs, the rumblings of a strange thunder in her breast. Taliesin walked behind her.

“I suppose we should leave tomorrow,” she said. Once he escorted her home, his promise to Arabella would be fulfilled. “I will pack now. Perhaps you could send word to Mr. Treadwell to prepare the carriage.”

She mounted the stairs. She had already met with more success on this quest in a fortnight than she had dreamed of having in a year. She could not invent places she needed to travel merely to avoid the end of this journey. She did not want to return home, but had she any other choice? His words from the other night tangled in the thunder:
Perhaps she hadn’t any choice. Perhaps she parted with you of necessity
.

If she remained in Plymouth she might learn which port
Lady Voyager
had intended to disembark. Or they could go to Portsmouth. Or Dover. Bristol. Inquire after the ship at those ports too. Not only insurance companies kept records. If it came to it, she could book passage to the West Indies and track down the sugar merchant. Arabella’s investigator had proved useless in that, apparently, but he had only written letters of inquiry. Mr. Saint had mentioned that his chess opponent, Mr. Bose, often traveled in the West Indies. Perhaps he could help.

She was casting empty lures, but the idea of this quest coming to an end so soon made panic of her breaths. The finality of it bore down upon her.

At the door to her bedchamber she pivoted and walked two swift steps back to him. He halted and she laid her hand on his chest.

“Taliesin—”

He grasped her wrist. “Eleanor, don’t.”

“Mr. Saint said something to me about you just now.” She watched her hand as she pressed her fingertips into his waistcoat and everything inside her awakened. She could not return to the sleeping half life of her existence before this journey. Not now. Not ever again. “I didn’t understand it.”

“Mr. Saint is the least likely man to deserve that name than any other I know. Whatever he said to you, I caution you not to heed it.” His grip on her wrist was tight and he did not push her away. His scent of fine leather and wild kisses filled her emptiness. All her thoughts were of the smoothness of his skin, the contours of his muscles, and of how her naked breasts had felt against him.

“I want to tell you what I learned today from the jeweler.”

“Unless you can tell me without your hands on me, I don’t want to hear it.” His voice scraped over the words.

She lifted her face.

Fever burned in his eyes.

Her heart stumbled. “Is—Is that an official challenge?”

His fingers slipped from her wrist to her hand, lacing with her fingers. “
Pirani
, you’ve no idea what this does to me.”

“Tell me. Tell me now.” Her tongue followed her heart. They were palm-to-palm and she wanted more. More of him. More of this mania of need and freedom inside her. “Show me.”

“There you are, miss!” Betsy’s voice boomed up the stairs.

Taliesin released her hand.

“I’ve fetched the linens from the washwoman, and paid her an extra penny for doing it so quickly. It’s a fine thing to reward good work.” Betsy clattered up the steps, her arms full, all energetic cambric and wide, accusing eyes. “A woman that does the best she can at honest work should be praised for it, no matter who’s trying to make it difficult for her.”

“May I assist you with your parcel, Miss Fortnum?” Taliesin said as Eleanor watched, her desire entwined with every note of his voice, every movement of his lips.

Sweeping past him, Betsy tipped up her nose and muttered to the ceiling, “Wouldn’t
that
gentleman
like
to catch a glimpse of my mistress’s linens? But I can carry any burden if it’s in the service of modesty, no matter how heavy the load. No one will ever say that Betsy Fortnum wasn’t up to the task set for her. Now there, miss, come along and I’ll have a nice tray of supper brought up so we won’t be bothered with that common room that smells like yesterday’s fish and anybody that might happen to be taking dinner in it.” She swung the bedchamber door open.

Eleanor covered her scalding cheeks with her palms and looked to Taliesin. But he was already moving down the stairs.

That was the last Betsy allowed them alone until Eleanor set foot in her papa’s house in St. Petroc a day later.

Chapter 20

The Soothsayer

T
aliesin made it easy for the girl. At times he’d been a servant, and he understood the difficulties that masters could impose upon their employees. Betsy was only trying to do what she believed the Duchess of Lycombe had hired her to do: protect her mistress’s virtue. He understood her efforts.

That, and if Eleanor touched him again it would require less than a heartbeat to have her in his arms.

Emerging from the jeweler’s shop in Plymouth, her face had been flushed, her eyes troubled. Confused. He wanted to wipe the confusion away and make them shine again. When she smiled he felt it in his gut. And when she laughed . . . He didn’t even need to remove her clothes. His entire body ached when she merely looked at him.

He was spiraling. Directly into the abyss. The sooner he stowed her securely in her father’s house, the quicker he would be free.

Throughout the remainder of the journey he allowed Treadwell to assist her in mounting her horse on every occasion. Once she was settled at the inn on the road, he left the building until morning. He’d bedded down in stables for most of his life anyway, and temptation was best savored from a distance. Damning himself for having provided a saddle horse for her and the pleasure he took in watching her ride—her straight back and easy seat and perfectly rounded behind that he’d had in his hands—he rode as far back as her safety allowed.

On the road to the coast they’d switched out the Duke of Lycombe’s carriage team. Now they retrieved the horses, which put Treadwell in high spirits. Taliesin listened to him rhapsodize about the little termagant in the carriage and how he would name his next horse Betsy. He felt for the poor fellow; Betsy didn’t seem to like the starry-eyed coachman any more than she liked him. Taliesin nearly smiled.

Then a turn brought him to a fork in the road—a place he could draw on a map in his sleep, with illustrations of every tree and hillock. Ahead, Eleanor had already taken the road to the right, toward St. Petroc. But the mare’s stride seemed to lag now, the distance between her and the carriage closing.

Taliesin’s heart beat a hard, uneven tempo. He hadn’t ridden this road in eleven years. It seemed narrower now, the trees bordering it not as tall as he remembered, the fields to either side smaller.

At a slow walk, Eleanor passed the place on the road that was branded so deeply into his memory that he’d never managed to erase it. The last place he had seen her all those years ago.

Spring had just begun to turn to summer, the air still cool and bright. Knowing this countryside well from eighteen years of traveling through it, he’d cut across the field on the northern flank of the road to shorten the distance to the village. He’d sold the last of the horses his uncle had let him take north in September, as well as those he’d got on trade, and he’d made good money. He always did well when his uncle gave him the reins. From his years studying at Reverend Caulfield’s knee, he knew how to speak with
gorgios
so they did not mistrust him. And he knew fine horseflesh.

With a purse of silver coins in his coat that he would use to prove to the vicar that he could make something of himself, he had walked all the way from Devonshire, sleeping beneath the stars on hillsides and haystacks, every moment anticipating the welcome she would give him after eight months.

Emerging onto the road with a spring in his step that he hadn’t felt since before the squire’s son had broken two of his ribs, he’d seen the carriage halted only a dozen yards away. Her shining hair cascaded over Thomas Shackelford’s arm.

Then he’d seen red.

Then he’d seen Shackelford’s crisp blue coat and brilliantly white neck cloth, the curricle’s gleaming wheels and new leathers, and the fluttering skirt of her delicate dress the color of summer.

Then he’d seen the dirt beneath his own fingernails, the slashes in the knees of his trousers, the calluses on his hands that were dark as clay, and the hole in the heel of his shoe. And every word Martin Caulfield had said to him eight months earlier had come back to him as clear as though he’d heard them that very day.

That night he slept in the woods. The next morning he went to the May Day fair, gave his uncle half the coins in the purse, and bid his aunt and cousins good-bye. Before the sun set, he turned to the northern road, vowing that the next time he set foot in St. Petroc he would be carrying a sack of gold. But he had never returned.

Until now.

Iseult had slowed to a crawl. Taliesin urged his mount forward and came beside Eleanor.

“What is amiss?”

Her attention jerked to him. “I don’t think I should go home quite yet.” Her eyes were overbright, her hands squeezing the reins. “Could we continue on to Combe? I should tell Arabella my news in person.” Her lips could not hold the smile she attempted. A shrug, a tentative lift of her shoulders. “What trouble could three more days on the road be when at the end we will find my sister’s luxurious mansion?”

What trouble?
Three more days of torture.

“Your father’s house is a mile down this road. If you wish to travel to Combe, there is nothing to halt you from it tomorrow or the following day. It is nearly nightfall now, and the horses require rest.” And this was where he would leave her. He’d done what he had promised. His vow was fulfilled. In a day he would be on the road again. In a sennight he would be anywhere else but in the way of temptation, and he would continue on with his life.

“Of course.” Her gaze slipped away. “Well then,” she spoke to the road ahead of her. “Welcome home, Taliesin.” She snapped the mare into motion and pulled away at a canter.

THE VILLAGE HADN’T
changed in the weeks since Eleanor had left it. Except for the draperies in the window of the cobbler’s shop, which the cobbler’s wife changed out each month, everything was exactly the same. The high street was still ridiculously narrow given that there was nothing else around for miles, and caked with mud. Artie Shepherd’s best ram rested in the middle of it, forcing everybody to move around it, as usual. The same pinafores and gowns decorated the dressmaker’s window, and a carefully penned note affixed to the door of the tea shop boasted cream for a penny. The marquee at the door of the Lion & the Lamb was still cracked up the middle, right between the images of the lamb and the lion. And at the end of the lane the simple stone mass of her papa’s church rested against the pale sky like a squat mountain, flanked on one side by the cemetery and a gate and path that led down to the creek.

Farther along that wall stood the barn, which served the vicarage as a stable too. In that barn Taliesin had slept every night of every September through every April from the day that she had first come to the vicarage to the festival night when he had kissed her beneath the old oak tree.

Tucked in the shadow of the church, the vicarage was a modest cottage of unremarkable construction and only some charm. But it had been home—a miraculous, safe home after the unspeakable years at the foundling home—and Eleanor had loved it.

She dismounted with the assistance of the rock bench at the gate and stepped down to face the house. Taliesin came to her side and took Iseult’s reins.

“Well, miss,” Betsy said, climbing from the carriage. “This isn’t much to speak of, is it? Not like that fine house of Sir Wilkie’s. That Drearcliffe was a fine house indeed. Compared to some.” She cast Taliesin a narrow eye, conveniently forgetting that she’d been terrified of Drearcliffe’s ghosts and dogs and creaking floorboards.

“This is my papa’s house. He is the vicar of this village.” She could not bring herself to unlatch the gate. Taliesin’s silent presence behind her pulled at her. His absence from this house for so many years was a gaping emptiness inside her that she could acknowledge now.

Betsy folded her hands over her cloak. “Will you be going inside, miss?”

“Oh. Yes.” She reached awkwardly for the gate.

Taliesin drew the horses away, across the yard.

Panic slipped through her. “Aren’t you coming?”

He looked over his shoulder. “After I’ve helped Treadwell stable the horses.”

“Oh.”

Her horse, Saint George, was in the smith’s stable at the other end of the village, where she had left him during her absence. She could go visit him now and . . .

No
. She must do this. “Fine.” Her voice sounded tight. Frightened. Why she should be frightened, she hadn’t an idea.

You are a wild bird, caged too long and desperate to be free
.

She lifted her chin and opened the gate.

Her papa answered her knock on the door. Wearing his spectacles and a loose coat, and holding a book in his hand as always, he smiled.

“Eleanor.” His voice was warm and full of peace. “We did not expect you until next month.”

“Oh. I— That is, I— I’m sorry, Papa.” She had entirely forgotten that he was a newlywed. Perhaps he had hoped to have more time alone with his wife.

“Don’t be. I’m glad for your early return. Of course.” He peered behind her. “And who is this?”

“Betsy Fortnum, Reverend.” Betsy curtsied.

“Welcome, Betsy.” He gestured with his book. “Come in, both of you. Mrs. Caulfield will shortly lay dinner and I’m certain she will wish to hear all the news of your sister’s house.”

Eleanor gave her cloak and bonnet to Betsy. “Papa, I haven’t come from Combe, actually.” The deception weighed upon her. His lined face was so dear. He had cared for her more than anybody in the world along with Arabella and Ravenna.

“Have you been with Ravenna and Vitor?” he said. “Your stepmother will be just as delighted to hear about that, of course.”

“Papa, I—”

“Martin,” came Agnes’s voice from the parlor. “Is that carriage in the yard from Combe? It bears the duke’s crest.” She appeared in the foyer and her face lit. “Eleanor!” She came forward, reaching out her hands to take Eleanor’s snugly, affectionately. “Welcome home.”

Home
.

How could it be home now? How would her heart bear it?

“Betsy, would you bring the small bag from the carriage? The one with the gifts we purchased in Plymouth?”

Betsy bobbed her head.

“Plymouth?” Agnes said. “We thought you comfortably sojourning at Combe. Whatever took you to Plymouth?”

Betsy pulled wide the front door. In the opening, hat in his hand and black eyes as sober as Eleanor had ever seen them, stood the answer to her stepmother’s question.

He had taken her to Plymouth. He had taken her on this quest. He had been her reason for the journey and her principal interest in it. He alone. The man who was about to break her heedless heart all over again.

TALIESIN DID NOT
remain for dinner. Claiming an engagement with his family, he left the vicarage and the suffocating memories of the last time he’d stood in this house and heard his fate delivered to him by the man he had trusted more than any other in the world.

Leaving Tristan in the stable at the vicarage, he walked through the village. Most of the shops had closed, but the blacksmith lifted his head from his work, and recognition flickered in his eyes. He nodded.

Taliesin walked on, toward the Shackelford estate.

He saw the canvas-covered wagons clustered on the flank of the wood before he saw the people. Soon the campfires came into view through the deepening dusk.

He greeted his aunt and cousins, dug into his pocket, and distributed coins liberally among his nephews and nieces. His uncle, a head shorter than him, grabbed him in a bear’s embrace as though he hadn’t seen him in a decade. It had been less than a year, since the summer when he’d done business with several traders at the Rom gathering in Trowbridge. But he accepted the affection gladly.

None of them said anything about how he hadn’t come to St. Petroc since he was eighteen. None of them cared, probably. The place meant less to them than the people. Only music, food, and song mattered when friends came together after long absences.

The children and women eventually went to bed, and he sat at the fire talking with his cousins and uncle until the moon appeared. Then he took his leave of them. They did not ask where he was going and he did not volunteer the information. He was no longer one of them. He had chosen that long ago and they had accepted his choice as though they’d long expected it.

He walked farther, past Shackelford’s land, following the ribbon of the creek. When he finally grew tired, he found a pasture beside a wood far distant from the nearest farmhouse, and lay down on the grass. Propping his arm behind his head, he stared up at the stars that were ruled by none.

“
Y se alegre el alma llena
,” he murmured to the moon rising above the treetops of the wood nearby, where once he had loved a girl fair as sunshine. “And his heart is filled with rapture.”

For the first time in many years, he slept in the night’s cold embrace beneath the stars.

ELEANOR DID
NOT
wait for Agnes or her papa to wake. In the kitchen she cut a slice of bread, toasted it over the coals in the hearth, smeared it with clover honey, and ate it standing up, a cup of tea in her other hand. She almost felt like Ravenna, except there were no dogs about.