Jayne Fresina (25 page)

Lips clamped shut, Lucy watched as John celebrated another win, beaming over at them, careless of his bloodied lip.

“I’ve loved John since we were young together in this village,” Alice went on quietly. “I never thought of marrying any other man but him. I’ve saved myself, waited all these years.” She made an odd sound, almost a laugh, or a low scream of frustration. “And now here you are and I see how he looks at you. He never, ever looked at me that way.”

What could she say? Could she try to deny it, when the man stood over there, preening like a peacock for her?

“I’m not a fool to try fighting against it. I shall try to overcome my pain. If he loves you, then he should be with you. I want him to be happy.”

“Alice, you don’t have to say all this.” She was wretched when she thought of this quiet girl struggling for his notice all those years, finally seeing it slip through her fingers for a worthless hussy.

“But I must.” Alice drew a quick breath and looked over at the wrestling again. “I must let you know where I stand and I must know where you stand. I love John. Do you?”

Her tongue was thick, her pulse racing. The sun on her head was too hot.

“Because I don’t want to see him hurt, Lucy. Don’t lead him along and then break his heart.”

“I…I would never do that. I don’t want him hurt, either.”

The tall, slender woman nodded. “Then stay and love him forever. If you can’t, then leave now, before the damage is more severe.”

Her piece said, Alice returned to her father’s side, head bowed, long, honey-gold hair, dripping down her back.

Stay and love him forever. She wished she could. He was coming over now, filling his face with a pasty, two more in his hand for the women of his house.

“Did you see, Lucy?” he demanded, spitting crumbs. “I won four bouts.”

Like a little boy, she thought. “Oh yes. I saw.”

He grinned, handing her the other pasties. “Where’s my mother?”

“Talking to Farmer Croft about milk-yield.” Holding the warm pasties in one hand, she lifted the corner of her apron to wipe his mouth. “You don’t need to fight every man in these three villages, I hope.”

“Why? Worried for me?”

She was trying not to look at his chest, gleaming with sweat under the bright yellow sun. “Not really,” she muttered. “But Alice worries.”

He took another ravenous bite of his pasty.

“Why don’t you go over and talk to her?” she asked, keeping her voice light.

“What about?”

“She loves you.”

He stopped chewing, glanced over at the young woman and then back at Lucy. “Aye.” His eyes were very clear blue today. He sniffed, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’m sorry for it, but what can I do?”

Swallowing her unhappiness, she smiled. “Love her back, of course.”

He looked down at the grass around their feet. “You can’t choose where you love, Lucy. It just happens. Like it did to me, the very first moment I laid a finger on you.” This lethal statement laid at her feet, he returned to the games, trotting back across the lawn and into the rowdy fray.

Later, as the heat of the day wound down, a log was placed across the widest bend of the stream bordering Lord Oakham’s property. Two at a time, the men approached one another from opposing sides, armed only with a stick and a horsehair pillow, each man’s aim to dislodge the other into the water. It looked dangerous and the men took it extremely seriously, despite the copious amounts of ale and cider already consumed. Thrashing and swinging at one another with violent glee, they very often ended up in the water at the same moment, receiving a sobering ducking and immediate rescue by their anxious womenfolk.

Only men, Lucy mused to herself, would think up such a sport. John Carver, naturally, was one of the first to volunteer, while she and his mother were obliged to watch on tenterhooks, cringing and wincing at every blow he took. Lucy’s fingers dug a little deeper into his mother’s arm each time he wavered on the log, but he balanced well and somehow escaped a ducking, sending each reckless opponent to the water below, suffering only a handful of beatings and swipes in the process.

She didn’t know whether to be glad he won, or wish he might take a tumble and have some of the boundless arrogance knocked out of him.

Looking over the crowd she caught sight of Lord Oakham making a slow approach, stopping on his way to talk to other villagers, smiling benevolently. Lucy’s pulse raced, throbbing in her temple until she felt certain it must be visible to the eye.

He reached her side in due course. “I hope you enjoy your sojourn in the country, Lucasta.” Clouds swept in to cover the sun, the day grew dark, the air thick with the promise of thunder.

“Indeed, Lord Oakham, very much.” Her dream was almost over.

He smiled thinly. “You will recall our recent conversation.”

“Yes.”

“You have made your decision?”

She was watching John, who saw them talking together on the bank side and subsequently swung his weapons harder, swifter, his eyes turning savage with more than a hint of verdigris seething in those blue depths.

One hand shielding her face from the sun, she looked up at Lord Oakham. “I have, sir.”

He waited, brows arched high, self-confident.

“I cannot live with you and must decline your kind offer. If you cannot find it in you heart to let me be free of the past, then by all means turn me in. It does you no harm to let me go, but you must do as you think best, my lord.”

He blanched. “You are making a grave mistake, young woman.”

“Am I? There was another man who wanted me against my will, once before,” she added softly, “which is how this all began and how I came to be here. I never understood why any man would want a woman who did not truly want him.” She studied his face from the shadow of her palm. “Would you not rather have a woman who loved you and stayed with you out of choice? Or would you be satisfied with a woman who might one day crack you across the skull with a pan of coals?”

Behind him another man landed with a splash in the stream and John yelled over at them, “Mayhap you’d like a try against the champion, your lordship.”

Several other villagers joined in the hue and cry, but Lord Oakham blustered awkwardly. “One does not generally participate.” With slender hands he checked the stitching of his gold embroidered silk doublet.

“Aw. Go on, yer lordship,” Martin Frye bellowed drunkenly from the other side of the stream. “Show us ‘ow it’s done.”

“Aye,” shouted his sister spitefully. “Someone should put John Carver in the water and wipe the smug grin orf ‘is face.”

Of course, Lucy thought acidly, there were some who wanted to see John’s pride brought down a peg or two. She’d thought that herself just a few minutes ago, but they would also laugh at his lordship taking a ducking. In their eyes, there would be no bad side to either man losing.

“Well sir. I gave you my answer. Now you must do what you believe to be right.” She forced her fear down, her chin up. As always, when anxiety threatened to beat her into submission, she rose to the challenge, haughty temper taking over. “Will you fight John Carver for me, Lord Oakham? The water, I am told, is not cold today.”

Still he hesitated, showing his cowardly colors, blaming it all on not wanting to get his finery wet, or step down from his exalted place.

“Do you mean to turn me in?” she asked, straightforward.

No answer.

She swept a lock of hair aside, showing the scar under her eye. “Lord Winton gave me this gift on my wedding night.”

There was a very slight fluttering of his eyelids, no more.

“That’s why I ran,” she added steadily. “I was not kidnapped. The Carvers are not to blame for any of this.”

Lips pursed, he regarded her face in a methodical fashion, giving nothing away.

Behind her John Carver called out for an opponent, scorning them all for cowards.

Well, she couldn’t let John Carver win again, could she? If he did, he would soon come to her to collect his winnings and she would have no choice but to keep her promise. Grabbing the stick and pillow being offered to his lordship, she kicked off her shoes and made her way down the bank to the stream.

Restless silence fell over the watching crowd, not knowing what to make of this.

Seeing her standing there, weapons at the ready, John’s shoulders sagged. “Don’t be daft. It’s not for women.”

But there was no stopping her now with everything tumbling down around her ears, the truth soon to be out. “Who says?”

“I do.”

“Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?” She stepped gingerly along the log.

For a few more shocked moments, everyone held their breath.

“Stop and go back,” John shouted. “You’re being foolish, woman. You can’t fight me.”

“Really?” She swung her pillow and it hit him in the thigh. He wobbled, cursing, but kept his footing.

A solitary shout of encouragement rang out from the crowd and then came two more.

“Do that again and you’ll be sorry,” he growled, eyes wide.

“This game doesn’t seem so hard to me,” she exclaimed cheerily. “Prepare to be vanquished, John Carver.”

“You’re mad, woman. You’ll be hurt.”

“I’m sure I can stand it. Only men make a fuss over aches and pains, and they never have to withstand the agonies we do.”

Someone laughed and cheered her on, followed by a small chorus of female voices now taking her side.

“Give up, wench,” he exclaimed, crouching, eyeing her in some bemusement as she stepped closer along the log. “You can’t beat me. Don’t make a fool of yourself trying. I don’t want to have to teach you a lesson and humiliate you before the entire ….”

She swung again, hitting him harder this time with her stick across his legs. He grunted and spat, fighting to keep his balance.

On the bank side support grew for her cause, female voices mostly, among them Alice Croft. A steady rumble of laughter broke from the men, who were ready to enjoy the novelty of seeing a woman pushed in the water. Naturally, they expected John to win, but they admired her bravery.

She saw his jaw set, his eyes darken, fist gripping that stick. “I warned you, woman.”

They swung at the same time. The log bounced and rolled. She scrambled but stayed upright. As did he.

The crowd grew louder, shouting for their favorite in this unusual battle.

John shrugged, tossed his weapons into the water and declared he didn’t need them in any case. “I can take you down barehanded, wench.”

The men cheered, the women booed.

Head down she ran at him, swinging the pillow at his head. He ducked, caught her round the legs, and they fell together into the stream, much to the delight of the crowd, for whom it was a fitting resolution.

Submerged in the sun-warmed water, all was silent but for the gentle froth of bubbles around them. Her heart was still beating, but distant and wistful. If only she could stay there forever, under the water with him.

They couldn’t, of course. Soon they needed air and he dragged her up into reality.

“Why did you do that?” he gasped, shaking his head like a wet dog.

“Because you should lose once in a while, John Carver.” But she did it for herself, too, she realized. She wanted to prove her bravery, her worthiness, for in his world actions mattered more than words and intentions.

He smoothed the wet hair back from her face and when she blinked up at him, drops glittered in the corner of her eye, as if her lashes were decorated with tiny diamond chips. “Don’t even think of kissing me,” she gasped, breathless. “Not in front of everyone, like this.”

“Why not? Why shouldn’t I kiss my woman?”

But several folk waded into the water to help her out, saving her from his clutches. She was now something of a heroine. Farmer Croft brought her a cup of cider and Alice lent her a shawl to dry her hair. Martin Frye came over to shake her hand, although he held it longer than necessary and was soon sent on his way by a stormy-faced John. She felt giddy with her victory, if it might be called that. John, naturally, insisted he only fell in to save her pride.

“And we fell together,” he reminded her slyly. “I still won every game today.”

“’Tis a matter of opinion. It might be said you forfeited the last game.”

“To save your pride.”

She shook her head, laughing. Incorrigible, she decided, wasn’t even a big enough word for what he was. Indefatigable, splendidly passionate, mad as a March hare, might suit him better.

Finally she remembered Lord Oakham and looked for him. To her surprise he was exactly where she last left him, still watching her. His countenance was stoic, unreadable again, but he bowed his head a half inch in her direction before walking away into the crowd.

Her heart would not come down to a steadier canter, for she had no idea what it meant. She’d challenged him brazenly to turn her in and he might very well do so. There was no reason for him to keep her secret, unless he should be struck with sudden kindness and charity.

“Lucy!” John was at her side, taking her hand. “Day-dreamer!”

They danced by the light of the bonfire and the yellow harvest moon. He was not her only partner. Almost every fellow with two working feet sought her out and she refused no one. Throwing herself into the fun, she laughed at every jest, even told a few of her own, and drank too much cider until, complaining he’d watched her dancing with other men long enough, John lifted her over his shoulder and carried her to the cart. She protested loudly at this manhandling. “What would your noble Sydney ancestors say if they saw you treat a lady this way?”

“They’d no doubt cheer me on.” He checked on his mother, who was asleep in the back of the cart, wrapped in a fleece blanket, the long day having worn her out. “I don’t know what she told you about our fine Sydney ancestors, but every one of ‘em was a scoundrel. A bunch of cheaters, liars, schemers and bride stealers. So there you have it.” He smiled as he leapt up beside her and took the reins. “That’s the noble line I come from. That’s the Barons Sydney for you.”

Tonight, since his mother took the back of the cart, Lucy sat up front, at his side. The moonlight cooling her face, she looked up at him, suddenly solemn. “Bride stealers?”