Patrica Rice (24 page)

Peter bit his tongue and urged the horses to a faster pace as the soldier revealed he knew about his prisoner's past and mysteriously acquired fortune. So much for ever acquiring Lady Honora and Rosebud Cottage. He would be a condemned criminal in the eyes of those people for the rest of his life simply because of his birth. Damn, but he might as well never have come home.

Night was upon them before they reached the outskirts of High Wycombe. Ignoring any suggestion that they stop for the evening, Peter whipped his horses into a faster stride, sending them flying down paths he scarcely remembered from his last visit. Let them scorn his birth and his means of rising above it, but he wasn't going to linger under suspicion for one moment longer than was necessary. He'd start tearing their house of cards apart as soon as he produced the painting, and he would stomp upon the debris before the night was over.

What hurt most was that the inhabitants of Rosebud Cottage could turn against him this way. For the first time in years he had felt as if he were home, as if he had found friends and family. It had been a foolish notion, but sufficient to make him want to return for more. Returning as their prisoner hadn't been what he'd had in mind.

Rather than following his captor's directions to the magistrate, Peter lashed the horses down the drive he remembered to Rosebud Cottage. The dark shadows of trees laced both sides of the road, and the heavy clouds above kept anything but an occasional peek of the full harvest moon from slipping through the darkness. He was only thankful that it wasn't raining as a cold wind pierced his coat and caught his hat, almost tumbling it to the ground. He didn't need any more accidents like that last one.

Despite his knowledge of the danger of the road, Peter was almost caught by surprise again by the figure running through the woods. He could see it darting among the trees, dodging shadows, picking up slivers of moonlight as it ran directly toward the path his horses were taking. He caught his breath and began to haul on the reins, his heart suddenly pounding as he recognized the illusion. Lady Honora.

Just as in the painting she was fleeing through the woods, her flimsy gown flowing in the cold autumn breeze, her face silver with the moonlight. Only this time there wasn't welcome in her eyes, but fear. It didn't make sense, but Peter responded immediately, halting the horses and leaping to the ground to the furious shouts of the man who was to hold him prisoner.

Peter vaulted the hedgerow and ran in the direction where he had last seen the elusive image. A bullet whined over his head, but he ignored it, forcing his boots to find a path through the neglected grounds. He felt none of the weakness of his illness, only the panic that seemed to permeate the air as he raced toward the woman who in all probability had sent to have him arrested.

He barely had time to open his arms and catch her when she collided against his chest, her breath coming in short pants as she shivered and clung to him for support while she gathered her strength.

"Peter! They're waiting for you back at the house. You've got to run. They think you're a highwayman. Please, don't dawdle! Run."

She lifted her face to his, her long hair streaming in a cascade down her back, her blue eyes wide with terror as they met his. Her blue eyes. Cecily.

Feeling his breath catch in his throat, Peter crushed her against him. She had come to warn him. That was all that mattered now. Forgetting all else, he gathered her shivering body close, warming her with his own. Feeling her slender frailty in his arms, he couldn't fight the overwhelming sensation of coming home, and protectiveness swept over him. Bending his head, Peter found Cecily's lips with his, and he filled with joy as she responded with passion
.

But then she tore away, and stared at him with fear. "There isn't time! Please, you have to leave. I've tried explaining to them, but they won't listen."

The magistrate's son found them then, a formidable frown on his wide brow as he stepped through the underbrush, gun raised and sword sparkling in the moonlight. "Miss Chelmsby," he remarked with surprise as Cecily darted in front of Peter, protecting him with her back and her widespread arms.

The name sent a ripple of shock through Peter, but he merely encircled her waist with his arm and lifted her to his side. It had been Lady Honora running through those bushes; he would swear it. But it was Cecily he held in his arms, would continue holding in his arms if she would let him. Sending her delicate but thoroughly outraged face a bemused look, he returned to the matter at hand.

"I don't like ambushes, Acton." It had taken some time to persuade the soldier's name from him, but Peter employed it with purpose now. "I'm not your highwayman and I'm not a thief. I'd suggest we ride quietly to the house and that you stay in front of me to prevent any hasty actions. I'll not have the lady endangered by some overwrought farmer looking to be a hero."

He spoke as if he were the one carrying gun and sword and not the man who wielded them. The young man looked from Peter to Cecily in confusion, then nodded reluctantly. "We'd best walk, then. Hodges can fetch the rig."

They marched up to the front door in procession, Acton in the lead, Peter following, pushing Cecily behind him when the first man appeared out of the shrubbery. He sensed the presence of others, heard the nervous whinnies of horses, and cursed the audience. He wanted Cecily to himself, to hear her explanations, but it was far too late for that.

The men suddenly filling the empty corridor of Rosebud Cottage carried ancient weapons, but deadly for all that. Peter moved among them with assurance. He had grown up among men like these, lived among them as a sailor. Fear was the only thing to fear at such times. Finding Hodges, he glared at the man angrily.

"See Miss Chelmsby to her room, then fetch my rig. You'll find the damned painting in there." He turned curtly to the soldier. "Now, where is your father? I'll have some explanations of this mob frightening an innocent young woman in her own home."

Even though all must know he was not of the aristocracy, they bowed to his commands as if he were. Peter had learned in childhood that appearance was everything at times. He knew how to wield his well.

But once faced with Lord Acton, appearances didn't matter at all. Hair still dark despite his years, his lined face reflecting weather more than age, he came to his feet and met Peter's eyes on an equal level. Piercing eyes looked Peter over ruthlessly, then returned to focus on his face with determination.

"I thought you might persuade my son, Charles, to come here first. Using Miss Chelmsby as a front for your unlawful actions is the work of a blackguard, sir. Stealing her most valuable possession is the work of an animal without a conscience. I'd see you hanged now were it not my duty to uphold the law. Charles, lock him up. We'll see to his trial in the morning."

Before Peter could speak, a soft hand circled his arm, and Cecily was beside him. He meant to push her aside, but she dug her fingers in and spoke before he could do more.

"It is all a mistake, Lord Acton. He has returned my painting, just as promised. Hodges was hasty in reporting its theft. And it is only your desire to catch a thief that makes you claim Mr. Denning is the highwayman. He could not have possibly been the man to rob you. He was with me that night."

A gasp went up around the room, and even Peter narrowed his eyes and gazed down into her innocent expression. "Cecily, I'll wring your neck for this," he murmured, pushing her aside before turning back to the magistrate.

"She is lying to protect me. I would prefer to prove my innocence in some other manner. If you will guarantee that I will see a fair trial, I will be happy to accompany you. But there will be need to call other witnesses and obtain statements from my former employers, and these things will take time. If you mean to hold the trial in the morning, then you may as well go ahead and hang me tonight."

A hint of admiration appeared in the older man's eyes as he gazed at the man determinedly shaking off the woman clinging to his arm. "I would have hanged you for stealing the lady's painting, but if she is prepared to drop those charges, I will have to spend some time investigating the others. However, I don't feel it is appropriate for you to remain here while I do so. Miss Chelmsby, I will take the gentleman with me, but you can be assured that he will be safe until such time as the charges against him can be proven."

"Lord Acton, if you do not have these men removed from my house at once, I cannot guarantee their safety. You know how these old houses are." Cecily gave a chillingly sweet smile and the men who saw it moved nervously, glancing about. "And Mr. Denning has not yet recovered from his illness. I see no reason for him to go out again in the cold night air. He will remain here, with me. Unless you are prepared to press charges, I don't think you have a choice in this matter."

A shutter slammed against a wall, making everyone jump. The various lanterns around the room flickered in a wayward breeze from out of nowhere. Cecily continued to smile, clinging to Peter's arm, while the men scattered through the room began shifting from foot to foot, mumbling about haunts. Even Lord Acton appeared untowardly perturbed.

"Cecily, I have known you since you were a child. You won't frighten me with your ghost stories. In memory of your parents, I cannot in all good conscience allow you to remain alone in this house with any man, let alone one who could be a thief and a murderer.''

There was a thud and a scream from the hall, but Cecily remained unmoved. "That was just the brass urn on the sideboard. When the wind blows in a certain direction, it falls over," she explained to Peter, who was beginning to look amused. Turning back to the magistrate, she continued their conversation. "I think you overlook the fact that he has spent nearly a week with me already. I can only be ruined once, I believe."

That was the last straw. Peter wrapped one arm around her waist and placed his other hand over her mouth, looking to the startled magistrate as he did so. "I rather suspect she's something of a witch, my lord, and as this is All Hallows' Eve, she probably needs to be restrained, but if appearances are all that concern you, I can assure you I mean to do the right thing by her as soon as possible. Otherwise, I rather suspect that painting will land on my head and break my neck before I can get back to the city."

Cecily had begun to struggle against his side, and Acton looked torn between rescuing her and gladly handing her over to any madman who could hold her down. Another sudden gust of wind doused half the lanterns and sent the iron chandelier overhead to squeaking ominously. Even the magistrate glanced upward, and said nothing as the men around him began to edge out of the room.

Hodges loomed in the doorway, painting in hand, glancing scornfully around as men dodged past his towering frame.

"Miss Chelmsby is a lady of breeding," Lord Acton said, remaining in place beneath the swinging chandelier. "I will not see her seduced and shackled by a common sailor and a possible criminal."

Peter felt the nip of Cecily's teeth beneath his palm, but this was his argument, and he didn't give her the opportunity to speak. The word or two he meant to exchange with the lady would happen in private.

With a wry nod, he indicated his wiggling captive. "Does this look like seduction to you? The lady and I have our disagreements, but I will do nothing against her will.
Nothing,"
he emphasized. "My name and reputation are honest ones, or were until you came along. I came by my wealth through hard work and good fortune, and if you object to that I am sorry, but it is not you whom I wish to marry. That choice is the lady's."

Peter winced as the lady's sharp teeth bit into the base of his palm. Two of the many salon doors slammed shut, sending all the remaining men in the room scuttling for the hall except for Lord Acton.

That gentleman began to look uncertain as he watched the irate flash of Cecily's eyes. With most of the lamps and lanterns doused, the room had descended into shadows, and the squeaks of the chandelier and shrieks of old wood rocking in the increasing wind seemed louder.

Peter adjusted his grip more comfortably. "Stop biting me, Cecily, or I will hand you over to Hodges." He
gave that gentleman a warning look that meant a meaningful discussion would follow.

Then he glanced up as if just noticing that the house seemed ready to explode around them and turned a nonchalant gaze to the magistrate. "I'll no doubt have to fight Miss Chelmsby's ghosts and goblins until I can persuade her, but you are welcome to stay and chaperone if you wish."

The urn apparently toppled from the sideboard again, and Peter grinned as the magistrate jumped. Even Cecily ceased wriggling and turned to give him a suspicious glare. Only Hodges seemed to find the abnormal sounds unsurprising. Lord Acton's son appeared in the doorway, a worried expression on his square face as he waited for his father to leave.

The magistrate cleared his throat, looked to Hodges and his son, then questioned Cecily directly. "Are you sure you would not prefer to come home with me, Miss Chelmsby? I had not realized this place had become so unsafe."

She waited for Peter to uncover her mouth and then replied quite clearly, "The cottage has been here a few hundred years, it will stand a few hundred more. You need not worry on my account."

The wind already seemed to be dying down. Hodges lit a branch of candles, and they flickered and grew brighter, revealing a well-worn but inviting salon. Acton looked around and nodded, then gave Peter a stern stare. "If I find out those charges are true, I'll see you hang, young man."

"No doubt someone deserves to, but not me. Please call again in the morning and I will give you a list of witnesses and references. You will see that I was too weak to even manage my cattle halfway to London." Peter flung Hodges a cold look. "If someone had just had a little patience, none of this would have happened."

Beginning to understand the inference, Acton also turned a cold glare to the manservant. Then, with a few lingering formalities, he departed with his son, leaving the trio in the old house to their own confrontation.