Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (29 page)

"No." Mitchell turned away, picked up a dainty Sevres compote
dish and inspected it unseeingly.

Angered, Harry exclaimed, "Good God, Mitch! If this coup does
not convince you, I do not know what will! You longed to face Claude.
You did, and—"

"And learnt to the full what cowardice—real,
panicked
cowardice—feels like."

Harry caught his breath. With his tense gaze fixed on that
stern averted profile, he waited.

"When Claude discovered my true identity, he—" Mitchell set
the compote dish down with care and turned to face him. "He questioned
me."

"Bastard! With his fists, I take it?"

"No. With a whip."

Harry stiffened and his dark brows drew together over slitted
eyes.

"I showed yellow as a dog," said Mitchell flatly, his head
well up, but his thin hands clenching and unclenching nervously.

"Well, er, well, dammit, of course you did! What more natural,
considering that only a year ago you were near killed by that flogging
you—" Mitchell jerked his head away. And longing to throw an arm about
those rigid shoulders, Harry said stoutly, "You recovered yourself.
That's the important thing. In spite of your very natural reaction, you
got them out of there."

"Guy got us out. I recovered myself I suppose you could say;
to a point, that is all."

Indignant, Harry argued, "Miss Strand said you fought like a
tiger. That don't sound like 'to a point.' "

Mitchell could no longer meet those fiercely loyal eyes, but
Harry must know the bitter truth. His voice began to falter, as he
said, "When Claude threatened me with that whip, I couldn't describe
how I felt. And—when it struck me… oh, it wasn't the pain that I mean,
exactly. It was as if I was— petrified. I simply couldn't move. If—if
Guy hadn't torn the whip from Claude—" He took a deep, trembling
breath. "I doubt you'd be proud of me today,
Sauvage
."

Damning Claude Sanguinet from the depths of his soul, Harry
growled, "I am not proud of you now. You blasted idealistic young
idiot! What you experienced was shock. And perfectly understandable.
Good God, Mitch,
must
you set yourself on a
pedestal so impossibly high you're not allowed to be human?"

"Set myself on a—" gasped Mitchell. "Well, of all the—"

"Be still! Now you just listen for a minute! I've seen better
men than you, or me, or even Leith, panic in battle: seasoned fighting
men who suddenly faced something they could not deal with, so that they
ran, screaming, from the field. And I've seen the best of them come
back and fight again—more gallantly than before." Harry paced to grip
Mitchell's arm strongly. "Give yourself a chance, you blasted
high-in-the-instep young chawbacon!''

Mitchell shook his head miserably. "You say that now. But if
I'd behaved in so cowardly a way on a battlefield, you'd have likely
had me shot out of hand." Before Harry could comment, he pulled a
small, battered notebook from his pocket. "I carried this in my boot
until today. You take charge of it, Sir Captain. Diccon thought it
vital that it should be delivered with the greatest despatch to someone
in authority. Wellington, I'd think would be—"

"The devil I will!" Harry waved the book away. "I don't want
the blasted thing!
You
got it.
You
deliver it."

"For the love of God! Have you understood
nothing
I've told you? If Claude should get his hands on me again, and I have
this, I might—"

"Turn yellow, as you did this time?" finished Harry brutally.

Stunned, Mitchell stared at him.

"Panic for an instant?" went on Harry. "Then fight on, as you
did this time? Well, what in hell's wrong with that? Oh no, my lad!
You'll not shove the responsibility off onto me. I've the utmost faith
in you. Besides—" he slanted an oblique glance at Mitchell's pale face,
and added, "I've done my share. I fought on the Peninsula.
You
didn't, you young rapscallion." His own heart twisted as he saw his
brother flinch. "I'm getting old," he said blandly.

"Old!" exclaimed Mitchell. "You're not
thirty
!"

"Ah, but I've lived hard…" He paused, the twinkle fading from
his eyes. He said awkwardly, "And you forget, I've watched you grow up.
I
know
that you could not possibly be a coward,
Mitch."

Through a long silent moment their eyes met and held, the
affection they usually disguised now very apparent. Then Harry said
with an embarrassed laugh, "You'd
better
not
be—else I shall have to break your stupid neck!"

Mitchell turned away. His voice rather muffled, he said,
"Damned… cawker…"

Yolande Drummond Leith was only a little taller than Charity,
and if her figure was more rounded, the difference in dress size was
not so marked as to be impossible. Torn by guilt lest her determination
cause the gentlemen to be delayed, Charity changed into a dashing dark
blue riding habit, with trembling haste jammed a jaunty little blue hat
on the curls the abigail had hurriedly brushed into a semblance of
neatness, and all but ran along the hall once more.

She had been quicker than she knew; the men were gathered on
the drive, watching grooms lead fine saddled horses from the stables, a
closed carriage following.

Lion, holding Little Patches, came over. "You'll let me go
along wi' you, Miss Charity?" he pleaded.

"Of course," she answered with a reassuring smile. "However
could we—" She checked to a faint sound like a distant shout that
seemed to be coming from— She jerked her head back. A small figure,
high atop the battlements, waved madly. Spinning around she saw many
men racing up the side path from the beach. Men armed with pistols,
muskets, clubs, or the gleaming steel of sword and dagger. And to one
side stood Claude Sanguinet, bruised and hatless, aiming a pistol at
Tristram Leith's back.

''
Tris!''
screamed Charity.

Leith whipped around.

Without a second's hesitation, Guy sprang in front of him.

A bright flame blossomed from the pistol. Horrified, Charity
heard the following blast of the shot. Guy jerked backwards and fell.

The men grouped about Leith exploded into action. A volley of
shots sent the attackers scattering for cover.

Leith shouted, "Mitch!
Go
! We'll hold
'em as long as we can!"

Mitchell, now clad in a riding coat and boots borrowed from
Tyndale, at once swung into the saddle of a fine grey horse. Crouching
low over the animal's mane, he drove home his spurs and was away like
the wind, a flurry of shots following.

Devenish sprinted to throw an arm around Charity and drag her
around to the far side of the castle. Far below she caught a glimpse of
a large ship riding at anchor, a longboat making towards the shore,
crowded with more men.

"That triple damned idiot," fumed Devenish, glancing at the
battlements. "Was he asleep up there?"

"Look! Look!" cried Charity. "Another boat, Dev!"

"The devil! Our Claude has brought a whole blasted battalion
of his rogues with him! You must get out of this!"

Another outburst of shots, and Strand ran up leading a
frightened bay horse. "Here you go, love," he cried, beckoning Charity
to him. "Hurry!"

She ran to his side. He kissed her and threw her into the
saddle. It was not a sidesaddle, but she threw one knee over the pommel
and took the reins, bending to call a frantic, "But what about you and—"

"Follow Redmond!" said Strand. "We'll come."

The shots became louder and closer. Devenish slapped the
horse's rump sharply. The mare needed no more urging and bolted madly
down the drive.

Half an hour later, having caught sight of Mitchell Redmond
only three times, Charity surmounted a steep hill and scanned the road
ahead in desperation. Her anxious gaze swept across dimpling emerald
valleys and gentle hills framed by the dark blue of distant mountains.
Here and there the chimneys of some isolated farmhouse rose above the
trees. A corner of her mind scolded that the Scots called them crofts,
not farms… Black-faced sheep grazed contentedly on the slope to her
left. The sun came out from behind racing clouds, sending shadows
scudding across the land. At any other time she would have joyed in the
beauty of it all, but now she knew only dismay because as far as she
could see there was no sign of horse and rider.

She turned in the saddle, looking fearfully back the way she
had come. There was no sign of Claude's relentless followers, but
neither did any loved and familiar figures gallop to accompany her. She
urged her mount on, wondering miserably if Justin was unhurt… if Guy
had been killed, or—

She gave a squeak of fright as she rounded a sharp curve and a
horseman charged from a stand of birches beside the road.

Lowering his levelled pistol, Redmond gasped, "You! Good God!
I thought—"

"Thank heaven," Charity babbled. "I was afraid I had quite
lost you!"

He restored the pistol to his saddle holster, glanced
northwards and asked, "Where are the others? Is my brother all right,
do you know?"

"I don't! I dare not think—" She broke off, biting her lip and
trying not to cry. "Justin threw me onto this horse and sent me after
you. Another longboat was coming ashore and many men. I am so afraid…"
Her voice shredded into silence.

Redmond said harshly, "Nonsense. They'll do their possible.
They're a damned fine bunch. Just now, ma'am, I am going to have to
ride like fury. Keep up if you can, but when we come into Dumfries I
must leave you and head south very fast, if I'm to have any chance of
reaching the Pavilion by Wednesday evening."

So he doubted her ability to keep up. It was true that she was
not used to lengthy rides, but her health was vastly improved these
days. She just might surprise the gentleman! And so, when he spurred,
she spurred also. Redmond rode a big grey gelding; her own mount had an
untiring stride that ate up the miles steadily. But their way led
through country that became increasingly hilly, and often Redmond had
to slow to rest the horses.

Five hours later, Charity was aching with fatigue and parched
with thirst. But she knew that Redmond often glanced back the way they
had come, and she resolved to fall dead from the saddle before she
would beg him to stop.

The wind was colder and the clouds darkening when he turned
into the yard of a croft nestled in a small valley. He dismounted with
easy grace and no sign of weariness, but when he reached to lift
Charity down, she stared at him blankly for a moment, doubting her
ability to move.

One dark brow lifted, the side of his mouth twisting into a
faint sneer that inflamed her. She slipped from the saddle. He caught
her waist, which was fortuitous, for her legs were numbed, and she
tottered for an instant.

He murmured, "I'm sorry, Miss Strand. This must be very taxing
for you."

"I shall… manage," she gasped defiantly, but Mitchell's steady
gaze caused her to be oddly flustered. She stepped back and
remembering, took out her handkerchief, unwrapped Claude's ruby ring
and thrust it at him. "Here, take this horrid thing."

He stared down at the great ruby, then put it into his
waistcoat pocket as the door of the small house opened.

The crofter came out to them. "Is it food or fresh horses
ye'll be after, sir?" he asked in a thick Scots accent." I can gie ye
the vittles. But ye'll need tae ride tae McDougall's fer hacks."

A scrawny woman, wiping red, work-roughened hands on an
immaculate apron, came to the door. " Tis only a wee way, sir," she
said with a friendly smile. "If ye'd prefair it, ma mon can gae fer ye,
while ye set and eat. I've some pork pie ye're welcome tae."

"Splendid." Redmond handed the reins to the crofter. "Will you
be so very good as to take care of these animals until they're sent
for? And get me the best mounts you can hire from your neighbour. My
sister and I are summoned to Carlisle. Our father lies dangerously ill
there." He discussed the arrangements briefly, pressed a guinea into
the man's hand and was rewarded by a delighted grin. "Now, ma'am," he
said, turning to the farm wife, "If we may impose on you?"

She bobbed a curtsey and ushered them through a tiny over
furnished parlour and into a wide kitchen, fragrant and cosy, with a
fine fire leaping on the hearth, and a small table before it.

Twenty minutes later, washed, fed, and refreshed, they went
outside to find two likely-looking mounts already waiting. Redmond paid
the costs from the fat purse Harry had thrust into his hand only
seconds before Sanguinet's appearance. He turned to boost Charity into
the saddle, only to hesitate and remark frowningly that she could not
continue without a proper sidesaddle. "You had best stay here until—"

Charity was already very unpleasantly aware of the long and
awkward ride this morning, but she said a dauntless, "No! Help me up,
if you please. I'll ride astride."

"Astride!" His gaze flickered over her habit. "In that?"

"It will serve," she said confidently, while praying the skirt
would not split when she mounted.

He scowled. "Of all the ridiculous—"

"We waste time, brother dear," she reminded sweetly.

Redmond gave her a level look and bent to receive her boot,
which he thought absurdly small, and tossed her up into the saddle.

Before her accident, Charity had been something of a tomboy,
and this was not her first experience at riding astride, so that her
mount was not as gruesome as Redmond had anticipated. However, although
Yolande's habit was sturdily made, it had not been intended for such a
reach and it slid above Charity's ankles revealingly as she settled
into the saddle.

The crofter and his wife stared, patently astonished. Redmond
slanted an embarrassed glance at them. "Women!" he muttered, and strode
to his own mount.