Reckless Angel (9 page)

What about Daniel's little daughters? Would they view a stepmother with fearful, hostile eyes? Was he a stern father? A loving one, she believed absolutely. But how could
she
be a mother to motherless children when she had had no mother of her own, only a travesty on which to mold herself?

And how was she to be a wife? Tentatively, she put a hand against the warm back beside her. It seemed almost like spying to touch someone in this way when he was sleeping, yet she found the feel of him comforting, a solid reality to inform her unquiet conjecturing. She let her body roll against him, the warmth of his skin lapped hers, the rhythm of his breathing
soothed her, seeming to insinuate itself into her own bodily rhythms, and she slept again.

Daniel woke at dawn to a deep sense of gloom. The war was over and lost, and the future looked bleak for a Malignant, particularly for one who had just acquired a five-hundred-pound debt. The land was in the grip of a vengeful Puritanism. He had been away from his home for six months and there was no knowing what had occurred in his absence. He had seen too many times the orchards cut down, the fields scorched, the gardens destroyed, the houses wrecked by Parliament's vengeance.

He turned his head to look at the sleeping face on the pillow beside him. What
had
he done? Not only had he at great expense bought a penniless bride, but she was such an odd and unpredictable little thing with a deal of maturing yet to do. Did he have the patience to let her grow at her own pace?

Henrietta opened her eyes, as if aware of his scrutiny, and saw the cloud on his face the instant before he banished it. “You look unhappy. What is it?” She touched his cheek with her fingertips and the initiative she showed with her tentative caress surprised him.

“Not unhappy,” he said. “But anxious to be home. I've been too long away.”

She nodded, sitting up. “Then we should rise and begone.” Energetically, she sprang from the bed, then shivered in the cold dawn. “I forgot I have no clothes on.” She gave him a glinting smile that could only be described as mischievously inviting, and again he was surprised, wondering if she were aware of the blatant sensuality of her expression. Remembering the shy and fearful maid of the previous evening, he decided it must be unconscious; anyway, now was not the moment to find out.

“Aye, we must get up,” he said. “We've sixty miles to ride today.”

Henrietta made a face. “I shall not be able to sit down for a week if I ride that distance in one day!”

He laughed, shrugging into his shirt. “Riding is apt
to work such mischief, I grant you, but you have been in the saddle every day for the best part of a month, so you should be hardened.”

“Callused,” she said with a mock groan, sitting naked on the edge of the bed to pull on her stockings.

He smiled. “Oh, I wouldn't say that.” Swooping on her, he lifted her to her feet, turning her around to run his hands over the soft curve of her buttocks and down the backs of her thighs. “Not a callus in sight.”

Blushing slightly, she gave him that same mischievous look over her shoulder. “I thought we were in a hurry.”

For a moment he wished they were not. “We are.” He gave her bottom a brisk pat and tossed her smock toward her. “Make haste. I will go and see mine host about breakfast.” Tucking his shirt into his britches, he strode to the door.

Henrietta stood frowning at the closed door. Why did she feel so funnily disappointed? It must be hunger, she decided, and dressed rapidly in her plain riding habit of dark green cloth, braided her hair neatly, looked with distaste at the porringer, then crammed it on her head before hastening to the parlor.

Will and Daniel were already at their breakfast. Will, his mouth full of sirloin, mumbled a greeting but for some reason would not meet her eye. Henrietta wondered if he was embarrassed, knowing as he must what had transpired in her bedchamber.

“Good morrow, Will,” she replied with a cheerful smile, taking her accustomed stool at the table. “I am famished.”

“What may I serve you, elf?” Daniel reached for the carving knife. “Sirloin, or do you prefer bacon?”

“Bacon,” she responded promptly, thinking she rather liked his name for her. She certainly preferred it to “child.” “Are those coddled eggs?”

Will passed her the dish and this time looked at her directly. It was a questioning, appraising look, which she returned in her usual candid fashion.

“Ale, Henrietta? Or do you prefer chocolate?” Daniel's voice broke into the moment of silent communion.

“Chocolate, if you please.” She passed her platter for the bacon he had been slicing and took the chocolate pot, pouring the dark, fragrant stream into her beaker. “Do you ride back to Wheatley today, Will?”

“Aye,” he said. “But I've a mind to see the lions first. It seems a waste to be in London and not see 'em. There's no saying when I'll be here again.”

Henrietta glanced wistfully at Daniel but said nothing. He was anxious to be gone from the city and her childish wish for the treat he had promised yesterday, before other things had intervened, must not hinder him.

Daniel heard the plea for all that it was not spoken. “Accompany Will if you wish. I must go to the office at Alder's Gate and see about passes, anyway.”

“Will they be difficult to obtain?”

Daniel shook his head. “A man is entitled to return to his home without hindrance. I can explain a sojourn in London on business without difficulty. There is no need for anyone to suspect that we are come from Preston.”

“Then I would go with Will, if y'are sure 'tis convenient.”

“Lord, Harry!” Will said in tones of mock awe. “How docile y'are become.”

Her eyes flashed, her mouth opened on rude protest, then she remembered that she was a married lady and closed her lips firmly.

Experience having taught him to expect an explosion in such instances, Daniel regarded her in as much surprise as did Will, but she continued with her breakfast as coolly as if Will had not spoken, although they could both guess at the effort it was costing her.

Daniel suppressed a smile. Such effort deserved a reward. “You may have until mid-morning to explore with Will. If we are obliged to spend a night on the road, it will not be a major tragedy.”

“I have no desire to explore with Will,” she said loftily. “We will leave for Kent as soon as you wish.”

“Oh, Harry!” Daniel said with a soft laugh. “Now you have spoiled it, and you were doing so beautifully.” He pushed back his stool and stood up. “I will leave you two to make peace. I must come to a reckoning with the landlord.”

“If you please, Sir Daniel,” Will began resolutely, his freckled face pink and earnest, “I would be glad if you would draw up an account of what I owe you. My father will repay you without delay.”

Daniel nodded easily. “Furnish me with your address, and I will write to your father.”

“Do you think he will do so?” asked Will, their squabble forgotten, when he and Henrietta were alone.

Henrietta frowned, playing with a crumb of wheaten bread on the table. “No,” she said finally, “I do not think so, but he would not hurt your pride by telling you not to be foolish.”

“But 'tis not foolish to wish to pay my way,” Will protested.

Henrietta shrugged. “Ask Esquire Osbert to approach him. Daniel will perhaps feel more comfortable dealing directly with your father.”

Will heard the natural use of their companion's name, unembellished with the courtesy title they had both always used. It was reasonable that a wife should call her husband by his given name, but somehow it seemed to put a distance between himself and Henrietta, as if she had entered some higher order of being, crossed some threshold that he had yet to pass over.

Her excitement at the sights and sounds of the city matched his, however, and the lions surpassed all expectation. Will found a shilling in a dark corner of his coat pocket, which bought them steaming hot gingerbread from a pastry cook and a blackcurrant cordial from a street vendor. They returned to the Red Lion, chattering like starlings, in perfect accord. But then they had to make their farewells, since the road to Ox
fordshire went in the opposite direction to the road to Kent.

“Come and visit us, Will.” Daniel put an arm around the young man's shoulders. “Not just to see Henrietta.” He smiled. “But I shall miss you too. You have an open invitation to Glebe Park any time ye care to take it up.”

He was rewarded by the miraculous drying of the tears crowding his bride's big brown eyes. “Oh, yes, that would be wonderful. You must come for a very long visit. Mustn't he, Daniel?”

“A very long visit,” Daniel agreed. “But now we
must
leave if we are to be out of the city before nightfall.” He waited for one last tearful embrace, then picked her up by the narrow waist and lifted her onto her horse.

Will raised a hand in farewell before trotting down the street. Henrietta sniffed, her face forlorn as she watched him go. Then she wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and straightened her shoulders. She had a new life to live now and moping over the past wasn't going to make it any easier. It would have been nice if her plan had worked and Will had married her, because he really was her best friend and she felt so comfortable with him…and he didn't have two daughters already. It wasn't that she didn't feel comfortable with Sir Daniel, but she had known Will forever…and Daniel
did
have two daughters.

“D'ye think your children will like me?” she asked, unable to keep the question in any longer.

“Of course they will,” he reassured her, turning his horse in the narrow lane. “Y'are a very likable girl.”

Somehow the compliment wasn't sufficient to banish her unease, and as they rode through the long day, coming into the soft green lushness of the county of Kent, she became unnaturally silent. Daniel did not notice, so preoccupied was he himself, looking about him, taking in the evidence of Parliament's devastating vengeance on some of the large manorial estates, remarking the inevitable aftermath of war—the crops un
harvested because there had been no men to work the fields; the unpicked fruit, spoiled by wasps, falling from the orchard trees to rot upon the ground.

What would he find on his own estate?—an estate that had been in the Drummond family since the time of Henry Tudor. Daniel had been accustomed to considering himself a more than ordinarily rich man, but he could now be reduced to penury at the whim of Parliament. Sequestration of his estates would leave him with nothing. He would have no choice but to take his family across the Channel to shift as best they could with the other ruined noble families crowding the courts of Europe, begging and borrowing. A crippling fine would at least leave him with his house and land, and the opportunity to recover. There was land he could sell to pay the fine, depending on how heavy it was.

They were gloomy speculations and did not encourage conversation. Henrietta was left to her own reflections and the growing unease of hunger and fatigue. Tom had gone ahead the day before to alert the household to the safe and imminent return of the family's head. He had left early in the morning, so he bore no message that Sir Daniel was bringing home a wife. It would be easier, Henrietta thought, if she were expected. Or would it? If she were not, no one would have been able to build up fears or expectations.

Her stomach growled in embarrassingly loud protest. It had been a long time since the gingerbread, and an eternity since breakfast. The sun was already low in the sky. Surely they would not ride through the night? They had no escort and the roads were dangerous.

“We will stay this night at my sister's house,” Daniel said. “'Tis but another twenty minutes.” He offered her a distracted smile, realizing guiltily that he had been barely conscious of her presence until her body had declared its famished condition. “Frances keeps a good table and will welcome us warmly.”

“She will welcome your wife so unexpectedly?”
Henrietta asked, her heart sinking. He had never mentioned a sister.

“Of course.” Daniel thought it best not to tell his bride of his original plan for her future—a plan in which Frances was to have played a larger part than her brother. “She is married to Sir James Ellicot of Ellicot Park.”

“Is she older than you?”

“Aye, by some thirteen months,” he replied. “And childless, to her sorrow.”

“She cannot bear children?” Henrietta asked matter-of-factly. While the minute details of the process by which children were conceived had been unknown to her, the dangers of pregnancy, the process of birth, and the all-too-frequent deaths of children were part of the fabric of life, familiar to all from the moment they opened their minds to the world.

“She has never carried a child to term,” he replied, equally matter-of-fact. “There…” He pointed with his whip toward a hill crowned by a large house of graceful proportions. “We will take the next lane and arrive in time for supper.”

“For one who has had no dinner,” Henrietta said, “supper will be more than welcome.”

“Yes, I had gathered you were in some need.” He found his preoccupation receding under the knowledge that within a short time he would hear all he needed to know from Frances and James. They would have been watching over his household and his concerns during his absence and would be able to confirm his fears or put them to rest. He touched spur to his mount, drawing away from Henrietta as they began to climb the hill.

Henrietta encouraged her more laggardly nag to keep nose to tail so that they clattered onto the driveway in front of the house looking as if they were journeying together. The door was flung open almost before Daniel had dismounted. There was a cry of joy, a flurry of skirts, and Daniel disappeared into a fervent embrace.

“Oh, Daniel, I cannot believe 'tis really you.” Fran
ces at last stood back, holding his hands, examining his face. “You escaped without hurt?”