The Savage Miss Saxon (7 page)

The old man cocked his head to one side at that thought. “That’s true enough, Linton, I suppose, although only the blood line will go on. The name dies with me.”

Here it comes, Nicholas thought gloomily. Here’s where I either save the day or end up getting a firsthand look at the infamous Saxon dungeons. “How fortunate for you to bring up the subject, Sir Alexander—the subject of marriage, that is,” the Earl began staunchly. He paused for a moment to run a finger under his suddenly tight collar. “You see, sir—”

“Oh give over, you idiot,” Alexandra broke in. “Lord knows what you have to say won’t improve any with keeping.” Turning to her grandfather she told him baldly, “This fool here says I have to marry him.”

“By thunder!” Sir Alexander bellowed, and turned to peer very hard at his lordship.

Nicholas returned the man’s look with a lopsided smile. “I imagine you can ascertain from the lady’s tone that she ain’t mad for the notion. Perhaps if we all sat down, I could explain everything for you.”

“Married?” Sir Alexander thundered again. “Explain, you say? This calls for some serious discussion. Nutter!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the high rafters. “Fetch us some sustenance—and bring me my Hollands.”

At Alexandra’s questioning look Nicholas leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Hollands is a sort of gin. It may look like the old boy’s drinking water, but I assure you no mere glass of water packs the punch of Sir Alexander’s Hollands.”

They adjourned to one of the trestle tables, Nicholas and Alexandra sharing a bench on one side while Sir Alexander arranged his ample behind on another bench across the table from them.

An uneasy silence was maintained until Nutter and the other servant deposited a tray of strange-looking meat and a decanter of Hollands in front of their master. There were glasses enough for three, but it seemed they were all to share the same bowl of meat, as Sir Alexander demonstrated by picking out one greasy-looking morsel and popping it into his mouth before pushing the bowl in their direction and waving a hand over it in a move that said, “Help yourselves.”

Nicholas had eaten at Saxon Hall before—which explained his sudden loss of appetite. Alexandra was not so forewarned. She dipped her fingers into the bowl and lifted out a large chunk of meat, putting the entire piece into her mouth at one time. Mannering watched her face in amusement as he waited for her reaction. It was not long in coming. First her dark eyes widened. Then her throat began to work convulsively. As he looked more closely, he could have sworn he saw little beads of perspiration break out beneath her eyes.

Before he could put out a hand to stop her, she grabbed the goblet in front of her and took a large gulp of Hollands in hopes of putting out the fire in her mouth. It didn’t—it merely added fuel to the flames. As she broke into paroxysms of coughing and sputtering, Mannering helpfully pounded on her back, trying his best not to ruin the effect of his solicitude by dissolving into laughter.

“Nutter,” he asked the servant once Alexandra had regained some control over herself, “tell me—do you
boil
this meat?”

“Boil it, my lord? No sir, it weren’t boiled. I jist cooked it like alwas, rollin’ the pork first in salt, then in ginger, galingole, cloves, and two kinds of pepper. The master likes to know when he’s got sumthin in his mouth, so he alwas says.”

“You knew that would happen,” Alexandra charged Mannering angrily as she wiped her tears on the sleeve of her dress. “How dare you not warn me? Oh, for two pins I’d dump the whole of that poisonous dish smack down on top of your insufferable head!”

“The devil you will, gel!” Sir Alexander exploded, wiping his hands on his chest. “By Jupiter, only Charles could sire such a bad-mannered female. Six of the best with the birch rod, Linton—that’s what this one needs.”

“I’ll keep it in mind, sir,” Nicholas answered, grinning broadly at the still fuming Alexandra. “But I must tell you that your granddaughter has little reason to love me. You see, sir, she hasn’t exactly had an easy time of it since she set foot on her homeland.”

“It is not my homeland, and you know it,” Alexandra interrupted.

“Sit still and keep your mouth shut!” her grandfather commanded in a voice that shook the gin goblets. “Linton—carry on.”

“Yes—er—yes, sir. Well, as I was saying, Alexandra has had quite a time of it. Traveling by post chaise is never comfortable, and from her few confidences it would seem her journey was more uncomfortable than most. Possibly this explains the extreme fatigue that led her to take herself off to a bedchamber last night without first making quite sure she was—er—precisely where she thought she was. You see, sir,” and now Mannering measured each word carefully, “she thought she had arrived at Saxon Hall when in reality she was somewhere else altogether. As a result, she spent the night under the roof of an all-male residence, unwittingly compromising herself quite thoroughly.”

Sir Alexander bounded to his feet, the bench he had been sitting on toppling over onto the stone floor. “By Jupiter, I never before heard the like. Whose roof was she under?” he asked, leaning his hands on the table and peering into Linton’s face.

Nicholas swallowed hard. “In point of fact, sir, it was
my
roof.”

Here it comes at last, Alexandra thought smugly. Now this insufferable, one-eyed simpleton will get his comeuppance. Go on, grandfather, she urged silently, tear a strip off his hide. Her satisfied smirk faded before it ever really had much of a chance to begin, however, when Sir Alexander boomed, “Confound it, lad, that’s a splendid piece of news! I had thought you had taken one look at the gel here and fallen arsy-varsy in love with the chit like I did with her grandmother. Stands to reason, don’t it, for she is a fetching piece. But this is even better—compromised her, did you? Splendid! Never could abide those long-drawn-out engagements. With any luck I should have a great-grandson to dandy on my knee before the first snowfall next winter.”

Now it was Alexandra’s turn to hop to her feet. “Well if that don’t beat the Dutch!” she charged. “My own grandfather pushing me into marriage within an hour of learning of my existence. Well, let me tell you, old man, I’ll be having none of it. Harold!
Harold!
” she yelled in the direction of the kitchens, “
N’dellemúske! Wischiksik!
”

For once Sir Alexander was nonplussed. He looked from his granddaughter to Lord Linton in bewilderment before at last asking, “Who is Harold? Why’s she spouting gibberish?”

The huge Indian had heard Alexandra call to him that she was leaving and wished him to come quickly. Such a command was not to be taken lightly, he knew, and he took one last bite of the greasy meat he had been throwing down his gullet with as little notice to its spicy flavoring as if it were no more seasoned than a bit of brown bread before running soundlessly up the stairs and into the Great Hall.

“I said—who is Harold?” some strange-looking fat man dressed up like a wild turkey was asking as the Indian entered.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Harold strode kinglike into the Hall, not stopping until he was breathing straight down into Sir Alexander’s face. “
Lennápe n’hackey
,” he pronounced in regal tones—telling Sir Alexander he was a Lenape—whereupon the old man took three paces backward and, tripping over the raised platform, plunked rudely rump down on the boards. By Jupiter!” he breathed in awed tones. “By bloody damn Jupiter...”

Chapter Three

A
lix wearily dragged herself up the steep spiral stone staircase that led from just outside the Great Hall to her own sleeping chamber, her feet treading soundlessly in the moccasins Harold had sewn for her the previous summer. As she climbed, she began working at undoing the dozens of buttons that closed the front of her heavy worsted gown, wishing yet again that she had the daring to wear the fringed, knee-length buckskin dress that had also been a gift from the Indian—it certainly wasn’t as cumbersome as this gown. But Sir Alexander had been put out enough over the moccasins—saying they were instruments of the devil—all because they had made her approach so silent that her “Good morning” had caused him to jump, spilling his goblet of “gripe water.”

Gripe water, she grimaced, as she sank down on a chair and rubbed at the back of her neck. Hollands, that’s what it was—and at ten in the morning no less! Alix gave a cynical half-smile as she thought of the different names her grandfather gave to his gin. Geneva, The Last Shift, colic water, Cobbler’s Punch, Crank, Diddle, Heart’s Ease—even Frog’s wine—and just once when he thought she was out of earshot, Strip Me Naked! He had a different name for every occasion, every time of day, but the contents of his goblet remained the same—potent gin.

She had her work cut out for her, that much was sure, if she intended to break her grandfather of his drinking habit. Not that this was the least of her worries. Oh no. It was only a small part of the budget of woe she had to deal with before her conscience would free her to leave this accursed island and return to Philadelphia.

Dressed at last in her nightgown, Alix turned down the heavy quilt on the only bright spot on her heavily clouded horizon—the massive feather bed that welcomed her each night like an old friend. When she had first seen the bed—a large, curtained affair set on a heavy wooden frame laced with ropes and topped by a huge, thick mattress—she had thought she’d died and gone to heaven. The mattress was stuffed full with duck feathers and down, a filling that molded itself around her slim body and was as welcome a refuge as a mother’s embrace. With the coverlet tucked up under her chin it was almost easy to believe that a night spent in such a paradise could only be a foretaste of a glorious day to follow. Such however, was not the case, as she had found out in no uncertain terms on that first inglorious morning. It had taken only one trip to the garderobe—the small latrine that served as the only water closet for the donjon—to disabuse her of the notion that she had indeed died during the night and gone to her reward.

It wasn’t that she was a female overused to luxury—Chas had never been rich—but never before had she realized how spoiled for creature comforts she was as when she had first spied out the small, cold room with no amenities save a low, stone slab with a hole in its center. No wonder the knights were forever going on crusades—she thought evilly—they were probably searching for an alternative to that icy slab on cold winter mornings! Drat Nicholas Mannering anyway—for wasn’t it he who had first mentioned the plumbing at the castle?

Yes, Alix thought meanly as she punched at her feather cocoon, drat that Nicholas Mannering. She would never forgive him for the way he had acted when Harold’s appearance in the Great Hall that first day had served to give her grandfather such a turn. It was bad enough he had offered not a single word of explanation to the man, but she could have brought herself to forgive him this lapse if he hadn’t taken it into his stupid head just then to plunk himself down on the trestle table and howl like a delighted half-wit.

While Sir Alexander had stuttered and stared, Harold had growled and stared back, and Nicholas had rolled about giggling like the village idiot, it had been left to Alix to try to sort some sense out of the muddle. It hadn’t been easy, she recollected, wrinkling up her nose. Only after Harold had been convinced to leave the room and return to his meal could Alix find time to calm her grandfather before he could be taken off in an apoplexy, all thoughts of her departure abandoned.

“You scoundrel,” she’d then accused the Earl. “And you said you would help me.”

Nicholas had just then been busy wiping at his streaming eyes with his handkerchief—lifting the black velvet patch slightly to dab underneath it. “I
am
trying, honestly I am,” he had protested before going off into another round of giggles.

Putting her hands on her hips, Alix then had struck a quite menacing pose. “Oh aren’t you just,” she had sneered back at him before pointing a finger at the door. “Go home, Nicholas,” she had ordered him. “You’ve become dreadfully in the way.”

“Now, Alix,” Nicholas had parried, trying manfully to control his hilarity at seeing the usually overbearing Sir Alexander reduced to blubbering insensibility, “don’t poker up on me. Remember, we are betrothed.”

“In a pig’s eye, we are,” she had denied hotly, this last finally succeeding in getting through her grandfather’s shock at seeing Harold and bringing him smartly to his feet.

“Linton,” the old man had challenged the Earl hastily, “don’t listen to the gel; she’s got no say in the matter. She’s just like her grandmother—a damned handsome, obstinate woman. But never fret, she’ll come round. In the meantime, sir, I’m holding you to your bargain.” Harold may have temporarily muddled Sir Alexander’s senses, but that didn’t mean he’d entirely lost his wits. It was a splendid match—the wedding of two ancient, honored names in the district. He’d be damned if he’d let Chas’s one good deed—providing him with a granddaughter—slip through his fingers without first making good use of her.