eISBN : 978-1-101-47733-5
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
http://us.penguingroup.com
Chapter 1
Northallerton, Yorkshire
March 1765
H
e was drunk, but could still see well enough in the dimly lit street. Well enough to detect ruffians at work. And that the victim was a woman.
Catesby Burgoyne grinned, drew his sword, and charged. At his battle cry the ruffians whirled toward him, eyes white rimmed, mouths agape. And then they fled.
Cate staggered to a halt, flailing his sword. “Come back!” he roared. “Come back, you scum, and meet my blade!”
Only their fleeing footsteps answered.
“Damn your blasted eyes,” he muttered. “A bit of slaughter’s just what I need.”
A breathy sound made him turn, sword rising again, but it was only the woman, leaning against a house wall, staring at him.
The narrow street was lit only by two feeble householder lamps, so all he could see was pallor and shadows. Pale face surrounded by loose, pale hair. A dark gown that covered her neck to toe. Gown was respectable. Hair wasn’t. Couldn’t be respectable, could she, out alone at night?
He shoved his sword back into its scabbard. “You must be new to the trade, sweetheart, to dress so dully.” Damnation, where were his manners? No need to be crass because she was a whore and he was at odds with the world.
He bowed. “Catesby Burgoyne, ma’am, at your service. May I escort you to your destination?”
She shook her head, mute.
He walked closer to see her better. She tried to shrink back, but the wall was relentless.
“Please . . .” she whispered. A thin hand clutched a shawl at her chest as if it could be a breastplate.
Cate was trying to come up with reassurance when a door opened nearby and a flat Yorkshire voice asked, “Wot’s going on ’ere, then?”
The stocky man carried a candle that illuminated his face and straggling hair more than them. Even so, the woman turned away as if to hide her face.
She had a reputation to lose?
“The lady was attacked, sir,” Cate said, striving to hide all trace of gin from his voice. “The villains have fled and I’ll see her safely home.”
The man peered, but like all sane people, he didn’t go looking for trouble. Probably Cate’s aristocratic tone helped him along that path. “Good night to ye, then,” he said, and shut his door.
Cate turned back to the woman. She still stared at him, but the intervention of someone from the ordinary world seemed to have restored her voice.
“I must thank you, Mr. Burgoyne,” she said on uneven breaths. “But, please, there’s no need to delay you longer.”
A well-bred voice. Her left hand bore no ring. Where was her father or brother to permit this?
“I may not be the most perfect of gentlemen, ma’am, but I cannot leave a lady to walk the night streets alone.”
“I live very close by. . . .”
“Then this will delay me little.”
He gestured her onward. He’d commanded men in battle. Surely he could command one ordinary woman. She did move forward, stiff with wariness.
Or anger?
Now, that was interesting. He assessed her as best he could in the gloom. Hard to judge her looks, but her features seemed set in . . . resentment. Yes, that was it. Resentment. She might have reason to be wary of him, but why in Hades should she resent him? She was also dawdling, but he would not be put off.
“Your direction, ma’am?”
She quickened her steps as if she might outpace him—a thin, sour thing, all sharp angles and antipathy.
He kept up without effort. “Unwise to venture out alone so late, ma’am.”
“I merely wished to walk.”
“I have no pressing engagements. If you desire a stroll, I could escort you for miles.”
Her angles became harder, which vaguely amused him. A blessing that, on such a dismal day.
They’d arrived at the main street of the town. He saw no one else on foot, but this was also the Great North Road, lined with inns, all still open, hoping for late trade. A coach rattled by and turned through the arch to the Golden Lion, the best inn in town.
To the left lay the Queen’s Head, a mangy, ill-run place where he’d failed to drown his sorrows. He’d escaped into fresh air, but fresh March air was cold up here in Yorkshire, and the next London coach didn’t pass by until early morning. He’d need a bed for the night somewhere, but could only afford to share a room with others.
The woman was simply standing there.
“Forgotten where you live, ma’am?” he drawled.
She turned sharply to face him. “Why are
you
walking the streets at night?”
“A man is allowed to, ma’am. Especially one with a sword, who knows how to use it.”
“Men are allowed anything, whilst we poor women have no rights at all.”
Ah
. “What man in particular has offended you? I have a sword and know how to use it.”
She gave a short laugh. “You’ll not call out my brother.”
“He wouldn’t fight?”
“Only in court. He’s a lawyer.”
“The lowest form of scum.”
He meant it as the general, common gibe, but she said, “He is indeed.”
What had the fraternal scum done to her? Something he could avenge? He was done with war, but at this moment bloody violence would be immensely satisfying.
“His name and location?” he demanded.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Perhaps he has an excuse for scumminess if you flail him with such a razor tongue.”
“You’d be sharp if . . .
Oh!
” It was pure exasperation. “I suppose, being a man, you’ll insist on having your way. Very well.”
She marched across the street and into a lane lined by rows of small cottages, where she stopped by the fourth door. “Good night, sir.”
The breathy hiss was angry, but cautious. So, she didn’t want to alert the neighbors to her improper behavior. The only light here escaped from a couple of shuttered windows, but Cate could tell her small house probably had only two rooms on each floor. From her bearing and speech, she’d come down in the world.
“Is your brother inside?” he asked quietly.
“No, thank God.”
“Will he be back soon?”
“Live
here
? Aaron?” She laughed, but quickly covered her mouth with her hand.
Something was wrong here, and he found lame ducks so hard to ignore. It was the bane of his life.
“If you were to invite me in, ma’am, perhaps I could advise you.”
“Invite you in?”
She looked around frantically, seeking listeners. “Go away.”
“I’m not planning a rape. You need help, but we can’t discuss your situation here.”
“We can’t discuss it anywhere. Go away or I’ll scream.”
“Truly?”
She hissed in a breath. “You wretched, drunken—”
A door opened nearby. “Whosur? Woyeruptuh?”
The old man’s accent was so thick Cate could hardly understand the words, and he was Yorkshire born and bred. The meaning was clear enough, however.
He pressed down the latch and pushed her inside. He followed, having to duck to save his head, and shut the door. They both froze in place, listening, and Cate was aware of her bony angles conflicting with a sweet smell. She took the trouble to store her clothes with herbs.
A dog whined.
Cate turned to face new danger, but the small dog looked to be a spaniel, a gentle breed. Hard to tell its mood when it stood in front of the candlelit back room, but dogs didn’t whine a threat.
The woman pushed past Cate and hurried to the dog. “It’s all right, Toby.” She fondled its floppy ears and the tail wagged.
Woman and dog went into the kitchen and so Cate followed, instinctively hunching, even though the beams cleared his head—just. The floor was beaten earth, the air damp, and the front room held only one dip-seated chair.
Had all the rest been sold off so she could survive?
What was the story here?
He ducked into the kitchen—to face a knife, held firmly in a bony hand. It was only a short kitchen knife, but probably sharp enough to do some damage.
The dog only whined again, the cowardly cur, but she, with her weapon and her fierce, determined eyes, pale hair glowing in the candlelight—she was magnificent.
Cate raised both hands. “I intend no harm, ma’am. My word on it.”
“And why should I trust your word? Leave. Now.”
“Why?” he asked, taking evidence from the room.
The tallow candle gave too little light and too much odor, but it illuminated poverty well enough. The tiny kitchen, like the whole house, was cold. If there’d been a cooking fire in the hearth it had long since burned to ashes. He saw no sign of food.
The only furniture here was a deal table with two chairs at it, and a rough sort of sideboard holding cheap pottery. Alongside pots, however, sat a few pieces of pretty china and glass. Remnants of the better life that showed in her well-bred accent and proud demeanor?
Why was this goddess alone and in such desperate straits? Why was she bedraggled and dressed so poorly? Her encompassing gown was a particularly dismal shade of black, her knitted shawl an ugly brown.
Had she truly been out on the streets attempting to earn some pennies in the only way available?
Her thinness told of hunger, but it etched strength into a face worthy of a Roman empress—high brow, long straight nose, perfectly curved lips, and a square chin. Not a face to conquer the fashionable world, but, by God, it was in danger of conquering him.
“Go!” she commanded again, but without confidence. The cowardly cur whined again, somewhere amid her skirts.
He realized his height was frightening her and sat, placing his hands on the table. Holding her eyes, he said, “I admire your courage, ma’am, but you won’t scare me away, and if it comes to a fight you’ll give me no more than a scratch. Simpler by far to sit down and tell me your story.”
She tried to hold on to her strength, but her lips quivered.
Oh, ’struth.
Cate quickly took the leather flask from his pocket and put it on the table. “Have some of this.”
“What is it?”
“Dutch courage.”
“What?”
“Geneva. Gin.”
“Gin!”
“Have you never indulged? It can sweeten bile.”
She changed her grip on the knife. Startled, he half rose to defend himself, but then she drove it, two-handed, deep into the rickety table.
“My, my,” he said after an appreciative moment. “Do please sit, drink, and tell.”
“You’ve already had too much to drink, sirrah.”
“It’s never too much unless I’m unconscious. You have glasses, I see. We could even be elegant.”
Suddenly she laughed. It was ugly, but a release of sorts. She pushed straggling hair off her face, then took two glass tumblers and slammed them on the table. She went back to open a low cupboard and returned with a bottle.
“Brandy,” she said, putting it beside the glasses. “My mother’s medicinal supply. I’ll get some water.”
“Seems a shame to dilute it.” Cate picked up the bottle and unstoppered it. “Your mother is abed upstairs?”
“My mother is dead.”
“My condolences.”
“Four months ago.”
Cate cursed his drink-blurred mind. He was being tossed pieces of a picture but couldn’t quite put them together.
She sat down opposite him, straight and proud. “Pour me some, then.”
The knife stood upright between them. Some vague reference to the sword of Damocles struggled to form, and failed.
He sniffed at the brandy. Not good stuff, but perhaps not atrocious. He poured half an inch into one glass and pushed it over to her. He poured the same into the other. He’d normally take more, but even half an inch might be enough to send her under the table. He didn’t want her sozzled, only loose tongued.
And in his arms?
No, he had no place in his life for folly like that, but he’d help her if he could.
The spaniel appeared at his knee, whining again, but this time begging for attention.
“Away with you, coward.”
“Don’t be cruel,” she said. “Toby, come here.”
The dog slid away and only then did Cate notice that it was missing a hind leg. Devil take it, a lame dog to add to a lame duck—though falcon seemed more worthy for the goddess. He picked up his glass and drank, knowing he should leave before he was entangled.
She sipped and grimaced. But then she sipped again, thoughtfully. A woman willing to explore new experiences. Another hook in his heart.
“Will you give me your name, ma’am?”
“No.”
“I’ve given you mine.”
“Then I’ve forgotten it.”
He hesitated, for the Burgoyne family home, Keynings, was less than twenty miles away, but he preferred honesty.
“Castesby Burgoyne, at your service.”
She cradled the glass as if it might warm her. “An odd name, Catesby.”
“My mother’s family name. Yes, the line of Robert Catesby who led the papist Gunpowder Plot to blow up King James the First and take his Parliament with him.”
“The Guy Fawkes affair? A strange heritage to pass on to a son.”
“I’ve often thought so, but she sees the name as representing one who stands firm to his principles.”
“Are you papist, then?”
“No, and nor is she, or her parents or grandparents.”
Her lips twitched, and humor sparked in her heavy-lidded eyes. Another hook. Or rather, two. A ready sense of humor and striking eyes. Would she laugh during the passion her eyes promised? That too was what he liked.