Brighton Road (13 page)

Gwenda, accustomed to meeting the direst of
calamities with a philosophical good humor, felt more cross than
she could ever remember. Step after wretched step they had
traveled, with no sign of the inn or the village she had sworn was
there. Ravenel said nothing, but from his grim expression she knew
it would be only a matter of time before she was treated to another
of his long homilies on her scatter-brained ways. Her anticipation
of this did little to soothe her temper.

She wrapped her arms about herself as the
rain started to come down harder, shivering with the knowledge that
she would soon be soaked to the skin. Ravenel stripped off his
coat. But the gallant gesture was diminished by the manner in which
he thrust it at her.

"No, thank you," she said. "After everything
else, I should not like to have you blaming me if you get a
chill."

She gasped when he seized her by the arm and
halted her in the middle of the road. He roughly whipped his coat
about her shoulders. When she started to discard it, he caught her
hand.

"Miss Vickers. Attempt to remove that frock
coat and I shall not be answerable for what I might do. Until I met
you, I would have sworn that I would never shout at, curse, or
strike a lady. You have already provoked me into the first two.Do
you care to risk the third?"

With two brothers Gwenda had learned long ago
not to allow herself to be bullied, but Ravenel made a most
formidable figure towering over her. Some elusive memory tugged at
her as she studied the piercing light in his dark eyes, the
rainwater glistening on his swarthy skin, his wet garments
outlining the stalwart set of his shoulders like some storm-swept
buccaneer. Then, with a jolt, she realized what it was. Dear
heavens, Ravenel looked just like Roderigo had in her recent dream.
Or had it been that Roderigo resembled Ravenel? Either way, it was
a most disconcerting discovery to make at this particular
moment.

"Thank you," she grumbled, allowing the coat
to remain around her shoulders. "But, in the future, I wish you
would have the goodness to stay out of my dreams."

The baron looked startled, but to Gwenda's
relief he merely shook his head and did not question the strange
comment she had let slip. As they resumed their trek, he lapsed
into this own dark thoughts. After a time, Gwenda saw his lips move
as though he were counting something.

"If you have anything to say"—she winced as
she trod in a puddle, the water seeping inside her already damp
slipper—"I wish you would just say it. It is an odious habit of
yours—thinking so loudly."

"I was merely making a tally, Miss Vickers.
In the last twenty-four hours I have witnessed the loss of six
horses and two carriages. It staggers the imagination."

"My carriage is not lost! I know exactly
where it is."

"Just as you knew exactly where this elusive
inn was to be found."

"We might have stood some chance of finding
it if you had let me inquire at that farmhouse we passed awhile
back." The miserable way in which Gwenda's sodden skirts were
beginning to cling to her legs inspired her with an unreasonable
urge to shift all the blame for their trouble on to Ravenel.

"It is peculiarity of men I have frequently
noticed," she said. "You can never bear to ask directions or admit
when you are lost."

The baron slicked back his rain-soaked dark
hair "At that farmhouse all you would have achieved was the
farmer's wife setting her dogs upon us. We are not precisely the
most reputable-looking couple, Miss Vickers."

As Ravenel plodded along, he drew himself
rigidly upright. Gwenda set her teeth, knowing what was coming.

"If you had not been so insistent in the
first place that you knew the way, I would have felt more of a need
to make inquiries. But then it is all of a piece with your manner
of conducting a journey, ill-conceived and ill-advised—"

"Kindly do not start doing that again!"
Gwenda stomped her foot, which had the effect of' pelting them both
with an additional spray of water.

"Doing what?" his lordship demanded.

"Lecturing me in that pompous manner. It is
another annoying habit of yours. Anyone would think you were some
aged grandsire tyrannizing over a flock of unruly
grandchildren."

"Not grandchildren, Miss Vickers, but as the
head of my family I do have responsibility for many dependents,
younger cousins whom I frequently have had to lecture, as you put
it."

"That must make them all positively dote on
you"

Ravenel flinched as though she had hit upon
some painful point, but the expression was so fleeting she might
well have imagined it. She nearly regretted her spiteful remark,
but he quickly recovered himself and began to intone, "One's duty
is not always pleasant, either for—"

"Oh, do stop! You are beginning to remind me
of Thorne again."

Ravenel shot her a questioning glance from
beneath his rain-drenched brows.

"My eldest brother, the most holy, the most
God-fearing Reverend Thornton Vickers. Jack and I always call him
Thorne because that's what he was—a thorn in our sides, forever
prosing on and tattling on us. It is very irritating to be in the
company of someone who always considers himself so superior."

Even in the gloomy half light, Gwenda could
see how Ravenel flushed. Although he appeared chagrined, he said,
"I suppose you think I should find that comparison unflattering.
But it so happens I do not. It is most heartening to hear that at
least one member of your family is respectable. Where does Reverend
Vickers hold his living?"

"He doesn't have one anymore." A hint of
wicked satisfaction crept into Gwenda's tone. "Thorne ran off to
become a Methodist. He does most of his preaching in sheep pastures
these days."

Lord Ravenel made no effort to stifle his
groan.

"Aye, even Thorne is but another one—" What
had his lordship called her family earlier? "—one of the raving mad
Vickers," Gwenda filled in, somewhat bitterly. "I daresay you think
the whole lot of us ought to be locked up in Bedlam."

The baron hunched his shoulders, looking
uncomfortable, but his jaw squared stubbornly as he replied, "Even
you must confess that your family does not exactly march in tune
with the rest of the world."

"I thank God that they don't!"

"And that any sort of common sense, notions
of propriety, or a well-ordered existence—"

"In my family, enthusiasm and dreams and and
imagination have always been valued above your odious common sense.
As for your stuffy notions of order, they don't seem to have done
much for you. You are one of the most unhappy, bad-tempered men I
have ever encountered."

"I had not the least problem with my temper,
Miss Vickers, until I—"

"I know! Until you met me." Gwenda choked, an
unaccountable lump rising into her throat. She had never felt the
need to defend herself or her family before. But his lordship's
critical attitude was beginning to raise doubts in her own mind
about the delightful skimble-skamble household in which she had
been raised, doubts that were far more dampening to her spirits
than the rain weighting down her skirts

His lordship drew up short. "Well, my odious
common sense tells me we may as well turn back. There is obviously
nothing down this road but more trees."

"There is nothing back the way we came,
either." Gwenda stubbornly kept on going. When she became aware
that Ravenel was not following, she turned to glance impatiently at
him. She was annoyed to see that Bertie had halted as well, hanging
about his lordship's heels. Even when she called his name, the
disloyal hound refused to come to her.

"We are turning back, Miss Vickers," Ravenel
said. "We need to find some sort of shelter immediately. I thought
I heard thunder just now, and if lightning starts up, I don't care
to be walking anywhere near you."

He had said worse to her, but for some reason
this last comment brought an unexpected moisture to Gwenda's eyes
that had nothing to do with the rain. "What a p-perfectly rotten
thing to say." She whipped about so that he would not see her
foolish tears. "You may do as you please, my lord. But I am going
on."

Gwenda had scarcely taken more than a
half-dozen steps when she heard him coming after her. She dashed
rain and salt water from her eyes, then stiffened, fully prepared
to resist if he attempted to turn her about by force. To her
astonishment, he merely proceeded to arrange his coat more firmly
about her—a ridiculous gesture, for the garment was as sopping as
her gown beneath.

"You are right, my dear," he said softly. "It
was rotten. I have been behaving in a most boorish fashion and I do
beg your pardon."

Gwenda tried to harden her heart against him,
but it was difficult to do so when the harsh planes of Ravenel's
face were gentled by the hint of warmth in his eyes. As she
falteringly accepted his apology, she found that she could not meet
his gaze. He astonished her further by tucking her arm firmly
within the crook of his and guiding her down the road with as much
solemn gallantry as though they were taking a stroll through St.
James's Park. Although the rain descended upon them in even harder
gusts and a threatening rumble of thunder shook the sky, Gwenda
experienced a strange feeling of being warm and secure.

Then, as if by some kind of fairy's magic,
when they rounded the next bend of the road, she espied the
outlines of a building set back amidst the trees.

"Ravenel, there it is," Gwenda said
excitedly. "The inn I told you about." Her spirits soared as she
felt vindicated. She had been leading them in the right direction
all the time.

She was pleased to see his lordship looking
considerably heartened. Giving her hand a squeeze, he said, "My
dear Miss Vickers. Pray forgive my ever having doubted you. May
wild horses tear me in two if I ever cast aspersions upon your
judgment again."

She giggled when, despite the rain beating
down upon them, he paused to sweep her a mock-gallant bow,
exhibiting a playful side to his nature that she would never have
dreamed he possessed. For once Ravenel seemed to share her feelings
of being nigh giddy with the relief of seeing their ordeal about to
come to an end, with the prospect of a warm fire, a dry shelter,
and a place to rest aching feet.

Linking arms once more, Gwenda and Ravenel
splashed through the puddles like a pair of rowdy urchins. Bertie
raced ahead of them, barking, showing more frisk than he had the
past mile and more. Gwenda's mood of exhilaration did not abate
until they slogged through the mud of the yard itself. But as she
glanced about her, her heart slowly sank with dismay. This was not
any inn she had ever patronized and she found herself wishing she
was not about to do so now.

The tumbledown stables appeared fit for
nothing but sheltering the most spectral sort of horses Far from
the comforting bustle to be found at the White Hart, not so much as
one carriage, one groom, or one ostler was to be seen. The
puddle-soaked yard appeared so deserted that Gwenda jumped at the
loud banging of a stable door. Her flesh prickled with the uncanny
sensation of being watched. And Bertie, her friendly-to-a-fault
Bertie, emitted a low growl from his throat.

She all but flung herself against Ravenel's
chest when the inn itself was illumined by a jagged flash of
lightning. If she had been designing a roost for bandits or a home
for wayfaring ghosts, or even conjuring up an isolated spot for
murder to be done, her imagination could not have produced anything
that would rival this place. It was a decrepit-looking Tudor
structure: the wooden beams projected an aura of decay, the
mullioned windows glared like baleful dark eyes. The inn sign
creaked in the wind, its chipped paint depicting a scantily clad
prizefighter, its faded letters proclaiming The Nonesuch.

Ravenel eased Gwenda away from him. The rain
pelted his face as he tipped back his head to glance at the sign
and she could tell he had already forgotten his recent vow not to
cast any more aspersions on her judgment His whole manner was one
of insufferable resignation, as though he had been expecting all
along that she would bring down some fresh calamity upon his
head.

"I am sure it is much more congenial on the
inside," Gwenda said, feeling her defensive hackles start to
rise.

She watched the baron reach for the
wrought-iron door handle and had to fight back an urge to stop him.
But what could she say? That the Nonesuch gave her a very bad
feeling? Ravenel would only fancy her a bigger fool than he already
did. She had no choice but to suppress her forebodings.

The rusted iron hinges screeched like an evil
bird of omen as he thrust wide the inn door.

The castle walls, cold and bleak, closed
about the Lady Emeraude like a well of doom. The stones themselves
seemed wrought of evil, mortared with the blood of innocents,
weathered by fingers plucking at them in despair.

"Miss Vickers! You are cutting off the flow
of blood through my arm."

The baron's protest jarred Gwenda out of her
imaginings. She realized how tightly she had been clutching him as
they crossed the threshold of the Nonesuch.

"Sorry." She forced herself to release him,
then nearly tripped over Bertie, who bounded in ahead of her. As
his lordship slammed the door closed behind them, she thought she
knew how her poor heroine Emeraude must have felt when thrust into
the evil Armatello's lair. Gwenda resolved never again to treat her
heroines so shabbily.

Not that the taproom before her resembled in
the least the Gothic splendors of her villain's gloom-ridden
castello except perhaps in its starkness. The inn's walls were
unadorned but for some bits of cracking plaster; the taproom housed
an oak bar counter and a few crude tables and rough benches. A
feeble effort at a fire smoked and hissed upon the blackened stone
hearth The logs had been recently kindled and were yet damp, Gwenda
judged, from the way they crackled. The room was unoccupied, but
along the far wall a door stood ajar.