Come to Castlemoor (10 page)

The horse hooves drew nearer. Sunlight speckled the brown dirt road with flecks of gold. The green leaves rattled scratchily overhead. The water splashed beneath the bridge. Bertie had disappeared completely. I took a deep breath and pressed my hand against my forehead. The man must surely have been a lunatic, and yet …

Absurd, absurd, the whole thing. In a town riddled with superstition, Bertie, feebleminded to begin with, took the superstitions even more seriously than the others. He had embroidered them with a sinister conspiracy, the mysterious “them” with secret members and private signals that only the members could understand. It was like something out of
The Mysteries of Udolpho
, utterly ludicrous here with the sun shining warm, the birds twittering pleasantly in the oak boughs. Bertie probably stopped people on the street to pass on his dire warnings. Being a stranger in town, I was no doubt a prime target. I permitted myself a smile, far too sensible to be taken in by such nonsense.

The horse came around the bend, kicking up small clouds of dust. It was a gorgeous creature, powerfully built, with a milky-white coat, tail and mane pearl gray, flowing like silk. Its rider pulled the reins, stopping the animal at the edge of the bridge. The man sat on the horse, looking at me across the length of the bridge. He wore gleaming brown boots and a tan tweed riding suit, the pants tight and corded, the jacket skirt flaring open. Beneath the jacket he wore a beige silk shirt and a forest-green cravat that flowed loosely in Byronic fashion. He sat easily in the saddle, his feet resting in the stirrups, his hands holding the reins in his lap.

He smiled. He was the handsomest man I had ever seen.

“We meet at last,” he said, his voice rich and melodious. “I planned to call on you soon and pay my respects. This pleasant accident makes that unnecessary. The setting is so much more appropriate—formality's a bore, parlors stifle me.”

The smile broadened on his lips, warm, radiant. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Hunt,” he said, his voice making a slight mockery of the conventional greeting. “I've heard so much about you. Donald spoke of you often. He said you were a breathtaking beauty. I'm afraid he was guilty of gross understatement.”

The compliment was casual, the voice sincere.

“Who are you?” I inquired.

“Edward Clark,” he said, “your humble servant.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Edward Clark dismounted, swinging his leg over the saddle and slipping off in one quick movement. He patted the horse's neck and pulled off his dark-brown leather riding gloves, jamming them in the pocket of his jacket. He strolled toward me, moving with a lithe grace unusual in a man so large. He was over six feet tall, big-boned, heavy-set, solid, and muscular. I found it difficult to believe that this man was a noted historian, author of the scholarly volume Donald had sent me, that a man so robust and virile could now be collecting Celtic folk songs. One might imagine such a man working in a coal mine or as a stevedore, but one would hardly associate him with a profession as academic as his own. Men as large as Edward Clark frequently seem hulking and awkward, but he had the carriage of a splendid animal whose great size and ruddy vitality only emphasize an innate dignity and pride. The elegant, casually worn clothes augmented this impression.

His hair must have been light brown at one time, but the sun had scorched it a burnished gold color, streaked with bronze. His complexion was deeply tanned, making a startling contrast with the eyes, which were a very clear blue, the blue of a cornflower. His eyelids were heavy, his thick black brows arched. His nose was large, straight, his square jaw strong. His mouth was too wide, the lips thick, a dry, sun-parched pink. I realized upon closer inspection that he was not nearly as good-looking as many men I had known, but there was something vital about him that made those other men pale in memory. The natives Caesar had discovered on the shores of ancient Brittany must have had this same clean, rugged aura about them.

I dropped my eyes modestly, turning away from him a little. I wanted to study that face as I would study a sculpture in a museum, but convention forbade such inspection. A man might openly admire a. woman all he wanted, examining her features with relish, but decent women must at least pretend to be oblivious to masculine charm. I looked at the water rushing over the smooth stones. I could feel his presence like something exuberant in the air, charging it with a crisp, intangible atmosphere. I thought of the sleek, golden lion I had seen at the London zoo. The beast had dominated the area with this same urgency, so that you were aware of him even when your back was turned to the cage.

I was glad I was wearing my leaf-green dress. The waist and bodice fit tightly, the puffed sleeves dropped slightly off the shoulder, and the full, swirling skirt was scattered with embroidered white and brown flowers, sewn on at random. The cut and color of the dress showed me off to the best advantage, and it was only by pure chance I had worn it today. My hair was caught up in back with a single green bow, falling in rippling golden waves to my shoulders. I always wanted to look nice, but there was a special importance about it today. I desperately wanted this man to approve of me. It mattered, and I didn't exactly know why. The sensation was a new one for me. I was not equipped to understand it properly.

“I really had intended to call on you,” Edward Clark said, standing behind me. “You've been here what—three days? Four?”

“Today's the fifth day since I arrived.”

“I wanted to give you time to get settled in. However, I'd have been on your doorstep the first morning had I known what I know now.”

“What's that, Mr. Clark?”

“That you're unbelievably lovely. Donald always said you resemble a portrait of Barbara Castlemaine that hangs in the National Gallery. You do. Now I can see why Castlemaine enchanted Charles—and half the men in England.”

“The comparison isn't flattering,” I said somewhat stiffly. “She was hardly an admirable person.”

“Wasn't she?”

“Surely you've read your history books. Why, Pepys said—”

Edward Clark chuckled. It was a soft, rumbling sound, interrupting me. I turned around to face him, slightly flustered. His amusement irritated me, putting me on the defensive. He was standing so close that I could see the coarse, tweedy texture of his jacket. I could smell the shaving lotion he used, blended with the smells of leather and silk and the male body. I backed away a step or two, the back of my legs pressing against the railing of the bridge. He seemed to surround me, blotting everything else out, yet there was nothing brash or forward about his nearness. My own awareness of him just made it seem so.

He was aware of my discomfort. He stopped chuckling, even though his eyes seemed to continue the sound silently. He nodded his head, a lock of thick blond-bronze hair tumbling across his tanned forehead. He spread his hands out apologetically.

“Forgive my gallantry,” he said. “It's a habit I picked up in college when I was striving to win the favors of all the barmaids. My classmates'd grab and paw, with only a tongue-lashing for their efforts. I found a slow, searching look and a smooth compliment got marvelous results. I had a whole drawerful of garters at my digs, tokens from Dot and Sally and Bess—”

He grinned, no doubt remembering those easy conquests. I stared at him coolly, not knowing exactly how to react. I knew it wasn't proper for him to be telling me such things, yet I didn't want him to think me a typical Victorian prude. Living with Donald and associating with his rowdy friends had long since made me immune to shock at masculine dallying, yet I could feel my cheeks turning pink, despite my efforts to curb the blush.

“I'm hardly a barmaid!” I snapped, more in irritation with myself than in affront.

“Hardly,” he said quietly. “Forgive me—it seems I'm apologizing all over the place. No, you're not a barmaid, and I assure you my gallantry was most sincere.”

“I don't even
wear
garters!” I added.

The blush burned rosily now. Edward Clark threw back his head, laughing uproariously. I couldn't help myself. I laughed too. I was acting outrageously. A sense of humor was all that could save the situation. When he laughed, the muscles in his thick neck worked strongly, pumping out the deep, lusty sound. My own laughter joined his, and it helped me to relax. I felt the nervous tension snap, flow, vanish.

“Tell me,” he said when our laughter had subsided, “what are you doing here? Were you on your way back to the house? Surely you don't intend to walk all that distance?”

“No, I came to town with my maid and the boy who's been helping us. He brought us in his wagon. Bella, my maid, wanted to buy a cage of birds she saw earlier this afternoon. I told her I'd meet them here. I wanted to walk a bit, explore the town.”

“A shame,” he said. “That they're coming for you, I mean. I had visions of sweeping you up and taking you back on my horse. A pretty girl, a white horse, a sunset …”

“You're being gallant again,” I told him.

“Perhaps ‘romantic' is a better word. When I was a boy I read about the cavaliers with their plumed hats and flamboyant mannerisms. I'm afraid it made a deep impression on me. Fortunately, I discovered the Celtic myths a little later on. They made an even deeper impression. I turned them into an academic pursuit that's a way of life now.”

“I've read your book on Celtic folklore, Mr. Clark.”

“Have you indeed? I would think the Brontë novels and the poetry of Byron would be more your sort of thing.”

“You
would
think that,” I replied.

“Remarkable,” Edward Clark said, shaking his head. “Donald told me you'd helped him with his book, done research for him, kept his files. It's hard to imagine a woman doing those things—particularly a woman who looks like you.”

“I suppose you think doing embroidery and painting watercolors should be enough to fulfill a woman's ambitions,” I said, ready to launch a tirade about man's narrow viewpoint and woman's natural ability. He could see my sensitivity on the subject.

“Not at all, not at all,” he protested, lifting his hands out again. His blue eyes danced with amusement, and he fought to keep the grin off his mobile lips. “I
admire
bluestockings.”

“I'm not a bluestocking,” I retorted. “I hate that term. It implies that any intelligent woman has to be some kind of freak. Women are just as intelligent as men. Society holds them down, and convention—”

“You were born too early,” Edward Clark said, grinning openly now. “I have a feeling women are going to come into their own one day. When they do, they'll rule the world, just as they did here until some smart man learned to count to nine.”

I stared at him icily, wondering if he were trying to shock me. I knew that the prehistoric ruins indicated that woman had ruled society thousands of years ago. She had the ability to create life, and this mystic power endowed her with a natural superiority that made man subservient, her slave. The earliest ruins were womb-shaped, celebrating woman's dominance. Later on, after man's role in the creation of life was discovered, the ruins took on an entirely different nature, and woman became the subservient sex. Edward Clark seemed to be amused by this, something that had happened before history began, and he knew I was aware of what he had referred to.

“Those were the days,” he said, grinning.

“You're insufferable,” I told him.

“That's just a first impression. After you get to know me, you'll find me quite charming, full of all kinds of endearing qualities.”

“I have no intentions of getting to know you,” I said stiffly.

“You'll change your mind.”

“I wouldn't count on that.”

“Attractive, intelligent—and stubborn. Quite a combination! Quite irresistible.”

“Your horse is waiting for you, Mr. Clark.”

Edward Clark looked at me, looked at the horse, shrugged his massive shoulders. He backed away from me, jamming his hands in his pockets and staring at me with his head cocked to one side, his brows arched. Then he smiled. It was a radiant smile, and I was unable to resist its power. I smiled too. Edward Clark walked over to his horse, stroked it's mane, strolled to the railing of the bridge opposite where I stood, and looked down at the water, his back to me. I noticed the way the sun touched the burned-blond hair that curled untidily on the back of his neck, the way the tweed jacket fit so tightly across his shoulders, as though it taxed the material to cover so broad an expanse. He turned around abruptly, faced me with a boyish grin.

“This is ridiculous, isn't it?” he said from across the bridge.

“Of course it is. I don't know what came over me.”

“Friends?” he asked.

“Friends,” I said.

He leaned back against the railing, his elbows on the ledge, crossing his legs casually. The jacket fell open. The green cravat ruffled in the slight breeze. The width of the bridge was between us, but somehow it seemed he was closer than before. The gorgeous white horse tapped its hooves on the stones at the edge of the bridge, patiently waiting for its master to take command again.

“Donald wrote about you,” I said. I had to raise my voice a little, and curiously enough, this made the communication between us seem more intimate and direct.

“Did he?”

“He said he'd discussed his new book with you.”

“Yes, he did.”

“You weren't enthusiastic.”

He shook his head. “He was way off course.”

“I find that hard to believe. My brother—”

Edward Clark came across the bridge and stood beside me. He spoke in a deep, serious voice, all frivolity and boyish charm subdued. “Your brother was a brilliant man. I admired him. I even envied his scholarship. He was capable of astounding work, but this time he was all wrong.”