Dark Before the Rising Sun (41 page)

The venom clamors of a jealous woman.

—Shakespeare

Cobwebs and dust. Dirt and grime. Mildew and dry rot. They were all swept away and the lodge was scrubbed and scoured. Soon the dark corners no longer offered refuge for crawling things. Every small, diamond-shaped pane of the mullioned windows allowed the light of day to shine into the lodge. The soaring ceiling beams were no longer draped in gossamer threads. And the parquetry flooring began to reflect a rich patina from the wax being rubbed into the parched wood.

The great fireplace at the end of the hall had been scraped of layers of soot and laid with fresh kindling and logs. A warming fire spread its cheer throughout the hall. The heavy tapestries, having been beaten, were rich again with a jewel-toned vibrancy to their colors.

The velvet and damask bed hangings and draperies were shaken free of their deep folds and aired, and new, plump feather mattresses were placed on the beds. Lavender-scented linens from Camareigh were laid on them. Swords and shields were removed from their places of honor on the walls and rubbed clean of the discoloration that years of neglect had wrought, and soon gleaming crossed blades were shining brightly against the mellowed oak hall paneling.

Dust mops and scrub cloths. Brooms and brushes. Lye soap and beeswax. All were wielded by tireless maids and footmen, who worked throughout the day to make the hunting lodge habitable for their lord and lady as well as for themselves. This would be everyone's home until the great house of Merdraco was once again immaculate.

Their spirits grew as the lodge came to life under their ministrations, and throughout the day their voices could be heard in song and laughter, for, except for Alastair's valet and the coachmen, none of the young people had ever ventured farther than the somnolent valley where they were born. Many had known no other home than Camareigh. But for most, this was a great adventure, and they were determined to enjoy every minute of it.

Home came our goodman,

And home came he,

And then he saw a saddle horse,

Where no horse should be.

“What's this now, goodwife?

What's this I see?

How came this horse here,

Without the leave o' me?”

“A horse?” quoth she.

“Aye, a horse,” quoth he.

“Shame for your cuckold face,

I'll make ye see.

'Tis nothing but a broad sow,

My mother sent to me.”

“A broad sow?” quoth he.

“Aye, a sow,” quoth she.

“Far have I ridden,

And farther have I gone,

But a saddle on a sow's back

I saw never none.”

Home came our goodman.

And home came he,

He spy'd a pair of jackboots

Where no boots should be.

“What's this now, goodwife?

What's this I see?

How came these boots here,

Without the leave o' me?”

“Boots?” quoth she.

“Aye, boots,” quoth he.

“Shame for your cuckold face,

And ill may ye see.

'Tis but a pair of waterstoups

My mother sent to me.”

“Waterstoups?” quoth he.

“Aye, waterstoups,” quoth she.

“Far have I ridden,

And farther have I gone,

But silver spurs on waterstoups

I saw never none.”

Alastair grinned as he listened to the verses, the rhythmic movement of his duster keeping time with the old ballad being sung below. Alastair was precariously balanced high up on a rickety ladder propped against the wall. His helping to clean raised as many eyebrows as some of the verses of the song had raised, for a gentleman was not supposed even to acknowledge menial tasks. A shocked observer would have been further surprised to discover a bandy-legged little man scrubbing the grimy surface of a kitchen table, while two small dark-haired lads were busy polishing the balustrade of the staircase. A young gentleman, his stock askew and his golden curls in disorder, was attempting, none too successfully, to clean the dirt from the armorial glass in one of the bay windows. And a slender maid, her golden curls covered beneath a mobcap, was snipping herbs and flowers from the garden long overgrown with weeds. The only one not working was the baby, dozing peacefully by his mother's side. The sun's golden rays warmed him through the fine netting draped over his cradle.

And clinging like a sailor in the riggings of a ship, a bare-chested man, his fine cambric shirt tossed carelessly over the stone parapet, could be seen high atop the belvedere tower affixing a banner to a pole rising above the turrets. The sun was reflected a thousandfold in the twelve-light windows encircling the tower, the leaded glass having been painstakingly cleaned by the man who was staring proudly at his handiwork. Apparently he could swing a mop as easily as he wielded a sword.

Home came our goodman,

And home came he,

There he spy'd a powdered wig,

Where no wig should be.

“What's this now, goodwife?

What's this I see?

How came this wig here,

Without the leave o' me?”

“A wig?” quoth she.

“Aye, a wig,” quoth he.

“Shame for your cuckold face,

And ill may you see.

'Tis nothing but a clocken hen

My mother sent to me.”

“A clocken hen?” quote he.

“Aye, a clocken hen,” quoth she.

“Far have I ridden,

And farther have I gone,

But powder on a clocken hen

I saw never none.”

In went our goodman,

And in went he,

And there he spy'd a sturdy man

Where no man should be.

“What's this now, goodwife?

What's this I see?

How came this man here,

Without the leave o' me?”

“A man?” quoth she.

“Aye, a man,” quoth he.

“Poor blind body,

And blinder may ye be.

'Tis a new milking maid

My mother sent to me.”

“A maid?” quoth he.

“Aye, a maid,” quoth she.

“Far have I ridden,

And farther have I gone,

But long-bearded maidens

I saw never none.”

Alastair joined in the song as he climbed down the ladder, a satisfied gleam in his eye as he glanced around. The hall was finally beginning to show the efforts of a hard day's work in the deep shining of polished wood and brass and the crystalline sparkle of sunshine through the windowpanes.

Flexing his tired shoulders, Alastair made his way out into the daylight and breathed deeply. The afternoon air was redolent of sweetbriar and honeysuckle, which grew in wild tangles throughout the garden. But dominating all was the scent of the sea. In the distance Alastair could see the glistening, frothy white waves rolling in toward shore, and he suddenly knew that he would never be happy unless he could live within sight of the sea. Subtly, like a woman, it had worked its magic over him. He was captive to its changing beauty and mystery as surely as if it were his mistress. On that seductive thought, Alastair heard a sweet, melodic humming and glanced up to see Rhea Claire's slender figure approaching him. She was holding Kit in her arms, while a wide, shallow basket full of cut flowers and herbs swung from her elbow. Seeing her dressed in a simple linsey-woolsey gown and a plain linen apron with bib, which she had borrowed from one of the maids, no one would suspect that she was the lady of the manor.

“I know you're wondering when luncheon will be, but are too polite to inquire,” Rhea said, smiling as she saw Alastair watching her, a hungry look in his eyes. “Shall I go to see how Kirby and Hallie are getting along? Famously, I hope,” Rhea added, “or our meals may become quite an experience. If each adds his own seasoning when the other's back is turned, I shudder to think what the stew will taste like,” Rhea said with a laugh.

“Here, let me take the basket. It must be heavy,” Alastair offered, but Rhea surprised him by handing over the bundled-up Kit instead. Had she placed a beehive buzzing with angry bees in his arms Alastair could not have been more surprised. “Lady Rhea! Please, I—I don't know what to do. Good Lord! What if I drop him?” Alastair said in growing panic as he held the tiny babe in his arms, not daring even to breathe deeply lest he disturb the sleeping infant. “Where are you going?” he demanded as he watched Rhea walking away from him, leaving him at the mercy of the sleeping child.

Rhea smiled back at the nervous Alastair, who seemed as helpless as the babe he was holding. “He won't bite you, Alastair,” she reassured him. “I saw some daffodils and I'm going to pick them. They are Dante's favorite, as they were his mother's. His mother used to place a vase of flowers on an oak table in the entrance hall at Merdraco, and I thought he might like to see the same thing in his home now,” Rhea said as she moved carefully through the garden. “Ah, and here,” Rhea murmured thoughtfully as she caught sight of a delicate blossom, “a white violet. 'Tis the sweetest smelling of all flowers.”

Alastair glanced down at the baby nestled against his chest. As he continued to stare into its funny little face, he felt a sudden longing to know the feel of his own son in his arms. Alastair's gaze drifted to the woman who had given birth to the fellow he was holding, and he knew more longing. With a heartfelt sigh, Alastair shook his head, scolding himself for his foolishness.

“Is something wrong, Alastair? You look sad,” the object of his desire spoke solicitously as she came up beside him, her arms full of daffodils and violets.

Alastair actually blushed as he met her gaze, and he glanced away, feeling even more tormented. He had never been good at keeping secrets. “I was worried that I might be holding Kit too tightly,” he lied lamely.

“Not at all. In fact,” Rhea said with a teasing glint in her eye, “I think you would make a very good father. Once we are settled in here, I shall have to think about finding you a wife. But I shall be very selective, for I expect you to visit here often, and I shouldn't care to take a dislike to your wife. Yes, now that I think of it, we must find a lovely Devonshire lass for you. That way you are sure to stay nearby,” she said, little realizing how deeply she was wounding the sensitive Alastair. He had never been in love before meeting Rhea.

“But before you can meet your intended, you must have the cobwebs out of your hair,” she said with a laugh. Standing on tiptoe, she brushed the fine webbing from his light brown hair, her laughing face raised to his.

The man staring down from the tower watched his wife and his best friend standing closely together, as if they were exchanging secrets. And because Dante was so much in love with his wife and was deeply vulnerable, he knew a sudden jealousy as he watched her hands touching Alastair's hair. No man but himself had the right to know that touch.

Dante was still staring down at them when he became aware of riders approaching along the narrow lane winding down past the entrance gates to Merdraco.

Rhea and Alastair turned around in surprise. To the riders, their startled expressions made them seem guilty, as if they were lovers caught in a tryst.

There were three riders, but it was the one in the lead who caught one's eye. She was dressed in scarlet and her prancing black stallion had bells jingling on his bridle. Rhea thought she had never seen such a beautiful woman. Her hair was as black as midnight, and her eyes as dark as thunder. They even seemed to flash with lightning as she pulled up on the reins, bringing her mount to a halt before Rhea and Alastair.

“Where is your master, girl?” the woman demanded. Her arrogance was not affected, but had been with her since childhood. She was haughtily proud of her right to her courtesy title as an earl's daughter “I haven't all day to wait here while you gawk,” she said impatiently, her horse snorting sympathetically. “How about that handsome husband of yours? Does he have a tongue? He was obviously glib enough to entice you,” she added, for she hadn't missed the blanketed bundle being held so gingerly by the man standing beside the young woman.

Alastair's mouth fell open at the impertinence of the woman. But when he met Rhea's eyes, he found amusement there instead of anger. Gradually he became aware that they did indeed look like servants.

“May I inquire who is calling?” Rhea asked, her cultivated voice catching the woman by surprise. That dark gaze narrowed and she eyed Rhea more carefully.

“You certainly may not!” the woman said hotly. “Who the devil are you? Who is your master? Where is he? What is he doing here at Merdraco? If you are trespassing, then I'll see that the authorities arrest the lot of you,” the woman warned, a glint in her eye.

“That will not be necessary, Bess,” an amused voice called casually from the entrance to the lodge.

Lady Bess Seacombe jerked her head around, prepared to deal a stunning setdown to the impertinent fellow who had dared to address her with such familiarity. When she caught sight of the man walking out of the shadows, she nearly tumbled from her horse. Only once before had she ever seen so handsome a man, and as this one came toward her, his bare chest glinting with sweat, she felt she must surely be dreaming.

“Dante?” she whispered, her dark eyes inky pools as she stared at her onetime lover. “You are alive? You've come back?” she said shakily, her expression disbelieving.

“I can assure you that I am no ghost,” Dante spoke smoothly, not missing a thing about Lady Bess's magnificence. She was still a beautiful woman, even more seductive today than when he'd believed she was his one true love.

“Dante,” Bess repeated the name, caressing it, Rhea thought as she continued to stand there beside Alastair, apparently forgotten. The two former lovers stared into each other's eyes as if it were yesterday and there had been no misunderstanding.

Lady Bess Seacombe could hardly catch her breath as she stared in fascination at Dante Leighton, a man she had thought never to see again. She really could not believe it, and she shook her dark head several times, the rakishly tilted straw hat decorated with a profusion of fluttering scarlet feathers looking as if it might take to the skies.