Forbidden Lord (10 page)

She shook her head miserably.

‘I want you to be safe,' he told her, feeling a need to protect her that he had never felt when he had thought of Catherine, ‘and I see taking you home with me the only way to do it. I
fear those men will have gone to Staxton Hall, but in truth I have no idea what they intend. It is possible they may still be in York, waiting for you to arrive at Hollymead. Without protection you will not stand a chance. They will take you straight back to Fryston Hall. I cannot abandon you to such a fate. Hollymead is no longer a safe haven, so there is only one place you can go. My mother will make you welcome, that I promise you.'

The veil that had descended before her eyes when she had first seen the devastation at Hollymead was clearing, lifting slowly. She put out a shaking hand to him and nodded. ‘I'm sorry, William. You're right. This is no time for weakness. Come. Let's be on our way.'

T
he mist was cold on the River Ouse when they rode out of York, heading north-east. Feeling as if her body was weighted down with heavy chains, Eleanor, aware of the blowing of the horses and the pounding of their hooves over the sodden ground, was also aware of William and Godfrey on either side of her, but they seemed far off, at another place, another time.

Eventually the countryside became more undulating, with fertile plains and woods clothing the gently sloping hills. It was beautiful, but Eleanor did not see it. A skylark rose up from a water meadow, rising higher and higher, its pleasant song causing William to look up and admire each rippling note, but Eleanor did not hear it.

Concerned by her silence and the fact that she looked straight ahead of her, seeing nothing and remarking on nothing, William glanced at her. He felt that behind her acceptance of what life brought to her were reserves of power, as well as an innate innocence that touched his heart. With the loss of everything she held dear, she was so pitifully alone—and her courage made him more ambitious to protect her.

 

Anxious to reach Staxton Hall before dark, William had kept up a gruelling pace. The land was swathed in a cloying
mist and the moon already cast small light, but they could see the bulk of the great house and they all thanked the Lord that it was still standing.

Built in the fourteenth century, the stone-built house had a fortified wall around three sides and a moat across the fourth side. It had a drawbridge that could be raised and a portcullis above it that could be dropped down to seal the entrance. With a backdrop of dense woodland and fields it was a deceptively beautiful house that could none the less be held in a siege if necessary.

Eleanor was so cold she was almost frozen to the saddle. As soon as they clattered into the cobbled yard dogs began to bark clamorously from within the house and the heavy doors were flung open.

Lady Alice Marston, a tall, slender, graceful woman, came hurrying out to welcome her son home. She had been awaiting his arrival for days—indeed, the whole household had been waiting for the master's arrival. Behind her, their eyes round with excitement and apprehension, were William's sisters, seventeen-year-old twins, Anne and Jane, dark-haired, pretty girls, identical in looks. With her hands held out to her son, Lady Alice swept forward, her fine emerald skirts rippling.

Godfrey disappeared to see to the horses, leaving Eleanor standing looking very cold and sorry for herself. The reunion of son, mother and sisters was moving, a moment for them, and Eleanor stood back, watching, envious of this show of affection between people who loved each other, careful not to move lest she draw their attention and intruded. After a few moments William turned and held his hand out for Eleanor to step forward.

When Lady Alice looked at Eleanor Collingwood, whose face was pale and strained, she felt for a moment as if a shadow had fallen on the house and gave an involuntary shiver, as if the night had suddenly turned colder. Forcing a smile to her lips and thrusting any reservations she might have aside, she stepped forward to greet her.

Lady Alice looked the young woman over carefully. ‘So you are Marian's child,' she remarked thoughtfully. ‘I am happy to welcome you to our home.'

Eleanor found herself looking into a pair of light blue eyes, and, despite their warmth, she detected a hint of reticence in the dowager Lady Alice Marston. At fifty years of age she was still slim and supple, and except for a delicate tracery of lines around her eyes and her mouth, her face was timeless in its serene beauty. Eleanor would have curtsied, but considered she would appear comical in her male attire and with her hair hanging down her back like wet seaweed.

‘You are most welcome, Eleanor. Your mother and I were friends—albeit a long time ago. We were both children in the household of Lady Barnett in Kent. They were happy days.'

Eleanor already knew this. Her mother had often spoken of that time. Most men and women of class sent their daughters away to be educated in a noble household. ‘You are most kind, Lady Alice,' she said politely. ‘I do not wish to put you out by being here.'

‘How could you do that? You are William's guest and as such you will be treated. But, dear me, you look so cold. Please, come inside. After a glass of mulled wine in front of a good fire you'll soon feel better.'

Flanked by Anne and Jane, who were friendly and agreeable and eager to know all about her, Eleanor was led inside the house. Lady Alice hung back to speak to her son. She was a placid woman who helped the poor and needy wherever she could and lived her life through her children. She allowed them small indulgences and was happy if they were happy, but should anyone threaten them her placid, easy-going nature turned to steel and she would defend them like a tigress defending her cubs—but of all her children her first-born was most dear.

Eleanor Collingwood was the daughter of the man who had instigated that dreadful plot, drawing in William, which had led to his banishment and the confiscation of his home that
had belonged to the Marstons for generations. To have that young woman under their roof would be a constant reminder, an embarrassment, but she was not about to anger William by voicing her thoughts when she had him home again.

But William was attuned to her thoughts and knew precisely what was going through her mind, so, taking her hand and tucking it into the crook of his arm, they walked together towards the house. ‘Do not be hard on Eleanor, Mother. None of what happened was her fault. Do not forget that during those dark days of Queen Mary's rule, which affected us all in different ways, we were all of the same persuasion as Edgar Collingwood—and he paid for what he did with his life.'

‘Maybe so,' Lady Alice remarked on a wry note, ‘but some of us were quiet about it.'

William smiled when he thought of his mother's intolerance towards agitators, even though she more often than not agreed with them. What she could not tolerate was the disturbance it brought to her well-ordered running of things.

‘When Mary Tudor came to the throne Edgar's voice was constantly raised in dissent, and when there was talk of her marrying Philip of Spain he could not countenance it. Following the dictates of his conscience, he stood against it. I cannot fault him for that.'

‘I would not expect you to, but you cannot deny that his scheming brought misery to a lot of people.'

‘Perhaps to Eleanor more than to anyone else. She was affected deeply by her father's execution—and she is still hurting,' William said, appealing to his mother's heart. ‘She needs somewhere to live for a while, somewhere to lick her wounds. I didn't think you would mind if she came here. She's had a difficult time recently, losing her mother.' He went on to give her a brief account of how she had been affected by recent tragic events.

Lady Alice listened, her face white with shock when he told her what they had found at Hollymead. ‘Sir John Collingwood
is dead? But this is dreadful news, William. He was such a good man and we have much to be grateful to him for—' tis a pity the same cannot be said of his brother. And you say their cousin, Frederick Atwood, is responsible?'

‘I am certain of it. I couldn't leave Eleanor at Hollymead without protection. There's something else. I suspect the men Atwood sent to destroy Hollymead will come here. Indeed, I feared they might be here already.'

Lady Alice stopped, frowning at him, a tiny wrinkle between her arching brows. ‘But—William, why would they come here? Why would Frederick Atwood want to harm us?' Lady Alice glanced at her son. ‘One thing I do not understand is why he would wish to harm you. I know it was expected that you would marry his daughter and that your banishment prevented that happening. Does he still hold that against you, or is he influenced by something else—a personal resentment, perhaps?'

William's jaw tightened and a hard light entered his eyes. ‘I'll explain everything in good time, Mother,' he said, knowing she would press him for details, ask him questions he did not want to answer, force him to relive memories he did not want to face. It would be like opening a vein and being unable to stem the flow of blood.

‘For him to attempt to do here what he did at Hollymead would be foolhardy,' Lady Alice went on, ‘a thing bound to bring the wrath of Queen Elizabeth down on his head since she has so recently restored the estate to you. He cannot be allowed to work his spite on us all.'

‘Do not underestimate him. Atwood is vicious, with a finger in every villainous pie. He is capable of anything, Mother, believe me. Besides, we know the men sent to destroy Hollymead were his men, but proving it is another matter.'

‘We must do something.'

‘I intend to. We have to be on our guard at all times. I'll set a watch—and—you will be kind to Eleanor, won't you?'

Lady Alice's features tightened. ‘I would not be so discour
teous as to show unkindness to a guest, William, and it offends me that you have to ask me. Her mother and I were friends, but I shall never forget that if it were not for that wretched plot we would have had you with us, here at Staxton Hall, which is where you belong. Now, come inside and get warm. Food is prepared, and I know you will want a hot bath.'

He smiled down at her. ‘That would be most welcome. I'm as hungry as a hunter.'

 

Supper was a good meal of chicken broth, mutton steaks and roast ducks, and puddings to follow. The dining parlour with its walls hung with colourful tapestries glowed from the lighted candles and the huge log fire in the hearth. Eleanor, bathed and attired in clean hose and jerkin, which met with Lady Alice's quiet disapproval, was both tired and dispirited, and ate little. William chatted over the meal with his mother and sisters, eager to know all that had been happening in his absence with all the warmth that he genuinely felt for his family.

When Staxton Hall had been confiscated by Queen Mary, they had gone to live in his uncle's house in Pickering, little more than fifteen miles away. Staxton Hall meant a great deal to William—this grand estate had been bestowed upon one of his ancestors by the Crown for his acts of heroism and loyalty. Since his father had died, William had seen to it that this proud heritage was maintained in a manner that represented the grandeur his ancestor earned.

Lady Alice turned her attention on Eleanor, conspicuous by her silence, thinking how pale she looked and that she had hardly touched her food. ‘You are quiet, Eleanor, although it is hardly surprising after the day you have had. You must be very tired after riding so far.'

‘Yes—yes, I am. I think I should like to rest shortly.'

‘And so you shall. I trust you find your chamber comfortable?'

‘Yes, thank you, it is extremely comfortable.'

‘Good. If I remember correctly, Eleanor, your mother had a sister—Lady Sandford?'

Eleanor paled and looked steadily at Lady Alice across from her. ‘Yes. Aunt Matilda. She lives at Cantly Manor in Kensington.'

‘When you decided to leave Fryston Hall, why did you not go to her?'

Lady Alice's tone was pleasant enough, but Eleanor caught the thread of determination that curled behind it. William's mother did not want her here. She could feel it. The feeling of panic sparked inside her and she cast William a look of appeal, but he merely cocked an eye at her and remained silent. ‘I—wanted to go to Hollymead—to Uncle John. Aunt Matilda is in France visiting friends and is not expected back for some time.'

‘I see. And did you write and notify your aunt of what you intended doing?'

‘No. There was no time.'

‘But surely, as your closest living relative, you have a duty to let her know where you are. It is only right. I am sure Lady Sandford is a very moral lady and wouldn't care to have her niece travelling in the company of two gentlemen—and looking as you do. Tomorrow I shall write and let her know that you are here. I shall address the letter to Cantly Manor and it will be waiting for her when she returns.' Holding Eleanor's gaze, she arched her eyebrows. ‘You have no objection?'

Eleanor felt her whole body stiffen with resentment. She would rather Lady Alice didn't write to Aunt Matilda, but she had no wish to cross swords with William's mother. ‘No, I have no objections.'

‘Good. Then that's settled. Now, tell us about your life at Fryston Hall. I'm sure Jane and Anne would like to hear at first hand what London is like at this time.'

Eleanor doubted William would be pleased if she related all the details—honest and less than honest—of what her life
had really been like at Fryston Hall. So, determined to omit the less savoury aspects, she embarked upon a doctored account of her life in her stepfather's house.

‘It all sounds very interesting,' Lady Alice said when Eleanor had finished speaking. Once again her gaze took in her attire with distaste. ‘You seem well at home in your clothes, Eleanor, and I am sure they were comfortable to travel in, but you can't possibly continue to go around dressed like that. We must see about finding you something to wear.'

‘I do apologise for my appearance. I left Fryston Hall in haste and was forced to travel with just the bare necessities for the journey. I knew there were clothes at Hollymead, you see, so I didn't think it would be a problem. I do have a little money, so perhaps I could ride into York and purchase a couple of gowns—and perhaps go to Hollymead. Maybe some of my things escaped the fire—everything was so upsetting when we left that I didn't think to look.'

‘You can return to Hollymead, but only when it's safe to do so,' William said sharply. He looked at his sisters, radiantly pretty in their matching blue brocade gowns and black velvet French hoods. ‘I'm sure Anne and Jane will have something that can be made to fit you for the time being.'

‘Oh, yes,' Jane piped up enthusiastically. ‘We have several gowns and we are practically the same size—although I think Eleanor is more slender than either of us—but it won't be difficult, will it, Anne?' she said, looking to her sister for confirmation, which was always the case when decisions had to be made.