Had We Never Loved (13 page)

“Now, don't whack me, lass! I was only thinking—”

“I know what you was thinking. What ye all think! That a woman's good for nothing but to be a doormat and a bedmate for a man! You'd as well know now—both of ye—that I'll die a old maid 'fore I sell meself to any cove who wants to have me—without loving me enough to give me his name! You gotta be better born than what I am to sink so low! For shame that you could think so bad of me, Uncle Ab! Now go! 'Fore I do something I'll be sorry fer!”

“But—lass! I can't leave ye alone with—”

“With what? This poor apology for a gentleman?” She slanted a scornful glance at the tight-lipped viscount. “Don't you never worry about him. If he comes the ugly, I'll tickle his ribs with me little woe-and-strife. 'Sides, he's well enough to go back where he belongs! And good riddance to bad rubbish!”

Absalom looked from the flushed and rebellious girl to the white and stiffly silent man. Shaking his head, he left them.

Amy turned to Glendenning. “Well?” she demanded belligerently. “If you got something to say, say it!”

He was leaning on the cane, but not so heavily that he was unable to offer a polite bow. His eyes green ice, he replied, “You have said all that needed to be said, and a great deal that did not, ma'am. Be assured that you will have no cause to resort to your—er, woe-and-strife, which I presume means knife. Though,” he added with a gratifying flash of inspiration, “I'd think it might better be used in the place of ‘wife.'”

“Would you now. Well, ‘wife' is ‘trouble-and-strife.' And I'll resort to
what
I want,
when
I want. So you just take care, lordship.”

“I shall also relieve you of my unwanted presence at the earliest possible moment.”

“Good!” And with her head held very high, and her little nose tilted upward, she took herself and her onions away, jerking the blanket closed as she went.

Left alone, Lord Horatio sat down and struggled with his boots. He had to use his pocket knife to slash the seam of the right boot before he could endure to pull it on, and was obliged to rest a little when that unpleasant battle was won. Sitting there, he took stock of the situation. He could not recall ever having been more infuriated. This slip of a gypsy; this child of the gutter who lacked all breeding and background, who had not a particle of the refinement or manners of a lady; this utter
hoyden
had dared to question his honour! He took up the cane again, and limped to the makeshift chest of drawers. She had stolen his purse. She'd been responsible for his damn near breaking his neck. (Gad, but this blasted ankle was a nuisance!) Evidently she had sold Flame. And she had
dared
to name him a “useless thing!” 'Twas past belief!

At this point he reached the crates and with a sigh of relief put his full weight on his left foot while he rummaged about. His belongings were in one of the lower boxes. His wig, neatly combed, was draped over a round white teapot from which the spout was missing. The pert Mistress Consett had stuck a long carrot in the triangular gap, presumably in lieu of a nose, and had painted two demurely downcast eyes, and a very prim mouth. He had a lively sense of humour and at another time he would have laughed, but today he was in no mood to be amused. Gritting his teeth, he snatched up the wig, then paused, catching sight of his reflection in the little mirror. She'd said his hair was nicer than his wig. It would soon need a barber's attention if—Lord, but he looked like a ghost with his colourless face and the shadows that were for all the world like bruises under his eyes.

‘There's other men … better men than him…!'

Small wonder she should think that, if she had judged by his present appearance. But his inherent honesty forced him to admit that was not so. She'd judged by his behaviour, which admittedly had not—But most gentlemen had mistresses, and what difference did it make what the chit thought of him? Impatient with himself, he slammed his wig on, quite forgetting the injury to his head. The resultant pain was blinding. He clung to the crate and waited it out, breathing jerkily, his knees like water. He was sweating when the room stopped tilting, but he managed to straighten his wig. There. Now he looked more like a gentleman.

‘This poor apology for a gentleman…'

Damme, but the vixen had a vicious tongue! Well, he would soon be gone, and she could forget such “useless things” as viscounts, and find herself some gypsy
chal
to make an honest woman of her and, hopefully, beat her regularly. He retrieved his purse, took out two guineas and put them under the offensive carrot. Not that he need feel obliged, Lord knows. They'd taken Flame from him. And Michael had given him Flame. Michael! He should have found the boy before this. And there was the duel. Gad, but Falcon would be breathing fire and smoke!

Taking up the cane, he limped to the door and swung the blanket aside. The “kitchen” was small, and very clean, with a coziness about it. The outer door stood wide, letting the sunlight in. A table in the centre of the room was brightened by a handleless mug that served as vase for a colourful bunch of wildflowers. The table, which was round and nicely made, also held a bin of flour, carrots, an onion, a cooking knife, and long-handled spoon. Of the cook there was no sign.

He went inside and looked about curiously. A fire burned on a raised brick hearth above which was hung a formidable-looking blunderbuss. A large kettle on an idle-back sent a thin spiral of steam drifting up. On the other side of the hearth was suspended a covered iron pot, in which something was starting to sizzle and smell so divinely that he realized he was very hungry. Shelves, looking as new as the hearth, had been put up from floor to ceiling along one wall, and were crammed with all manner of articles. His mildly curious glance discovered Absalom's shaving utensils, a hammer and saw, boxes of nails, candles, pots and pans, a heterogeneous collection of chipped and cracked dishes, a glass jar of what looked like salt, and various shapes and sizes of closed tins and boxes. String bags of onions, garlic, and potatoes hung from ceiling hooks, and several nicely framed pictures of rural scenes alleviated the starkness of the walls. His boot touched a narrow and neatly made-up bed on the floor, and he suffered a guilty pang, because Amy had given up her bed to him, and must have slept here. ‘Well,' he thought defiantly, ‘she can sleep in her own bed tonight!'

Walking with as much dignity as he could muster, in case he encountered Her Majesty the Gypsy, he proceeded to the outer door.

Opposite, shallow steps cut into the hillside led up to a small clearing, shut in by trees and shrubs. The air was rather chilly, and the pale sun, being directly overhead, provided no help in determining his direction. Still, whichever way he went, he was scarcely in the wilds of Africa, and there being no lions or man-eating cannibals loitering about, he should soon be able to command a vehicle and get back to Town. His ankle jabbed at him spitefully when he toiled up the steps, but he'd known worse and with the aid of the cane could contrive to walk. He took out his pocket watch, which by some miracle had been wound but not purloined and was ticking busily, presumably showing the correct time of day. A quarter past twelve. He put it away again, and started off resolutely. By two o'clock, at the latest, he would be well on his way home.

Shortly after one o'clock he at last found something approaching a path through the dense woods, but half an hour later, it petered out.

At three o'clock he was sitting with his back propped against a tree trunk, his eyes closed against the vindictive pangs that seemed to reverberate from his head to his ankle. He was desperately tired, but if he rested just for a little while, he'd feel better and could go on …

It was half past five when he awoke. Shocked, he scrambled to his feet. Sleep had eased the pain in his head, but his ankle throbbed and felt swollen inside the ravaged boot. Common sense warned that he should have swallowed his pride and stayed till he was stronger, instead of rushing out in a huff. But how could a gentleman stay with a girl who considered him a lecher? He started off, swore, and clutched the tree, then started off again, his thoughts turning to Danielle. The widow of an army colonel, she was a poised, delectable creature, with all the refinement that a governess and a charming family could bestow. After her husband's death, she could have married any one of several well-circumstanced gentlemen, but had preferred to become his
chère amie.
And although she'd had not a sensible thought in her pretty head and had left him for a wealthy cit old enough to be her grandfather, she'd not screamed at him, nor hurled a bag of onions at his head. Above all, she'd not named him a
lecher!
He swore, gripping his right leg, which seemed to become more painful with each step. A
lecher!
The girl was simply too ignorant to realize he had done her honour! What other titled gentleman would be willing to set up a common gypsy for his peculiar?

He checked, and stood gazing at a tree trunk, conscience nagging at him. ‘Titled gentleman indeed! Since when have you found it necessary to flourish your title about?' And much good it might do him if the authorities ever proved what they obviously suspected: that he had fought for the dashing Bonnie Prince Charlie! The “common gypsies” would have the last laugh then, watching, as he was dismembered, disembowelled, hanged, and decapitated. Such ghastly punishment had been meted out to many “better men” than he.

Chilled, he stumbled on. Was there no end to these confounded trees? He should have come out of the woods hours ago. One might think he was in the New Forest! Unless—was he perhaps going in circles? He glanced up, and was puzzled to see the sky covered with clouds. That was odd. He'd thought it was sunny. It was getting quite cold, too.

After a long period of effort that he feared had not taken him very far, he was short of breath, and lowering himself cautiously onto a large root again looked at his watch. Half past six? It
couldn't
be! But it was. And there was no arguing with the fact that after six hours of painful struggling, all he had achieved was to become thoroughly tired, cold, and thirsty. With a sigh, he acknowledged that he was beaten. He'd have to go back. Amy might forgive him, was he very humble. Surely, she would at least let him stay there while she made arrangements for his friends to come and fetch him. That was it; he would go back. But his leg throbbed so, and his head was worse than ever, so he'd rest here for a minute or two. No longer, because if it got dark he'd never find his way …

Hands were tugging at him. He thought fuzzily that she had come. She'd found him, bless her—

“Wake up, mate! Whatcher doing 'ere?”

A man's voice. A Londoner. Glendenning peered through the gathering dusk. There were four of them, looking down at him with varying degrees of amusement and not a trace of compassion in their predatory faces. He sat up. Jupiter! 'Twas almost dark. Managing to sound firm and assured, he said, “So you've found me at last. Did my father—”

“Hey!” exclaimed a big man wearing a florid and greasy waistcoat under a too small frieze coat. “D'you hear that there fancy talk? We got a nob 'ere, my coves!”

There was a concerted laugh, but another man, with a thin face and crafty black eyes, put up his hand for quiet. “Are you in some difficulty, sir?” he enquired respectfully.

Glendenning knew men, and recognized savagery when he saw it. They were four, and he was alone and incapacitated, but it would be fatal to show any sign of weakness. He said coolly, “I was thrown. I've been trying to find my way out of these confounded woods, but—”

“Bin tryin' fer a day or two, aintcha, your highness?” sneered a rosy cheeked youth, a grin twisting his loose mouth. “Someone give you a hand, eh? Look here, Sep.”

Glendenning glanced down. His sagging right boot allowed a glimpse of bandages. “I hurt my leg, and—”

The polite man, whose name was evidently Sep, interrupted. “Then we must help you, sir.” He jerked his head. “Have a look, lads.”

“No!” said Glendenning sharply. “If you'll just—” His words were cut off as he was seized and his right boot wrenched off. This sent him into a hazy world, through which their voices echoed dimly. He roused to the bite of brandy in his throat, and blinked up at them, coughing. They must have decided to stay, because a small fire had been started. By the light of the flames they looked even more dirty and unkempt, and it became unpleasantly evident that they were not in the habit of bathing.

The one they called Sep said with an unctuous leer, “Good thing some kind soul bandaged your ankle s'nice for you, sir. Still, it's a ugly cut. Just tell us which way to go, and we'll carry you back to your friends.”

Glendenning damned him faintly but thoroughly. “Get me to a posting house, and I'll make it … worth your while.”

“A posting 'ouse, 'e says,” jeered Greasy Waistcoat. “Ain't it a pity there ain't no such thing fer miles 'n miles.”

Sep, who appeared to be the leader, smiled and agreed it was a sad fact. “We'd best take you back to the people what helped you, sir. Which way might that be?”

“I've not the remotest notion,” answered Glendenning truthfully.

“P'raps we can help you remember,” offered a lean individual with straggly greying hair. “Let's have him up, boys.”

They jerked Glendenning to his feet. He clung to a tree, their grins reinforcing his awareness that he was in very bad trouble. “What the hell,” he demanded angrily, “do you want of me? If 'tis my purse, take it and be damned! But 'twill go hard with you if—”

“If—what?” interrupted the grey-haired ruffian. “If we slit yer noble throat? They couldn't hang us no higher fer that than fer bashing you about, Quality cove.”