Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (36 page)

He remembered the sweet weight of her as he’d carried her to the bed. Devil take him for a wretch for frightening her! Every curve, every line, every breath had been instantly familiar, and desired.

He’d not thought himself a thorough Malloren. His ambitions were modest. He didn’t take offense easily. He didn’t expect to win whatever he reached for. Now, however, he wondered if he’d simply not wanted anything before. Not wanted as he wanted his lady.

The one woman he could not have.

What would Bey do in his situation? Impossible to imagine, of course, but Brand suspected that his brother would have ridden off with her, confident that he could make everything right.

Brand, however, could not violate her right to choose, especially as he understood her plan and her need. She and her husband had come up with a means to circumvent the law and do justice, and she had bravely carried it through.

He remembered her awkwardness, her naiveté her desperate resistance to her feelings. Proof, every one, of courage under fire. Now, he no longer doubted the magic, their instant bond, or that she felt the pain of parting as fiercely as he.

She was a heroine. The least he could do was be her worthy hero.

That and remove the thorn in her side.

At Leyburn, he asked Overton where he wanted to go.

“It makes no difference. I intend to return to my uncle’s house.”

They were sitting in an inn, eating a meal—a somewhat inaccurate term for the stewed vegetables Overton was consuming with his watered beer. Brand resisted the temptation to attack him with one of the sinful pork chops on his own plate.

“You will not return. I have instructed the servants there to tell me if you turn up uninvited again.” He didn’t add a threat, which was surely unnecessary.

“Why?” Overton demanded, color nearly as high as his uncle’s. “Why take this unseemly interest?”

“I like Sir Digby. He told you to leave and to stay away. I’m making sure you act as a good nephew should. I’m sure any Cotterite would approve.”

“We prefer to be called saints.”

“Then live up to the name.”

Overton subsided into simmering silence. Brand had to admit that though he wasn’t given to autocratic meddling, he was rather enjoying himself. He wondered if Bey found the same wicked amusement in watching the victim flail helplessly in the net like a landed trout.

“Take me to Rawston Glebe,” Overton said as he finished his meager meal.

“What?”

“It is an estate near Northallerton.”

“I know where it is.”

And something flickered in Overton’s eyes, something shifty.

“I was near there a while back,” Brand said carefully. “It marches with an estate I’m thinking of purchasing. Run by the New Commonwealth, isn’t it?”

Lips tight, Overton nodded.

“I met George Cotter in an inn there. An interesting man.”

“A true saint.”

Brand nodded. “You may be right. I have to wonder about some of his followers, though. Base motives creep in past prayers sometimes, don’t they?”

Reading Overton’s tangled expressions, Brand decided to write a report for his brother after all. If Overton dabbled in potions, he might have had a hand in Brand’s problems and in his cousin William’s death. Did this pose a threat to Rosa? Not as long as Overton and his fellow “saints” were kept well away from Wenscote.

He rose and tossed some coins on the table for the meal. “I’ll have the coach take you to Rawston Glebe. I’m for Thirsk. Show your nose at Wenscote again, Overton,” he added, “and you will likely transform from a saint to martyr.”

Brand tipped the Wenscote servants generously, though he didn’t think they needed incentive to make sure Overton reached his destination. Then he rode on to Thirsk, to his rooms at the Three Tuns and the mountain of work waiting for him. He welcomed it more than ever. It was his only defense against a lovely home, a precious woman, and a slowly forming child.

A feeble defense. At every opportunity, his thoughts leaped back. Seven months or so from now. Despite all good intentions, he couldn’t cut
all contact. He had to know whether it was a son or daughter, that she came through childbirth safely. How could he find out without raising suspicions? If he took a particular interest in the stud and visited now and then, would anyone see a problem in that?

Probably not, but it was far too dangerous. His willpower would hold only so far. He winced every time he remembered the battle he’d waged that last night, a battle to make her betray everything she loved, to betray her honor. The problem was, he couldn’t be sure he’d never do it again.

What if something went wrong? What if she lost the child … ?

Despite selfish greed, he could never wish that grief on her. All he could pray for was a safe birth and a healthy child, and long life to her husband.

All he could do for her was to stay away.

Forever.

When Rosamunde heard how Brand had removed Edward, she had to fight tears. He was her knight errant after all, driving away the monsters from his lady’s bower. He stayed on guard as well. She soon discovered he’d told Potts, Digby’s man, to inform him if Edward returned.

It was dangerous, that lingering, tenuous connection, but precious, too. She wouldn’t let it come between her and Digby, and so she could hold Brand’s chivalry to herself, something precious to soothe her in the secret sadness of the night.

At all other times, she banished him.

Exploiting Digby’s shame at having snored away the afternoon instead of throwing Edward out himself, she bullied him into better health. She forbade Mrs. Monkton to make the rich foods he loved, and rationed his brandy. If he showed signs of resisting, she raised the subject of the child, and he immediately made new resolutions to live well.

To strengthen his resolve, she told him all the little signs of change in her body. How her breasts were larger and more sensitive. How her waist was already thickening. How the smell of the stables was beginning to make her nauseated, though she’d escaped actual sickness thus far.

“You shouldn’t be going down there then,” he said as they passed the stud on the way to the nearby fells. Dr. Wallace said exercise would help, especially walking up gentle hills.

“But I enjoy it, Digby.” Rosamunde breathed in the fragrant evening air and suddenly twirled, reveling in life, and nature, and beauty.

“Hey, Rosie, be careful. I’m not sure I’m up to catching you if you turn dizzy!”

She stopped and teased, “You’ll soon be able to carry me. Except that by then I’ll be as big as an elephant!”

They laughed, and her laughter was pure joy. She wasn’t deluding herself. He was looking better, and she thought he was feeling better for all that he kept complaining about the boring food and drink.

“Perhaps we’ll have you fell racing soon,” she added.

He roared with laughter at that. “Now that’d set the dales talking! Not that I didn’t run some races in my youth, you know.”

As they walked, he entertained her with stories of his younger exploits. She wished she’d known him then, in his vigorous prime, and yet life was perfect now.

Close to perfect, at least.

She would not think of other things.

She even had Brand in her life in an innocuous way.

The first contact had been a polite letter of thanks to Digby for Wenscote’s hospitality. Inevitable, that, but it had included a request for permission to write to Lady Overton from time to time on the matter of horses.

Rosamunde had struggled with it, but Digby had been pleased and she’d let herself believe there was no danger. She trusted Brand now, and knew he wouldn’t try to use the correspondence for secrets. He simply wanted contact, and so—weakly—did she.

There had only been two letters so far, and two replies. Letters she’d read to Digby, and replies she’d shown him “in case he wanted to add anything.” She’d made sure to tell Brand that the letters were shared with her husband, but she knew it wasn’t necessary.

Sometimes she wondered if she was foolish to trust him as absolutely as she did, but she knew she was not. It sprang not from their time in the dower house, but from the moment in her room when he had not kissed her.

The need had been raging, in her as much as in him, the more so when they were meeting face-to-face for the first time. But he had not even tried, and she knew why. And thus she knew she could trust him, completely, forever.

So she had become glad of the letters, though each reopened wounds. Apart from the precious contact they gave her, Brand had the right to know how things were with his child. He would hear of her health, of the birth, of the sex and name. If the letters continued, he could follow his child through the years.

His child.

The child he had so generously given her, not in those lustful days in the dower house, but when he’d ridden away from Wenscote without argument or a backward look.

Chapter 22

A
fortnight after his visit to Wenscote, Brand was drinking ale in the inn taproom with a local farmer and arranging purchase of a couple of prime rams, when they were interrupted by his brother. The first sign was when Bill Stalling stiffened. Bey had that effect on many. Not dislike or fear, just a lack of ease.

As Bey came toward them, Stalling brought the conversation to an end and took his leave. Bey took his place, pushing the half-full tankard to one side. “I intend to return south next week.”

“You’ve finished with the New Commonwealth?”

Rothgar picked up a nut from the bowl on the table and cracked it between his fingers.

“Good,” Brand said, meaning it. “You have proof of murder?”

“Proof? Perhaps not, but an incriminating pattern. Geographically, the deaths have occurred throughout the north, and thus were not easily detected.”

“Except by someone like yourself with a far-flung net for information.”

“Precisely. Enquiries about medicinal substances purchased by the sect have been illuminating as well.”

“Opium?”

“That’s the least of their weapons. It’s rather alarming what concoctions are possible with the right knowledge.”

“Collecting recipes?”

Bey’s lips twitched. “How well you know me. But, when the whole picture is presented to a court, it will convince. Especially as a Cotterite was present at every victim’s last meal.”

“Is Edward Overton involved?”

“Up to his weak, sanctimonious chin. He is assistant in their apothecary at Rawston Glebe, and was present at three deaths, including that of his cousin William.”

Brand did his best not to show his relief, or even his interest. He’d no doubt Bey had found time among all this to search for the people who had
drugged him, but he couldn’t have discovered anything. Now Rosa was safe from Edward Overton, and from Bey.

“I didn’t have a seizure, though,” he pointed out.

“Why not?”

“Their victims were carefully chosen. All men in danger of such attacks. A young healthy man with powerful connections was another matter entirely. For you, they had to create an accident.”

“So what did they use?”

“I suspect a potion they use on members who try to express doubts about the community. Opium and some other ingredients. Deep long-lasting unconsciousness, followed by suffering. The unconsciousness gets the malcontent out of the way for a while, and the pain doubtless deters future rebellion.”

“It would deter me, that’s for sure.”

“Another useful recipe.”

Brand laughed. “You deter rebellion without need of such crude tactics.”

“How strange then that people so often fail to follow my plans.” He leaned back in his chair. “This enquiry had been a fascinating insight into the dangers of power. George Cotter, as best I can tell, began his crusade as honestly as Wesley.”

“I’d have said he was still that type. There’s no guile in him.” Brand wondered, however, if Bey was also speaking of himself. The responsibilities and temptations of power were enormous, and could corrupt.

“It is possible that Cotter is being kept in ignorance,” Bey agreed, “but more likely that his Godly purpose overwhelmed his judgment of the means.”

“Then it’s a damn shame. He’s right about so many things.”

“You do have a generous soul, don’t you?”

Brand shrugged. “Clearly a sin in your eyes.”

“Wrongs must be avenged.”

“Very Old Testament. What happened to turning the other cheek?”

“One of Christ’s more difficult recommendations. But then, being rich, I have to fit through the eye of a needle, so the minor details hardly matter. Perhaps in the Cotterite recipe books I will find an elixir of smallness.”

Brand shook his head. His brother was in a strange mood.

He thought back to the assault on him. “So, they drugged me; then to be sure, dumped me on the open fells. If I’d lain in that bog for the night, I’d doubtless have been a corpse.”

“So, the Mallorens owe thanks to your rescuer. To your mysterious lady.”

Brand sipped from his glass. “She set her price, and I paid it.”

“Indeed? An unusual transaction. You know no more of her?”

“Bey, let’s not get back to that.”

After a moment, Bey said, “Very well. Now, if you have time, I would like to involve you in this New Commonwealth matter.”

“I thought you said it was done with.”

“My investigations, yes. I’m intrigued, however, by George Cotter’s part. Either he’s very clever, in which case he might escape my noose, or he’s an innocent, in which case he could help me. I’d like you to find out.”

“What?”

“Whether he’s saint or devil. I’m bringing in troops under pretext of a sweep against smugglers on the coast. Within days, we’ll take over the New Commonwealth estates for investigation. In the end, the ringleaders will be put on trial, and the sect disbanded.”

Brand stiffened. “You can’t break up a farming community with harvesttime coming.”

“That’s one area in which I need your help. You’re going to oversee that.”

Brand groaned. He might have known he’d be dragged into a cartload of work.

“For the moment, however,” his damnable brother continued, “and before I bring them down, I want you to find Cotter and see what you make of him. If you think he’s innocent, get him to help punish the sinners in his midst.”