Judith E French (25 page)

Brandon nodded. “And fortunately for my cousin, the alleged highwaymen were stupid enough to leave my valuables so that my body could be identified. Without a body, my mother would never have believed in my death.” He exhaled softly. “Did she take the news of Charles’s perfidy hard? I know she loved him as if he were her son.”

“The messenger said she wept and your father cursed,” Cameron said.

“If the earl is well enough to work up a fury, he’s not as close to death as his physicians think.”

“He’s capable of more than anger,” Cameron replied. “Your father’s hatched a scheme to expose Charles publicly. He’s afraid your word wouldn’t be enough, especially since you were attacked from the back in a dark alley. Your cousin is a verra rich man, and rich men have been known to escape justice before. He might spin any story, and you’d have to prove guilt without a doubt before a jury. The earl has planned your funeral at Westover in a fortnight. Dozens of influential people will be there, including the high sheriff. If Charles produces a body he claims is yours, he’ll be arrested for attempted murder and kidnapping. Does that suit you?”

Brandon nodded. “Come what may, I’ll be there. I’d consider it an honor, sir,” he said to Cameron, “if you’d come with us.”

“Done,” the older man agreed. “I wouldn’t miss this visit for an archbishop’s fortune.”

“We?” Leah asked. “Who said anything about we?”

“You have to come with me,” Brandon urged. “You’d never forgive yourself if I got into trouble and you weren’t there to help me out of it.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And what of our sailing date? Suppose we miss our ship?”

“We’ll not miss it, child,” Cameron said with a grin. “I purchased a likely schooner and I’m having her refitted for our needs. The
Jenny D
. Have no fear, the ship will wait for us, and I swear to you that you’ll have Kitate in your arms before the pumpkins ripen and the wild geese wing south to the Chesapeake country.”

“And you,
Englishmanake,”
Leah challenged her husband, “do you swear to me also?”

Brandon held out his arms to her. “By the moon, love, by the moon and stars. If we live, you’ll be sitting around a Shawnee campfire at first snowfall.”

“And what of Matiassu, war chief of the Shawnee? What will ye do about him, Brandon viscount?” Leah demanded. “Do ye think he will have changed his mind about you?”

“Enough, woman. There is a time to speak and a time to be still. I’ll deal with Matiassu when we’re face to face.” He grinned. “This is a time to be silent and kiss your husband.” Laughing, she obeyed him, and Cameron wisely made a hasty retreat from the room, leaving them alone to whisper plans and promises between the delights of achieving a final reconciliation.

 

T
he stone chapel at Westover was draped in black cloth from marble floor to vaulted ceiling. Hundreds of mourners filed past the closed rosewood coffin lying in state on a platform flanked by tall beeswax tapers. Incense hung heavy in the air, and the murmured prayers of the robed priests were accompanied by the sounds of weeping and the tolling of death bells.

Each mourner paused by the family pew to offer condolences to the bereaved parents, Lord and Lady Kentington, and their nephew Charles. The earl—still in poor health—had been carried to the church in a chair and was enthroned in cushions, his lap covered with a quilt. The countess was swathed and veiled in black crepe. So distraught at the death of her only child that she was incapable of speech, she merely nodded acknowledgment to the expressions of shared sorrow.

Outside the church, lines of coaches stood along the lane and crowded the stable and courtyard of the manor house. Black-garbed servants hurried to and fro, tending to guests and preparing for the final reception and funeral feast which must follow the interment. Liveried footmen, coachmen, grooms, huntsmen, and armed retainers gathered in knots and waited while the elaborate rituals for Lord Brandon’s funeral were conducted.

To the left of the church a stone wall bounded the graveyard. There, a broad-shouldered man and his two lanky sons were shoveling dirt from an open grave. Village children ran in and out among the tombstones, laughing and calling to each other, ignoring their parents’ admonitions to remember the doleful reason for the gathering.

A black coach bearing the crest of the Earl of Dunnkell and drawn by four coal-black horses drew to a stop before the chapel door. Servants let down the steps and Lord Dunnkell appeared, accompanied by a slim lady in full mourning attire. The two joined the grieving procession, first to bid farewell to the deceased, then to speak softly to Lord and Lady Kentington.

“You have my deepest sympathy,” Cameron said. “It is an outrage that our finest blood should be cut down by brigands on the highway.” The lady with him covered her veiled face with a black handkerchief and wept quietly.

“Thank you,” Lord Kentington said. “I’ve made formal protest at the highest levels. You may be certain that the gibbets at Tyburn will be kept busy. We will punish my son’s murderers if we have to hang half of London to do it.”

Lady Kathryn blew her nose daintily. “It was good of you to come, both of you.” She glanced at her nephew. “Lady Dunnkell is only recently back from Italy, Charles.”

Charles nodded and fumbled with a black onyx pommel on his mourning sword. “We accept God’s will,” he mumbled piously, “but we shall never cease to lament the loss of my dear cousin.”

Kentington cleared his throat. “Charles has consented to deliver a eulogy for Brandon before the funeral mass.”

“Very fitting,” Cameron said. He tucked his arm into his companion’s and led her to a seat across the aisle and several rows back, hastily vacated by a baron and his wife. Cameron leaned close to his lady. “Are you all right, child?” he whispered.

She nodded, unwilling to admit how uncomfortable and frightened she really was. She’d come to the church in disguise as Brandon and her father wished, and she’d not shame herself or them by complaining.

“It won’t be long,” he promised, squeezing her hand.

Leah fought waves of panic. She felt smothered by the closely packed bodies around her, and she could hardly breathe beneath the layers of heavy black cloth. Her thick veil allowed her to see out without letting anyone view her face, but it also prevented any movement of air beneath the veil. Her head was spinning, and her stomach threatened to reject the fish and biscuits she’d eaten earlier in the bounding coach. Sweat gathered on her breasts and neck, dampening her undergarments and making her even more uncomfortable.

“Steady, child,” Cameron murmured.

She clutched his hand and forced herself to try to breathe deeply as her eyes searched the front of the sanctuary for movement.

From the back of the church, a musician began to play a golden harp, and the plaintive notes rolled over the crowd, stilling the murmurs and shuffle of feet against the worn stone floor. Swells of nausea engulfed Leah as she tried to ignore the stench of so many Englishmen and women in so many clothes crammed into such a small space.

Charles rose in the family pew and addressed the mourners. “We are come here on a sad occasion,” he began, “to lament the passing of Robert Wescott, Viscount Brandon.”

Leah’s heart skipped a beat as she saw a narrow door open and a familiar man’s form appear in the shadows. A woman shrieked as Brandon appeared between the young priest and the coffin.

“But not so sad as it might have been, Charles,” Brandon said loudly.

Several women screamed. One fainted into the center aisle. Angry men leaped to their feet and demanded explanations. Charles’s mouth sagged open, and he staggered back as though he had been struck by a fist.

Brandon advanced on the family pew and pointed directly at his cousin. “I publicly charge you with the kidnapping and attempted murder of my wife, Lady Brandon. I also charge you with robbery and a foul attack on my own life.” His scorching blue gaze flicked across Charles like the lash of a whip. “Guards,” he shouted, drawing his sword. “Place Sir Charles Wescott under arrest.”

Leah stood and tore away her suffocating veil as four armed men ran from the church entrance toward Charles. Cameron dropped his hand to his own sword hilt.

“This is preposterous!” Charles cried. “A travesty of—”

Suddenly an altar boy stumbled into one of the tall candle stands, and it fell to the floor with a crash. Panic-stricken, the red-faced boy dived for the thick candle, tripped over the hem of his robe, and sprawled across Brandon’s feet. Charles whirled and drew his sword with a single motion, placing the point of his weapon against Lady Kathryn’s throat.

Kentington groaned and stretched out his arms to his wife. “In the name of God, no!”

Lady Kathryn squeaked in terror.

“Don’t move, any of you,” Charles threatened. “I warn you, I’ll kill her.”

“Put down that sword!” Brandon ordered. “Are you mad? You can’t escape.”

The chapel erupted into turmoil as frightened men and women shoved and climbed over benches to escape the threatened violence while others drew their weapons. Those in the front rows spilled into the aisle, preventing the guards from reaching the pew where Charles held Lady Kentington prisoner. Somewhere behind Leah a child began to wail.

Cameron’s rapier gleamed in the candlelight as he moved to shield Leah with his body. “Get out,” he said curtly. “There’s a door halfway back on the side wall.”

Fierce pride in her father shot through Leah as she eyed his unadorned steel sword. It was no gallant’s toy in his hand but a warrior’s weapon. For all his silk and satin, his gentlemen’s manners, Cameron Stewart was still a man to be reckoned with. She leaned forward and struggled to see around him.

“I said I want you out of here!” he repeated.

Leah’s legs felt too weak to move as her gaze was drawn to Brandon. He stood like a rock with his upraised sword. Sunlight streaming through a stained-glass window tinged his beautiful face with gold and made him seem like some hero from an ancient Greek myth. Her heart rose in her throat, and she knew she’d never loved him more than she did at that instant.

“Don’t add cowardice to your crimes, Charles,” Brandon warned. His voice was low and controlled, but the unspoken threat sent shivers down Leah’s spine. “You’ve shamed us enough already. Let her go and accept your punishment like a gentleman.”

“You’re the coward,” Charles shouted back. “You’ve hidden behind your name and your father’s title long enough. Meet me outside—face to face—if you have the nerve.”

“No!” Brandon’s mother cried.

Charles seized her by the hair and tilted her head back, keeping the point of his rapier at the soft vee of her throat. “Your answer, cousin,” he demanded.

“Nay!” Leah called out to Brandon. “Ye be not well enough to fight him.”

“I’ll fight you,” Cameron offered. “Brandon’s barely out of a sickbed. If you want to cross blades with someone, try me.”

“Still hiding, are you, little cousin?” Charles taunted. “Would you like to see how it feels to be an orphan?”

“Let her go,” Brandon answered. “I’ll fight you, but not on holy ground. Outside—in the orchard beyond the graveyard.”

“He canna,” Leah whispered to her father. “His wound’s barely healed. You must stop him.”

Protests rose from the onlookers. “No!”

“The common dogsbody!”

“If Lord Brandon is ill—”

“You can’t meet him on a field of honor!”

Kentington’s face contorted with fury. “Don’t give in to him, Brandon!” He shook his fist at Charles. “If you harm a hair on my wife’s head, you little worm, I’ll have you boiled in tar!”

Leah noted the stubborn set of her husband’s features. She’d seen that look before and knew he was in no mood to listen to reason. She tugged frantically at Cameron’s sleeve. “Father?” she implored.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do. It’s a matter of honor, child.”

“Honor? Madness, I say. The Shawnee are men of honor, but they dinna willingly face a crazed bear, unarmed.”

“God help him,” Cameron muttered under his breath.

“Stay close to him,” she begged. Turning away, she moved toward the side door her father had pointed out earlier. She pushed her way through the throng, heedless of complaints from those she trod on or wiggled past until she reached the door.

The July sun was hot on her face as she stepped into the churchyard. She glanced around quickly to get her bearings, picked up her full skirts, and ran toward the stable courtyard where the servants were gathered.

In moments she was back with a protesting huntsman hot on her heels, his bow and quiver of arrows in her hands. There was no need to ask where Brandon was—the cheers and shouts of the crowd drew her to the edge of the apple orchard.

The ring of steel on steel echoed above the noise of the funeral guests. Leah found a hole in the spectators and plunged through, followed by the huntsman.

For a split second, it seemed to Leah that this was all a dream, and in her dream the world had come to a stop. She saw it all—the thick green grass glorious with sweet-smelling clover blossoms, the apple trees laden with immature fruit, the cloudless blue sky overhead. And Brandon . . . her Brandon . . . standing tall and proud. She heard the caw of startled crows rising above the yelling spectators and the buzz of bees among the clover. She could smell the bruised wild mint beneath the feet of the crowd and taste the mixture of fear and excitement in the air.

Then Charles’s rapier began moving too fast for her eye to follow, and the streak of red that appeared along Brandon’s left arm shocked Leah into reality. This was no dream, and Brandon was fighting for his life.

Charles was good. He was very, very good. Leah could see that in a moment, even though she had no knowledge of fencing. He moved like a dancer, in and out. His blade flashed like a living being.

Both men had thrown aside their coats and were fighting in shirts and breeches. Charles’s full-sleeved shirt was creamy white; Brandon’s bore two spots of crimson. Charles was quick; Brandon’s movements were slower and more studied.

Charles was laughing, his gray eyes devoid of all humanity, as he parried and blocked Brandon’s attacks. It was plain to Leah that Charles was a master of the sport and that he was taunting Brandon, playing with him. Charles could deliver a death stroke whenever he wished.

Brandon’s face was pale; his eyes never left his cousin’s as their blades clashed again and again. Leah watched the back of his shirt, expecting blood to flow from his own wound at any second. He was breathing hard, and each time Charles lunged, Leah was certain that Brandon’s strength would fail him.

He was skillful, but even in full health he would have been hard-pressed to challenge Charles. Now, Leah knew, the battle was hopeless. Charles wouldn’t be satisfied until he had driven his rapier into Brandon’s heart.

Unless . . . She pulled an arrow from the huntsman’s quiver and notched it to the bowstring. The huntsman shouted a warning, but she ignored him, waiting breathlessly for the right instant to release the arrow.

Charles launched another brilliant attack, feinting left, then right. Brandon went down on one knee, and Charles’s blade dug a furrow down the right side of his neck.

Leah let fly her arrow. Charles screamed as the steel point buried itself in his left thigh. Stunned and bleeding from the neck wound, Brandon stumbled to his feet and raised his rapier.

Charles backed away, clutching the arrow. He spied Leah standing at the edge of the crowd. “You bitch!” he shouted. Blood soaked the back of his leg and dripped onto the grass. “You cheating bitch.”

“Don’t ye like it when the odds are even?” Leah cried. “Now you’ve a wound to match Brandon’s.”

The huntsman tried to wrench the bow from Leah’s hands, but she notched a second arrow and moved back, daring him with an icy stare to interfere.

Brandon was on his feet, weapon poised. His hard gaze flicked from Charles to Leah. He took a cautious step toward his cousin. “Charles,” he offered. “We can end this without killing.”

Charles staggered to the left and lowered his sword. “All right,” he said hoarsely. He extended a bloody hand in friendship.

Brandon hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. He grasped Charles’s hand. “I loved you like a brother,” he rasped. “Why did you—”

“Brandon, watch out!” Leah screamed.

Charles slashed upward toward Brandon’s groin with the point of his rapier. Brandon leaped aside, trying to block the blow with his own blade. Brandon deflected the force of Charles’s attack, and the sword slid off to inflict a flesh wound on Brandon’s inner thigh.