The Spinster and the Earl (26 page)

She arrived just as the gentlemen were preparing to leave the inn. She dismounted and tied the pony to a post, pulling her hat low as she approached the group of gentlemen and outriders drinking and talking at tables that had been set outside beneath the shade of a large oak tree.

She eavesdropped on their conversations. It was evident that they were still waiting for news. Several of the gentlemen were in deep discussion as to where they should look next. Two of them were, she noted, the earl and a handsome gentleman of fashion, an Englishman she’d never seen before.

The stranger was almost as tall as the earl and just as broad shouldered. His hair, the color of a shining new guinea, was neatly cropped in the Corinthian style. She had never seen a real dandy up close before, and skirting the other gentlemen came as close as she dared to this manly perfection.

She must have been staring openly, for next she knew a sharp pair of sapphire eyes looked down at her.

“Looks as if you’ve snared yourself another admirer, Beau,” said the earl with a hint of amused laughter. “The lad here with his mouth hanging open apparently finds you quite fascinating.”

Kathleen pulled harder on the brim of her hat, her own blue eyes staring up at the two gentlemen, her cheeks blushing with shame. She’d been caught.

The nonpareil looked down at her with a kindly smile. “What is it, lad?”

“I, uh, have a message for you two gentlemen,” she said, swallowing nervously. “A noble gentle lady sent me here to give it to you.”

The earl grabbed her roughly by the arm. “Did this lady, by chance, have long raven hair and green eyes the color of new sprung grass?”

“No-o,” she squeaked, her arm feeling as if it were in a vice.

“Release the lad, James, you’re frightening him,” said the nonpareil, noticing her evident distress.

He looked down at her with a reassuring smile. “Tell us the rest of your message, lad. Does it perhaps concern the one we seek, Lady O’Brien?”

She silently nodded.

“I was sent to give you this,” she said, almost whispering, as she stared up at his mouth. It felt unreasonably good to see this handsome Corinthian smiling down at her with approval. It had been a long time since anyone had shown her any sign of friendliness.

“Where is it?” the earl asked.

“The lady writes that she espied Lady Beatrice one league from here, at a country inn called the Blue Bonnet. That’s where she’s been taken,” answered Beau in a rush. “They intend to marry her off to the viscount tonight.”

Kathleen grabbed hold of his arm, her eyes pleading with him.

“You must hurry and rescue her before it’s too late, sirs. My mistress told me that they’ve sent for a priest.”

“But surely she can protest the marriage to the clergy?” he said, as he noticed her look of panic and worry.

“Not this one,” she replied, shaking her head. “I know this cleric. For the right price, he’ll say they were properly married.”

“Thank you,” he said, and reaching into his horse’s satchel withdrew a purse of money. “Here, take this to your mistress. The reward is hers. And thank her kindly for us, for she may have saved my beloved’s life.”

“Aye, my lords. I will give her your thanks,” she whispered and pushed the satchel back into his hand. “But she didna do it for the reward, kind sirs. Rescue Lady O’Brien away from those evil villains. That is all she do ask of ye.”

She noticed the dark circles around the earl’s eyes and the haunted look of determination. She felt reassured that this lord was determined to succeed in rescuing Lady O’Brien. She was relieved. This man would surely save the kind woman who had always treated her with gentleness and compassion.

“May God speed you on your journey, Your Grace,” she said to him, and turning, she bowed and walked back to her pony. It was as she remounted using both of her hands that her broad leather hat, which had managed to stay safely upon her head, blew off.

Two pairs of amazed male eyes stared at her long golden hair as it tumbled down her shoulders. Her eyes met those of the astonished dandy’s. She gave him a saucy wink and a coquettish laugh that she could not keep from bubbling up, and galloped away.

“Heavens, a girl!” Beau muttered aloud, almost choking on his ale in surprise.

James watched, in admiration, the retreating back of the brave, young woman disappear down the road.

“Beautiful and brave . . . just like my Beatrice,” James said, his words bitter with regret. He knew now he loved Beatrice with all his heart and soul.

He’d behaved like a complete idiot. Marry in order to establish a dynasty? Balderdash! What had he been thinking? That was not the way he should have spoken to her. He should have taken her into his arms and told her he loved her. Damn his eyes!

He wanted to tell her as soon as possible how much she meant to him, how his heart pounded at the very sight of her, how she made his blood run hot at her very touch, how he greatly admired everything she did. There were so many things he should have said.

He was head over heels in love. If she didn’t believe him, he would dedicate his entire life proving it to her if he had to. But first he had to find her and set everything right. He had to! Nodding to his men to hurry and prepare for their departure, he quickly set off.

*    *    *

Through the fine silver net of her veil, Beatrice saw that the inn had filled with men. A fire had been lit and the priest, in clerical white, stood waiting with the viscount for her appearance.

“Some of our customers asked if they might not see you tie the knot,” whispered the maid to her as she paused. “The viscount gave his consent, saying the more witnesses, the better. Less likely for his claim upon you to be challenged that way.”

Silently, Beatrice acknowledged the servant’s words, her hands clutching the bouquet of wildflowers the maid had thrust upon her.

No doubt, the viscount was making doubly certain that his word would not be questioned concerning the wedding rite. Aye, she felt the invisible rope he’d made around her neck tighten. Soon there would be no way of escape. She looked at the rough men lounging about in the half-darkened room staring at her as she approached. They were grouped about in one big, brown and black blur.

One of the men, his face partially hidden by the shadows, nudged another, who appeared to be the tallest man in the room. She heard him say to the ruffian wearing a gypsy scarf about his head, “Isn’t she the bonniest bride you ever did clap yer eyes upon, sir?”

The deep voice, it was a familiar one . . .

She turned to stare. But could not make out the face in the shadows. The voice was one she would dearly love to hear again. It sounded so much like her father’s.

“Aye, sir,” The tall man nodded in a cultured accent. “And a delightful feast for any man’s eyes.”

Startled, peering at the man from beneath her veil, she looked up at him.

“Please, dear God,” she whispered aloud, praying. “Let it be . . .” And when she opened her eyes, she met those of the tall man staring at her.

Blue eyes like the ocean before a spring storm stared back at her. The gypsy saluted her. She gasped, almost losing her balance as she tripped on her next step.

“Courage, my lady,” he said, his hand immediately at her elbow steadying her. He nodded her forward, to continue her journey to where her detested bridegroom stood impatiently waiting for her.

“Have no fear for me, good sir. I fully intend to play my part and see this through,” she said, her eyes never leaving his, her courage drawing from his.

“I thought you would, my dear,” he said, audaciously kissing her slender hand.

The squinty-eyed man beside him, one of the paid mercenaries, put his hand on the tall gentleman’s shoulder, trying to keep him from touching the bride. But the tall man ignored him, swinging his tankard into the air shouting out, “Another toast t’ the bride, gentlemen!”

“To the bride!” all the men shouted, raising their tankards to her.

The cleric, Father Rathbourne, stood in front of the lit hearth, where above it two small swords lay crisscrossed on hooks for decoration. The cleric gave her a benevolent smile as she reached him, and the viscount. He was, she could see, a bit tipsy. His fat pudgy nose and round cheeks were rosy from the brew that everyone had been passing liberally around.

She felt the viscount’s cold hand grab hold of hers. The boisterous talking quieted, and all eyes focused on the scene before them as they awaited the cleric’s opening benediction over the couple.

“Dearly beloved, we have come together in the presence of God to witness and bless the joining together of this man and this woman in holy matrimony,” he intoned in churchly solemnity. “The bond and the covenant of marriage was established by God so that man might create a union.”

As the cleric continued invoking the holy virtues of marriage, Beatrice cast her eyes about the room, looking for a familiar set of beloved colt-blue eyes. They were not difficult to find, for they immediately met hers.

“Will you, Viscount Reginald Adolph Philip Linley, have this woman to be your wife?” she heard the cleric ask, breaking with tradition by asking the groom first, his bleary eyes trying to focus on the page before him.

“Will you love her, comfort her, and keep her, in sickness and in health? And forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?”

“I will,” answered the viscount coolly, giving her hand a crushing squeeze.

“Will you, Lady Beatrice Kathryn Margaret O’Brien, take this man to be your beloved husband, to live together in the covenant of marriage?”

Lady Beatrice, a smile on her face as gracious as the sun coming over the green hills of Ireland on a fine spring morning, looked at the cleric as if he had just said something highly amusing. She then turned around, her emerald eyes set on those she loved most of all in the world and answered in a strong voice. “I most certainly will not.”

She removed her hand from the viscount’s clasp.

“Are you certain, Lady O’Brien? Perhaps, my lady, you would like to, uh—to reconsider?” the cleric squeaked, glancing fearfully at the glowering red face of the pock-marked groom.

“No,” she answered simply. Her smile, if that were possible, brighter than before. “I most certainly will
not
take this man for my husband, Father.”

“Didna you hear the fey, lass?” someone in the room heckled. “She gave her answer. She didna want ’im.”

“Aye! We all heard her, Father. She donna care for the white faced codfish you’ve presented her,” another added. And at this jeering barb, the tall man stepped forward, offering his arm to her.

“She’s done with you, sir,” the tall gentleman said, looking down at the viscount from his greater height. He gently led her over to the older gentleman, who had previously commented on what a pretty bride she made.

The old gentleman grinned from beneath his long silver beard, merry green eyes the same color as hers twinkling.

“Da!” she said, her voice hitching with joy and recognition as she tenderly looked at her adoring parent. His large arms grasped his beloved daughter about the shoulders in a fierce, fatherly hug.

“My darlin’ lass,” he murmured, holding onto her as if afraid they’d once more be separated from each other.

“Take your hands off her!” growled the viscount, drawing down one of the small swords from the mantel of the fireplace.

At the sight of the drawn blade, weapons from all over the smoke-filled room were produced. The viscount and his men, although more numerous, were outmaneuvered by the pub’s Saturday night crowd. Looking at the winsome bride and her handsome supporter, the tall gypsy gentleman, they quickly sided with them.

He, the obvious leader of the group, took off his cloak.

“It’s you!” spat the viscount in recognition as he found himself eyeing his nemesis, the Earl of Drennan. “You’ll pay for this meddling with your life!” he cried lunging madly forward, thrusting his blade at his enemy’s heart.

Captain James, quick on his feet, side-stepped in time to save his vulnerable breast. The blade, nonetheless, sliced easily through his blue, wool shirt, exposing his bronzed flesh.

“Here, man!” yelled out Beau Powers, realizing his friend stood in perilous danger. He pulled down the remaining sword and tossed it to him.

All eyes were upon the two opposing gentlemen.

The squinty-eyed mercenary who stood next to Beatrice slowly drew out a hunting knife from his belt, in preparation of throwing it into the earl’s exposed back.

Beatrice, seeing the blade, quickly seized her father’s blunderbuss from his belt and trained the ancient weapon upon the mercenary’s scowling, wrinkled face.

“Have a care, sir,” she said proudly eyeing the familiar weapon. “It donna look like much. But ’tis known to have shot down a bigger man than you.”

The viscount, legs spread apart, knees bent, growled, ready to skewer her beloved to death.

The sizzling sound of two blades meeting sang in the air as Captain James met the thrust with a counter parry of his own, knocking his adversary’s blade to one side. The blades sliced the air and all drew back to give them more room.

Beatrice’s hand shook as she watched.

“Hand it here, lass,” her father said taking the weapon from her. “We donna want to be paying the pallbearer for two bodies, now do we?”

She quietly nodded. Her eyes never left the forms of the two men battling in front of her.

The earl was a trained swordsman who had picked up the art of fencing during his service from a Maltese fencing-master in Valleta, Spain. Sweating, his hand gripped the hilt of the small sword, he feinted and lunged. The lunge was parried, and as he made a rapid extension of his sword arm, his well-toned body and legs tightened as he tried to reach his opponent again.

Only while he maintained this attack was his life safe. The moment it slackened, or his attention wondered, the viscount’s blade would most certainly dart forward and swiftly kill him.

He beat against the viscount’s blade, thrusting first, over and under, his strength and the long reach of his muscled arms to his advantage. The viscount’s pencil-thin figure and years of advanced training made it more difficult for him to find a target wherein he might wound him.