Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 6

  She fought wildly, but she was soft and cuddly for all her struggling and, from the sound of her voice, was young. "Come on, puss," he said, cajoling if somewhat breathless. "I'm not such a bad sort. How about a kiss?"

  Instead, a hand cracked against his nose. He yelped and held her tighter.

  "I shall scream!" A note of pure terror was in the panting little voice. "And—and if I do—you will be incarcerated!"

  "And you, m'dear, will likely ruin any hopes you may entertain of future business in this boardinghouse! Come now—enough is enough. You hopped into my bed, and now you must—"

  "This is my bed! And my room! There must have been some mistake. I should have lit the lamp, but I was so very sleepy, and… Oh, sir! Whoever you are, I beg of you… I do not wish to ruin myself, but if you will not let me go, I shall most assuredly scream and we shall have everyone in here!"

  The prospect was not intriguing. "Well, of all the false starts!" protested Harry, feeling much abused. "Let's have a little light on the subject." He reached for the tinderbox but was stopped by a half-sobbed, "No! Do not! I should die of shame! And you… Oh, my dear God! You are… naked!"

  He chuckled. "Yes, but you aren't." To his horror she began to weep in earnest, and he said kindly, "Now, don't cry, for Lord's sake. Look—you do not seriously expect me to believe all this? Mrs. Burnett gave me this suite."

  "Mrs. Burnett is a great gaby!" A loud sniff accompanied this denunciation. "My friend did leave, but I told Mr. Burnett I would remain. He is half-foxed most of the time, and I suppose… Oh, sir! I know what you must think… what you could not but believe. Please—I implore you—release me. I am an unmarried lady, travelling with my friends from the Convent…"

  Harry gave a gasp of dismay. Convent? She really did sound like a well-bred chit. The cultured accents could be imitated, of course, but if she was a lady of Quality, he'd be in a fine pickle. And so would she! The deliciousness of the situation brought a curve to his humourous mouth. Not relinquishing his grip, he said, "Very well. I will let you go—if you will at least leave me with a kiss."

  There was silence. Then a small hand fluttered to his lips.

  "No, by God! Your mouth, ma'am!"

  "But…" She sounded forlorn. "No one but my relations… has ever kissed my… lips… "

  "Even so, you must admit I am being most generous," Harry insisted. "I have every right to demand that you—"

  "Yes, yes. Very well…"

  He bent toward where he imagined her mouth to be. As if she had forced herself to a sudden surrender, she swung up her head. The kiss became a violent collision, evoking a gasp and a sobbed, "You horrid monster. You bit me!"

  "I never did! If you want to know it, you near knocked out my front teeth!"

  She was making small distressed sounds, and he said, "We'd best have the candles. I promise to keep covered, and—"

  "Please—no! I have done as you asked. Now, if you are a gentleman you will turn your face to the other side and remain so until I am gone."

  Harry grumbled and fussed, but did as she requested. When the parlour door closed softly a moment later, he was smiling into the darkness. His nocturnal visitor had been a choice armful, and one he'd every intention of meeting again. Understandably, she had been desperate to keep her identity a secret. Nonetheless, in the morning that secret must be revealed. If she left the boardinghouse he could easily discover her name from one of the servants. If she remained, he had only to find a damaged mouth and he would have her!

  Mrs. Burnett had said breakfast was served until nine o'clock. Promptly at eight, bathed, shaved with the razor he'd bespoken from the waiter, neatly dressed, and with his dark hair brushed into a careless style he knew became him, Harry strolled downstairs. Whoever had laundered and pressed his clothes had known what they were about; the shine on his topboots might horrify Andy but was adequate, and he felt himself to be fairly presentable.

  The coffee room was already well occupied. Mostly, he noticed, by young ladies. He paused atop the two steps that led down into the room, scanning the guests eagerly. His heart missed a beat Three ladies were seated at a table beside the far windows. It was ridiculous, of course—the coincidence too far-fetched. Yet he had learned long since that life has many coincidences, some so incredible as to be beyond belief. The golden curls of one head were the colour of winter sunshine; the slender back indicated youth. Breath held in check, he watched her, and as though she sensed his presence, she turned slowly to face him. Could it be—it was! The golden little beauty who had hovered in his thoughts from the moment he'd seen her in the carriage yesterday morning! The great cornflower blue eyes held a measure of reproach, but dimples peeped about that rosebud mouth.

  And at the very centre of her upper lip was placed a small patch!

  Scarcely aware that he moved, Harry stepped towards her. Another young lady sat at the table, a dark girl wearing a plain round gown and with her hair pulled unattractively into a tight bun atop her head. She turned to look at him and, even as he stared, her big eyes crossed and an expression of vacuous stupidity settled onto her face. The poor half-wit! Stunned, he blinked at her.

  And upon her upper lip was placed a small patch!

  Baffled, he stood there, and one by one the other ladies turned fully to confront him. Many an eye held a roguish light, and many a smile was kind because he was young and good to look at, and so totally bewildered.

  But upon each and every pretty mouth was a small patch!

  A slow grin spread over Harry's face. "Gammoned, by God!" he murmured.

  The third lady seated at his Beauty's table was very fat and rather elderly, and she wore the sober black habit of a nun. She stood and started towards him. He drew back uneasily, then gawked at her.

  In the centre of her upper lip was placed a small patch!

  Shrieks of feminine laughter rang out.

  The nun folded her hands and shook her head in gentle reproof.

  Shattered, Harry flushed to the roots of his hair and fled, their mirth following him.

  His precipitous flight ended in an encounter with two friends he'd not seen since the Battle of Ciudad Rodrigo. They were decidedly bosky, having obviously been celebrating all night, and alerted by Mrs. Burnett's ominously jutting chin, he hurriedly conveyed them up to their suite, settled them comfortably, and finally overcoming their tearful pleas that he not turn his back on 'ol' comrades 'n arms,' ran downstairs. His fears that he'd been gone too long proved justified. The nun and all her young ladies had departed. Mrs. Burnett allowed him to peruse the guest register, but he learned only that Suites 3 and 4, and Rooms 6, 7, and 10 had been assigned to Sister Maria Evangeline and "Eight Young Ladies". He raced back to his room and, staying only to shrug into his riding coat, clap his beaver at its customary jaunty angle upon his head, and snatch up his gloves and whip, hurried downstairs, paid his shot, and repaired to the stables. To have found his Golden Goddess twice must surely be an indication that Fate had ordained them to meet. And if he dared not presume to enter the ranks of her suitors, he could at least discover her name and direction. Someday, perhaps, when Fate had allowed him to improve his lot he would seek her out, lay his heart at those dainty feet, and hopefully find her not indifferent to him.

  Unhappily, the stableboy could not quite recall whether the nun's carriages had headed north or west. He was quite sure, however, that they had not journeyed to the east, and in desperation Harry turned Lace northward, banking on the likelihood that the good Sister had been conveying her charges to the City. He rode as far as Sevenoaks with no sign of the carriages he sought, nor did his enquiries prove fruitful. Ostlers, innkeepers, and sundry pedestrians could, and all too often did, provide him with a list of equipages and travellers they had seen pass their way, but a nun and eight young ladies had not been among them. The afternoon was far spent when Harry at last found a groom who recalled seeing three such carriages heading towards Reigate not an hour since. Harry turned westward at once but three ho
urs later, in a gathering dusk, was forced to admit defeat. He had found his little perfection only to lose her again. As well, perhaps, for she'd likely make a brilliant match long before he could approach her. He sighed, reined Lace around, and headed to the east once more, his heart heavy.

  The skies were clear that night, the moon high. He procured a satisfactory but dull meal in a small hedge tavern and, when he was assured that Lace was rested, resumed his journey. At ten o'clock he followed the deserted highway to the crest of a sprawling rise. The moon gilded a distant pond to silver and painted the winding road ahead so that it shone like a white ribbon. The wind was busily rattling the branches of trees and bushes, and far off he could hear the notes of a fiddle, expertly played, rising from some snug farmhouse or cottage. His keen eyes searched the dimpled hollows of valleys, the soft sweep of hills, and the denser darkness that was woodland, but discovered no sign of a great house. The tavern owner had directed him to this road and said Sanguinet Towers was just beyond the Lowland Woods. To be sure, a dense stand of trees bisected the road below, but there was no mansion visible, unless… Beside a nearby hill the black and slender arm of a chimney rose against the sky. A gatehouse, perhaps. He started Lace down the road.

  It was a lonely spot, especially at night, and Harry first tightened his grip on the pistol then, driven by an odd unease, drew it from his pocket. He was almost to the trees when he heard the faintest breath of a sound he'd heard before: the closed-teeth whistling an ostler emits while currying a horse. Too late he jerked the pistol upward. The last thing he saw was a flash that split the night and scattered it into countless whirling fragments…

  The dark rider moved slowly from the shadows, calling to the mare so as to calm her. Dismounting, he took up her reins, tied them to a branch, and then bent over the crumpled form of his victim. Harry lay face down, and the man turned him with one rough boot, his pistol at the ready. There was no attempt at reprisal, however, the slim body limp and unresisting. The white face was darkly blotched and stained, the ominous streaks spreading even as he watched. Curious, the man bent closer. "I'll be gormed!" he exclaimed "So you're Redmond! I'd've said 'ello, me fine flash cove, if I'd knowed we was acquainted, like. Oh well—too late now since I've gone and blowed yer brains out! Let's see whatcher got fer old Dice…"

  He dropped to his knees, his practiced hands swift and sure. Watch and cravat pin were soon removed. The lack of rings or fobs was disappointing, but the cardcase sported a fine ruby in the crest, and the purse drew a gratified "Aha!" from the big man. The many-caped riding coat was next to go; then Dice stood and, having deposited his loot in the saddlebags and slung the coat across the horse's withers, he pulled Harry's lax form to his shoulder, then slung him face down across the roan's saddle. Crossing to Lace, he stroked her, talking gently and admiringly for a minute or two before he ventured to mount up. He rode on for a short distance, leading the roan, keeping to the shadow of the trees until he came to a deep cut full of bracken and fern that fell away to his right. He leant over, shoved Harry from the saddle, and watched him tumble down the steep bank until he vanished from sight.

  Considerably richer, Devil Dice rode away whistling merrily, well pleased with his night's work.

  Harry's first impression was that he lay in the mouldering Spanish farmhouse. It seemed to him, lost in the swirling mists of half-consciousness, that he heard the man and woman wrangling over him, trying to decide how much he would be worth to the British and whether it would justify the exertion of riding to Ciudad Rodrigo and notifying his regiment that he still lived. And for what must be the thousandth weary time he pleaded, "Digale a ellos que estoy aqui… Le suplico! Digale a ellos… que estoy aqui …"

  "It's all right, matey," mumbled a deep and very English voice. "We knows you're here."

  Peering up eagerly, Harry made two discoveries: firstly, that the sharp edge of pain was this time in his head; and secondly, that a blurred round glow hung over him. He blinked, and the glow began to resolve into the thin face of a man with drowsy, heavy-lidded eyes deepset under extremely bushy brows. Untidy brown hair curled thickly under a battered old straw hat. The chin was an unyielding jut, belied by the kindly gaze that was fixed upon him.

  Glancing to the side, the man said in that lazy drawl, "Here we go again, Mr. Fox. That's what y'get, y'see? Fish a cove outta the River Styx, as y'might say, and what's he do? Jaws your ear off all night—and foreign jaw into the bargain! Now, does I look like a Spanisher, old friend? I asks yer! It's enough t'try the patience of a honest man what likes his privacy and as little jaw as maybe!"

  Harry had been looking about him while he listened to this monologue. It was night still, and he lay in a clearing in the woods. A fire leapt and crackled merrily nearby and above it a large iron pot hung from a trivet, giving off a fragrant aroma. To one side was a tent, crammed with all manner of articles, among which he discerned books, shovels, coils of rope, a ship's wheel, a violin case, numerous cooking implements, several large bottles, blankets, a ladder, and what looked to be one end of a rowing oar. A small donkey grazed beside the tent and a cart, poles up, was close at hand.

  His companion was talking again. "What y'reckon he's going to dream up this time? Are we going to get Spanish again, or will he be calling me his Golden Goddess? Cor, luvvus! Wouldn't I look fetching wrapped up in yards o' stuff like them Greek ladies! Diccon the dryad! Cor!"

  His search for another man having failed, Harry's gaze shot back to this 'Diccon'. He was probably about five-and-thirty, and his clothes, although much worn, were neat and clean. But he was one of the most cadaverous individuals Harry had ever beheld, and the prospect of that tall figure clad in a Grecian gown so amused him that, being quite light-headed, he broke into an involuntary laugh, choked on a groan, and clapped one hand to his brow.

  "Rejoice, Fox," quoth the long man. "He is restored!"

  "Not… appreciably," gasped Harry. "What the devil… happened? Did Lace throw me?"

  No answer being vouchsafed he looked up to find that gaunt face only inches away, a calculating light in the pale blue eyes. There was no doubt but that they were quite alone, and the unhappy suspicion dawned upon Harry that not only was he completely knocked out of time, but that his rescuer was a raving lunatic. It might well, he thought, become necessary for him to defend himself, which at the moment would be difficult. His knees felt weak; his head, in addition to throbbing brutally, was full of cobwebs; and he could not seem to remember anything with much clarity. He was in great trouble, but—what it was…

  The voice was rumbling on. "I am called Diccon, sir. And you'd likely feel better if you was to take a bite o'my stew. Can you sit up and tell me your name? I couldn't find no cardcase, nor nothing."

  His long arm slid under Harry's shoulders. The struggle to move was wracking, and his best response was a gasped out, "Thank you. I'm… Harry Allison… " which was all he could manage.

  "Harry Allison." Diccon propped his uninvited guest against a convenient tree and, having noted that the pale lips were tightly compressed and the fists clenched, he crossed to the cart, returning in a few minutes carrying a tin cup. "Took a real wisty rap you did, your worship. But your head's not broke less'n I mistake it, and I seen a'plenty in me time. Have a swig o'this."

  The brandy was mellow and potent, the quality such that Harry's eyes widened in surprise, but it also made him cough, the resultant chaos in his head rendering him so sick and dizzy that Diccon's words reached him as from a vast distance, and he lay very still, listening.

  "Stay low and keep your mouth shut," his host offered. "That's what me mum told me when I was a little shaver, and that's about what I does. Not much of a talker be I. A gentle, peaceable cove, what likes quiet and a good book, and the backwaters o'life, as y'might say. So you'd likely think that was I a'sitting here with Mr. Fox, minding of me own business, and with me stew starting to smell fit to eat, nothing could move me. But I found out something else during me travels, milord, and that is tha
t if trouble comes a'sniffing around, it's best to go and take a look at it—'stead o'waiting t'let it come slithering up to look at you when you ain't nowise ready. So when I—"

  "I am not," Harry frowned, vaguely irritated by this flow of narrative, "a lord." He raised one hand as he interjected this crucial statement, and Diccon was silent a moment while his shrewd eyes fastened on that white hand with its slim, tapering fingers and well-kept nails. "Well, that's a sad thing, I grant ye," he commiserated. "But then neither is I, so there y'are. And here was I when I heered that there shot—"

  "Shot?" Harry clutched again at his brow while he strove painfully to remember.

  "Ar," nodded Diccon. "And up I creeps to the holler and sees you come a'flying down the bank and a big cove riding off with two horses, and—"

  "Lace!" Starting up, aghast, Harry winced but, pushing away Diccon's restraining hands, struggled to his knees. "That dirty… bastard! He's taken my Lace!" He gained his feet and, reeling, was steadied by a strong arm.

  "Easy, Sir Harry," said Diccon, watching him narrowly. "If your Lace be a showy little bay mare, he took her all right."

  "Well don't stand here chatting about it, blast you!" cried Harry furiously, gripping his head with one hand and pushing at Diccon with the other. "Get after him! Dammit—will you move! Sergeant!" And then, staggering, went to his knees and groaned a febrile, "What in thunder am I saying? How long ago, man ? Can you not follow and see where—"

  Diccon allowed as how it had been a half-hour back and wasn't no use t'go rushing off like some chawbacon, and that if Sir Harry didn't lie down and stop jumping about like a flea in a skillet he'd do hisself up proper. Since Harry was by this time beginning to feel the benefit of the brandy, his response was, if thready, so lengthily explicit that awe came into Diccon's eyes. He restored his guest to the tree and waited until at last the distressed man ran out of breath and groaned an anguished, "Damn, damn, damn! If he spoils her pretty mouth, I'll…" His voice broke and Diccon nodded sympathetically. "Know how you feels, sir. I'd be the same if 'twas Mr. Fox."