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‘Better to remain a virgin and die an old spinster than to acquaint myself with the likes of you,’ Serena flared in outrage.
Seeing red, Thomas advanced menacingly towards her once more. ‘Shut your mouth, you hellcat—you dirty little high-minded Papist bitch,’ he snarled in a flying rage, raising his hand to cuff her.
Surprised by what he was witnessing, Kit, the marquess of Thurlow, Lord Christopher Brodie—just two of his many titles—who was on his way to Dunedin Hall accompanied by his servant Robin, quickly dismounted. Having seen a flurry of hair, petticoats and creamy flesh, and heard much of what was taking place between these two, he had formed his own conclusion as to what was happening.
Kit had not intervened sooner because he thought the young lady seemed well able to take care of herself, but when he saw the man raise his fist to strike her he was impelled to act. If there was one thing he had been taught from an early age it was to respect the opposite gender, and this show of brutality against such a dainty wench was too much to ignore. Drawing his sword, he was diverted when his eyes settled momentarily on the face of the woman—a face of unforgettable beauty.
It was white, as white as alabaster in the gathering gloom, with eyes glittering like darting chips of ice, and her utter contempt for the man who intended to violate her was manifest in their translucent depths. Her lips were clamped together in a savage line, her small chin set in forceful determination, and the assertive and compelling steeliness in her expression told Kit that had she been in possession of a dagger, she would have had no qualms about thrusting it into the pulsating centre of her aggressor’s heart.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ Kit said, his tone deadly calm. ‘It would be a pity to mar a face of such exquisite beauty—and if you do, it will cost you your life.’
Unprepared for the interruption, Thomas gave an enraged curse and spun around in his fury, but then he felt the cold and hungry tongue of a rapier pressed threateningly against the soft flesh of his neck. He stared askance at the black garbed figure at the other end of the steel blade, seeing the wicked pale blue light that danced along its length, and he felt his skin prickle and the hairs at the back of his neck stand up on recognition of the intruder, who commanded both his own and Serena’s attention with his awesome presence.
‘So, you remember me, Blackwell—even though we are a long way from the Netherlands?’ The tone was sardonic, the faint smile sneering.
Beginning to sweat profusely, his face darkening to an apoplectic crimson, Thomas continued to gape as his sluggish mind fought to grasp more clearly what was happening. Respectful of the threatening blade, he felt its point already penetrating his flesh and a slow trickle of warm blood begin to run down his neck and mingle with that from his torn cheek. He stood stock-still, eyeing warily the man who was taller than himself, whose eyes bore into his like dagger thrusts.
‘You seem surprised,’ Kit remarked, speaking lightly, but his mildly amused smile and cold dark stare did not waver from the face of the man opposite, who was eyeing him with a profound hatred. ‘What’s the matter? Have I sprouted horns? I’ve never seen you sweat so much, Blackwell. It does not surprise me to find you up to your old tricks. Violating maids appears to be your favourite pastime—but it seems to me that you annoy this particular lady…that your attentions are unwelcome.’
‘And your interference in a matter that is none of your concern I find most unwelcome. Although it’s hardly surprising you come to the maid’s defence, considering the comradeship that exists between yourself and certain members of the Catholic hierarchy,’ Thomas sneered with derision, angered at finding himself at a disadvantage, and knowing he faced an experienced soldier who did not flinch under adversity.
To begin with, Brodie set Thomas on edge. He was taller than Thomas, with shoulders as broad. The man was also extremely wealthy and a smooth sort, being close to the king and his courtiers, although the fact that he could count many Catholic noblemen as his close friends—among them Sir Everard Digby and that other Catholic magnate, Sir Thomas Tresham—suggested to Thomas that Kit had Catholic sympathies himself.
To make matters worse, Brodie’s equestrian skills had attracted the eye of many a commander in the Low Countries, and he had proved his military prowess in combat many times. His reputation with both sword and pistol was an enviable and well-known fact, and Thomas had neither the means nor the clarity of mind to test it just then. But most chilling of all was the fact that Kit Brodie was also the man responsible for having Thomas and his regiment recalled from the Netherlands in disgrace—which was a score he had yet to settle.
‘And you believe that because the lady does not share your faith that it gives you the right to violate her?’ Kit’s lips curled with contempt. ‘I think it must have slipped your mind that you are no longer fighting the Spanish in the Netherlands,’ he said with heavy sarcasm. ‘The lady is right, Blackwell. You are even more of a lecherous swine than I took you for. It is my opinion that you should have been hanged for your violation and massacre of those unfortunate women at the convent near Ghent.’
‘You remember too much, Brodie,’ growled Thomas.
‘Some things are unable to be forgotten, Blackwell. That is one of them. However,’ Kit said with a savage taunt and a look to indicate the still bleeding scratches on his face, ‘I think enough bloodletting has been done for one day, so you have a reprieve. At least the lady has left you a momento to remember her by—which is more than can be said of the unfortunate women you so brutally murdered.’
Kit moved back and held his weapon aloft as Thomas tried to shake the cobwebs from his brain. Feeling the blade relinquish its position on his flesh, Thomas took a desperate, threatening step forward, at which Kit quickly wielded his sword once more, the dark wings of his eyebrows snapping together, the hard gleam in his eyes becoming brittle and his mouth tightening into a line of aggravation.
‘Have a care, Blackwell. Do not force my hand.’ Kit’s voice was like steel, his expression the same, and Thomas checked himself, knowing that Brodie was a man who brooked no argument from anyone.
‘You find me at a disadvantage, Brodie,’ growled Thomas, breathing heavily and holding his arms out from his sides to indicate he did not carry a sword. ‘As you see, I am without my weapon so I cannot defend myself. But the next time we meet you will not be so fortunate. You will discover I am as skilled with the sword as you purportedly are.’
Kit’s cold gaze travelled over Thomas with contempt before settling on the side of his face that was dark with blood. ‘I shall look forward to it. Now—be on your way and have your face tended before you bleed to death before my eyes.’
Thomas’s face was set in lines of violent, menacing rage, his gaze going beyond Kit to Serena, whose eyes were smouldering with unsuppressed hostility. With her colouring and snapping eyes she resembled a wild vixen, and did nothing to conceal her newfound hatred and revulsion for him. Drawing his upper lip into a snarl, his eyes settled on her pale features with cruel contempt.
‘I’ll make the Papist bitch sorry she ever drew breath. I swear I’ll find her.’
‘Then take care, Blackwell, lest she finds you first,’ scoffed Kit, his chiding laughter mocking the other. ‘After what my eyes have just witnessed between the two of you, you may not fare so well the next time either. The lady has clearly taken her measure of you and appears to have quite a temper.’
‘I’ll not give the spitting she-cat another chance to sink her claws into me.’ Thomas’s eyes settled once more on Kit, the cords of his neck standing out quivering and tense. ‘I have a score to settle with you both. I shall have my revenge for what you have done to me this day—and before that, Brodie. Our paths are destined to cross again, so prepare yourself for when they do. I will give you no quarter.’
As he strode away, hatred nestled like a tiger in Thomas Blackwell’s heart. Time would tell if Brodie was all his compatriots extolled him to be, when he had reaped his revenge and crushed Kit beneath his heel.
Thomas was determined to prove ruthless in his ambition to destroy both Lord Brodie and Serena Carberry, and to gain that end he would slander and scheme without the least regard for the truth. Unbeknown to him just then, an event was about to occur that would rock England with its infamy and would assist him greatly in his efforts. His grievance against them would not be assuaged until they were dead.
Chapter Two
Serena looked at her rescuer’s visage, seeing that this was no lust-crazed beast but a strikingly handsome man with aristocratic features, hair and eyes as black as jet and the lean, hungry look of a hawk. The elegance of his attire and accompanying servant told her he was a gentleman.
However, the brutish treatment she had just undergone ignited all the fires of rage which she unfairly directed at this stranger. He appeared to find the whole incident highly entertaining and to take an infuriating delight in her sorry plight yet, if Serena had paused to consider, he had just saved her from an ordeal so terrible she could never have imagined it.
The disquieting, contemplative smile gave her no assurance that her treatment at this stranger’s hands would be any better, and all she could think of at that moment was that he had borne witness to her humiliation. It was this that penetrated her paralysed thoughts and she hated him for it. It was to form a tempestuous foundation to their future acquaintance—one that might have been so very different had they met in more conventional circumstances.
Her pride seared, with elbows akimbo and her fingers drumming impatiently on her waist, Serena flung her hair back from her face, sending it spilling down her back, and glared into the black, humour-filled eyes sweeping over her with a rakish gleam.
‘Well?’ she snapped irritably, treating Kit as if he was somehow responsible for what had happened. ‘What are you gawping and grinning at? Is it your intention to finish what Thomas Blackwell began?’
Unperturbed by her anger, Kit laughed. ‘If you believe that, I can only assume that the fiery colour of your hair has baked your brain.’
‘I would have sent him on his way without your intervention—and you can expect much of the same if you dare come any closer. I have a care for my virtue and am particularly choosy who I surrender it to.’
Kit chuckled. The fire-spitting green eyes seared right through him as he raked her with a brazen gaze, amazed by her spirit. At first sight he had thought her too slender and fragile for such a furious onslaught but, after seeing her in action, it was clear there was nothing timid or docile about this young woman. Kit was convinced that she would have defended her virtue until her last breath was drawn.
‘I don’t doubt it, and you are right, you were doing splendidly without my intervention. Blackwell’s face will smart for a month and he will bear the marks of his encounter with you for a good deal longer.’
‘For ever, I hope,’ Serena said heatedly, dabbing at a nasty scratch on her wrist with a handkerchief.
Kit’s lips twitched with ill-suppressed amusement, his gaze lightly caressing her face. ‘The poor man must be in torment at being cheated out of what he intended. The glare you gave him would have shrivelled the pride and the passion of any man.’
‘And you would do well to remember it,’ she snapped, fired up with ire, her eyes flying to his brazen and overconfident smile.
‘You are much too fragile to get the better of a man of Blackwell’s size and strength,’ Kit chided. ‘I doubt you would have the stamina to oppose him for long. Had I not come along when I did, you would have been ravished most cruelly.’
Serena ignored the fact that his words held some element of truth. ‘Fragile! Sir, I am more resourceful than you give me credit for, not some meek, simpering milksop. What I lack in strength I make up for in agility—so, if you value your looks, I advise you to keep your distance.’
Kit could only marvel at her tenacity. His eyes glowed as he gave her a lazy smile, realising that both her dignity and pride had been mightily bruised. ‘You, dear lady, are a veritable tigress. But you have judged me before I can voice a plea—and unfairly, too. Rest assured that I am not in the habit of taking that which is not freely given,’ he said, his voice soft and deeply resonant, grinning leisurely as his perusal swept slowly over her delectable form, liking what he saw.
Her figure was slender, her features fine and soft, and yet he had borne witness to the fact that she wasn’t nearly as fragile and delicate as suggested. There was also a proud courage in the way she had leapt to defend her honour. She was a firebrand, and he could easily understand how she had captured the salacious attention of Thomas Blackwell, who had been left with more than a little wounded pride.
This young woman was in possession of a tempestuous will, and Kit could be forgiven for taking her for a gypsy wench—with her tumbling auburn hair and flashing eyes. Looking at her with heightened interest, he noted that her attire proclaimed her to be the daughter of a gentleman. If so, he was curious as to the circumstances that had brought her to this place alone to be set upon by Thomas Blackwell. Had she enticed him, and how well did she know her tormentor?
Serena smarted beneath the closely perusing eye of the stranger. His gaze seemed to touch her everywhere, stripping her body bare as he made no attempt to hide his interest. Becoming aware of the object of his gaze as it dipped, she followed it, realising the twin peaks of her breasts were taut and pointing high above the ripped fabric of her gown. Feeling her cheeks burn hot with embarrassment, she was immediately prompted to check her appearance and gather the torn bodice of her dress together, dropping her handkerchief into the road.
‘You, sir, are the most despicable man I have met in a long time.’
‘Come now. Not since half an hour ago at least,’ Kit laughed. ‘Do you mean to tell me you prefer Blackwell’s company to mine?’
‘I cannot say that because I do not know you. I can only hope you are enough of a gentleman not to gossip about what has just occurred.’
‘My lips are sealed.’ Highly amused by her angry confusion, Kit swept an arm across his chest and bowed low in a courtly manner, the quirk in his lips deepening into an amused, lopsided grin. ‘I am happy to have been of service, and would wish to hear your gratitude rather than your anger. Your eyes are more lethal than a set of duelling pistols.’ Bending to retrieve her handkerchief, he made no move to return it.
Relaxing a little, Serena deliberately softened her manner, thinking that if she appeared to relent a little she could escape his odious presence and be on her way. ‘Very well. I suppose I must thank you for arriving when you did. Perhaps you did help save me from a terrible fate,’ she conceded reluctantly whilst remaining aloof. ‘I am indebted to you, sir.’
Kit’s look became serious suddenly. ‘Did Blackwell hurt you?’
‘I told you. I can fend for myself. Now, if you will allow me to go on my way, I will bid you goodnight.’ Unfortunately it was not as easy as she hoped to be rid of him, for he briskly ignored her request.
‘You may still have need of my services. I insist on offering my protection and escorting you to your home. Who knows—your tormentor may come back.’
‘I don’t think so. It’s my guess that he will have returned to the White Swan where he will consume more liquor before the night is out and he seeks his bed—or someone else’s.’
‘Nevertheless, I do insist.’
His insistence was beginning to stretch Serena’s nerves. ‘You are extremely gallant, sir, but that will not be necessary. I can see myself home. It is not far,’ she replied tersely.
‘And where is that?’
The softness of a moment before left Serena’s eyes, turning then to flint. Her mouth hardened to an unsmiling resentment as her temper rose once more. Feeling less than proud of herself for the way she had acted, the mere thought that this arrogant and impertinent man had heard and witnessed the scene between herself and Thomas Blackwell was too embarrassing to contemplate. ‘What has that to do with you?’
Kit suppressed a smile with amused patience as he sheathed his rapier. ‘Absolutely nothing. Tell me, do your parents often let you out alone like this—to make assignations with men of Blackwell’s ilk?’
Icy fire smouldered in Serena’s eyes as she faced him with chilled contempt. ‘My encounter with Thomas Blackwell was not an assignation—and, no, my father does not even know I have left the house. But I am a gentlewoman, if that is what you mean.’
Kit’s bold eyes sparkled with merriment in the face of her anger, and his strong, animal white teeth gleamed in the gathering gloom. ‘No gentlewoman remains a gentlewoman after doing and saying what I have just overheard,’ he answered airily.
‘Then I would be grateful if you would forget what you have overheard, sir, and forget your encounter with me. Good evening.’
Spinning on her heels, Serena stalked ahead with an indignant swing of her hips. Grinning broadly and, with a soft chuckle, grasping the reins of his horse, Kit tucked the young lady’s handkerchief into a pocket inside his doublet. Quickening his stride he followed, indicating for Robin to do likewise, who was watching his master with an amused expression on his boyish face.
‘Wait,’ Kit said, having no mind to let her go lightly.
Serena turned and waited for him to approach, taking stock of him for the first time. Attired in the manner of a wealthy lord, he was a magnificent man—as handsome in physique as he was of face. Her eyes wandered over his strong shoulders encased in a black velvet doublet, tapering to a narrow waist, and long, lean, muscular thighs—so unnervingly masculine.
Her anger began to drain from her and a small frown of perplexity creased her brow when he came close and stood looking down at her. His mere presence touched her senses with an acute sensual awareness that left her weak. She flushed, angered by her wayward thoughts. No proper lady would think such things and allow such imaginings to take root in her mind—but then, no proper lady would have done what she had done and gone searching for a man she had foolishly become infatuated with.
‘Well?’ she said, her tone brittle.
‘Since we seem to be going in the same direction, perhaps we might walk a little way together? Being a stranger to these parts, I would be glad of the company.’
Serena stared into his eyes, which still sparkled with unbridled humour. After a lengthy pause she slowly released her breath, relenting a little, if reluctantly; the sooner she was rid of this disconcerting man, the better she would feel. They were going in the same direction and she would only have to suffer his company for a little while.
‘Very well,’ she conceded, beginning to walk on. ‘My home is not far. Are you just passing through Ripley, or visiting friends?’
‘I am here on business—although Sir Henry Carberry, who I am visiting, is also my friend.’
Thunderstruck, Serena froze, and with an expression of stunned horror she stopped dead in her tracks and looked up into his dark eyes, realising who he was. ‘You are visiting Dunedin Hall?’
‘I am. Do you know it?’
‘Yes—I—I should,’ she stammered hesitantly, suddenly wishing the ground would open and mercifully swallow her up. For the first time since meeting him she was almost at a loss for words. ‘I—I am Serena Carberry. Sir Henry is my father.’
Seeing the horror and dismay on her face, Kit smiled slowly, his gaze sparkling and taunting. Cocking a handsome eyebrow, he gave her a lengthy inspection, his teeth gleaming behind a lopsided grin. ‘Well, well,’ he murmured, letting his breath out slowly. ‘I see.’
Serena was unable to prevent the onslaught of shame that engulfed her. Of all the people in the world to visit her father, it had to be this terrible person who had witnessed that awful scene between herself and Thomas Blackwell that would haunt her for ever.
‘You—you must be the marquess of Thurlow?’
‘Yes—and I can quite understand why you would rather I weren’t.’ Kit chuckled, seeming to enjoy her discomfiture. ‘I realise how uncomfortable it will be for you having me under your father’s roof for a whole night—knowing what I do,’ he said quietly, meaningfully. Looking up at him, Serena saw something in his look that challenged her spirit and brought back her strength and a surge of dislike.
‘I would appreciate it if you did not mention any of this to my father. He would be extremely angry, you understand.’
‘I consider he would be better off knowing in order to deal with his wayward daughter so she does not repeat her misdemeanour.’
‘I will remind you, sir, that this is none of your affair. You are here to see my father’s horses and to ride to Woodfield Grange tomorrow for the hunt. I am reluctant to lend myself to my father’s anger should my encounter with Thomas Blackwell become known, and I would be more than grateful if you did not tell him. If he should hear of it, his tirade will challenge the loudest broadside and my reputation will be in ruins.’
Kit gave her a wolfish grin. ‘Then let me set your mind at rest. You can rest assured, dear lady, that your guilty secret is quite safe with me.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said as graciously as she was able under the circumstances, walking briskly on her way.
Kit fell into step beside her. ‘I am Lord Brodie by the way—Christopher Brodie—Kit to my friends.’
‘Because I do not know you, sir,’ Serena replied testily without looking at him, her nose in the air, ‘I shall address you as Lord Brodie. To be more familiar would be inappropriate.’
Kit grinned. ‘As you wish.’
With Robin following at a discreet distance, they walked side by side. Serena felt herself enveloped in Kit’s perusal which brought a flush to her cheeks; if she had turned and glanced at him and noted the attention he was paying to her gently swaying body—his gaze passing with leisured interest over her hair and slender hips swinging provocatively in unison—her flush would have deepened to poppy red.
Kit’s thoughts turned to his sweet-natured betrothed, Dorothea Carberry—this young lady’s cousin—with relief. His betrothal to Dorothea was recent, and he would call on her and Lord Carberry after the hunting at Woodfield Grange. The gentle nature of Dorothea was far more favourable than the fiery nature of her cousin. Any man finding himself attached to this particular firebrand would know no peace. Kit felt heartily sorry for anyone this wench unleashed her tongue on. And yet, he was beginning to understand how a man could so easily succumb to a woman’s charms that he would forget the troth so soon made to another.
Serena slipped into the house ahead of Lord Brodie. Not until she reached her chamber did she allow her mind to conjure up an image of Thomas Blackwell’s face—the man she had foolishly allowed to dominate her every waking hour since she had last laid eyes on him. The image she had of him now was distorted and ugly beyond recognition.
Unbidden, the humour-filled black eyes of her rescuer took its place, and she realised he posed as much a danger and threat to her emotions and senses as Thomas Blackwell had before. Collecting her scattered wits, she formed a firm resolve not to let the marquess of Thurlow intimidate her. Earlier he had stung her pride by playing humorously on her own confusion, and she was determined that tonight she would be more in control of her emotions and herself and set the marquess of Thurlow agog.
She chose to wear an extremely fetching ruby-coloured velvet gown, one Andrew had brought as a present for her from Italy. The full skirt draped luxuriantly over hoops, and the sleeves were puffed, the ruche-edged stomacher emphasising the slimness of her waist. The collar, elevated at the back, framed her delicate, heart-shaped face.
After her maid had quickly and deftly arranged her hair in soft, high curls and Serena felt confident that she looked her best, she went downstairs to the great hall with its vaulted, rib-caged roof, unable to think of a plausible excuse to remain in her room. A murmur of voices came from one of the chambers leading off from the hall. Serena advanced towards it, her footsteps on the tiles heralding her arrival. Her father and Lord Brodie were standing before the giant hearth where a fire burned bright, the lively flames sending dancing shadows over the richly tapestried walls.
At fifty-five, Sir Henry should have been a rich man. The fact that he was a relatively poor man was largely due to his own recklessness throughout his life—the large recusant fines, the funding of the Catholic cause and the amount of money he spent on his beloved horses. He was still a handsome man, jovial and of average height, with twinkling blue eyes and thinning dark hair liberally sprinkled with grey. Like that of King James, a small square-cut beard covered his chin.
Conversation between the two men ceased when Serena made her entrance. When she stepped into the range of Kit’s vision, he could not believe the beautiful and well-groomed lady—who seemed the very spirit of virtue and moved with all the poise, grace and cool dignity of a queen—was the same bedraggled shrew he had encountered earlier.
Serena’s gaze flicked over Lord Brodie before coming to rest on her father, sensing his displeasure that she had absented herself from his side on his guest’s arrival.
‘Ah, Serena! You have finally deigned to grace us with your presence,’ Sir Henry rebuked. ‘Kit, may I present my daughter, Serena, and apologise most profusely for her absence on your arrival. I would like to say she is not usually so absent-minded or so ill-mannered, but I am sorry to confess that when other matters of interest crop up to occupy her mind she is forgetful of all else.’
At nineteen, the frequent flashes of childlike ardour and deep affection in Serena’s eyes whenever they settled on her father blinded him to her wilfulness and often reprehensible behaviour. Despite his gentle reproach there was a warm admiration in his eyes when they rested on her. It was no secret that he doted on his daughter unashamedly, and was in no hurry to marry her off. She was just one more reason why he had not yet succumbed to the quiet charms of Mrs Davis.
Kit watched Serena approach with interest. She came to stand close, tilting her head as she gazed into his handsome visage from beneath eyebrows delicately sweeping like a winged bird’s. A bloom of rosy pink heightened her high cheekbones, and her eyes—emerald green orbs flecked with brown—were thickly fringed with silken black lashes tipped with gold. The firelight gave her hair a rich warm hue the colour of rosewood, and the heady fragrance of rosewater on her skin was intoxicating.
Kit felt his pulses leap and the blood go searing through his veins at her nearness and the coyness of her little smile as she demurely lowered her eyes. Drawing his dark eyebrows together in a frown he became cautious, strongly suspecting he was being beguiled and led into a trap. Serena lifted her gaze, the eyes beneath the thick fringe of lashes steady and disconcerting, shining with an intelligent brightness which proclaimed an agility of wit and a craving to taste all that life had to offer.
Her beauty fed Kit’s gaze, rekindling the ache he had felt earlier. Never had he met a woman who intrigued him more, but because he had given his troth to another, the tantalising Mistress Serena Carberry was forbidden fruit—and he was beginning to thank God for it. She would bring him nothing but trouble.
