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Babson. How lucky he was to have a loyal informant in such a crucial position as valet to Colonel Twining. Although Nat would ordinarily relish any information, however trivial, about the powerful Roundhead, the fact that Anne would soon become Twining’s bride caused an unsettling feeling through him. How he’d like to taunt Twining with the fact that he’d held his betrothed’s near-naked body close against him. And a very tempting body it was, too.
His mouth twitched. Too good for the likes of Twining.
Another of the items in Babson’s report came to mind. Anne was the daughter of the Royalist, Jonathan Lowell. No doubt the wench followed her uncle’s politics, Nat decided, since she was about to marry one of Cromwell’s puppet officers. No wonder she had been so fearful of being recognized and the retelling of her actions getting back to her betrothed, Colonel Twining.
The bushes rustled again and Nat turned to see her snatch up the blanket, toss it over her shoulder and storm toward him. Her long red hair was knotted on top of her head. She wore a rumpled muslin gown that was at least two sizes too big, and by the damp marks already appearing across her bodice, it was evident she hadn’t removed her wet undergarments.
She whipped her eyes back to his. “Are you still here?”
Nat shaded his eyes from the sun as he watched her approach him. “I’m waiting to hear you say thank you to me for saving your life, mermaid.” He chuckled as he saw her shoulders stiffen and her hands ball into tiny fists in response.
He stretched his bare feet lazily in front of him and leaned back against the rock. “I’ll see you to your flock, if you wait while I put my boots back on,” he teased, knowing the last thing she wanted was for him to follow her.
When she neared, he saw the thought struggle in her blue-green eyes, just as he hoped. When she came to within a foot of him, she dropped the horse blanket over his head without breaking stride and marched toward the mare cropping grass nearby.
“I don’t need an escort to find my way.”
“You’re not very friendly, considering you owe me your life,” he shouted back, tossing the blanket to the side. “I’ve enough misery without ruining my uniform and boots trying to save the likes of an ungrateful chit.” He tried unsuccessfully not to grin as he wrung out the other sock. “Remember, if you sprint about as a water nymph again, the next man you meet may not be a gentleman.” He saw her cheeks redden and her eyes flash.
“You’re not a gentleman,” she replied. “A gentleman would have left the minute he noticed a maid in the water.” She glared with undercurrents more dangerous than those of the river. Grabbing the reins of her mare, she trudged back toward him.
Nat squinted up at her. “You’re a bale of trouble, wench.”
Anne reached out and grabbed one of the boots he had discarded, then quickly mounted her horse. Narrowing his eyes from the sun, Nat stretched out for it, but a second too late. He heard her smug laugh as he scrambled to his feet and hopped after her, but the sharp stones and rough ground slowed his pace.
Without so much as a look back she goaded the mare into a gallop toward the river.
“Bloody hell!” Nat shouted. “Don’t you dare...!”
She flung his boot into the water with all of her might. With a throaty chuckle, she whipped her horse around and faced him with a triumphant grin. “Watch out for the undertow, Lieutenant!” She wheeled her mare around and gave him a parting salute as she set off at a gallop along the hedgerow in the direction of Wycliffe Manor, her silver laughter ringing out after her.
* * *
Chickens squawked and flew in the air as Anne ran across the fowl yard toward the buttery, her black skirts flying behind her. At the garden post, she paused, her fingers toying nervously with her locket as she peered around the shrubbery before making a beeline for the servants’ stairs at the rear of the kitchen.
It had taken her less than a half hour to sneak along the hedgerow to the milking barn and change into the proper dress which she had previously stashed in the hidden space behind the boards of her mare’s stall.
Before scurrying toward the manor house, Anne stopped and looked back across the rolling autumn fields beyond. Her heart beat a little faster as she thought of the handsome lieutenant.
“Call me Nat,” he had said.
Clutching her locket, she bit her lip. But of course the lieutenant hadn’t followed her. He had believed her story and, by now, would think she had returned to her sheep. A warm blush swept over her as she remembered how his eyes darkened when he stared at her while he held her on his lap.
She had never been so near to a Roundhead, nor had she ever wanted to be. Of course, Uncle George was a Roundhead, but that wasn’t the same. The lieutenant was a...soldier. Soldiers killed other Englishmen in the name of duty—Englishmen like her father, who had a bounty of gold sovereigns on his head.
Her dear father. Had it already been a year since he had risked his life to sneak into Wycliffe Manor late one night to see her? How handsome he had looked, dressed in his royal blue velvet cloak, the cavalier-lace sprinkling like crystals from his throat and wrists. He had risked capture even then, when he crept through the priest’s hole—the hidden passageway—that led from the milk barn to the second-floor landing of the manor. She would never forget the moment when her father had promised to send for her, once Charles Stuart, God keep him, was restored and the despicable Oliver Cromwell driven into the sea.
“How much you resemble your mother,” her father had said. “You have her beauty, Anne, but you must strive for her patience and understanding.”
She had nodded, knowing her father wanted her compliance, but God’s bones, she would never learn how to be patient. Besides, she really never wanted to understand the madness of politics that branded a man like her father a traitor. Still, instead of speaking her mind, she had stoically watched him go.
A cold shudder crept down her spine despite the fact the afternoon was unseasonably warm. What was the matter with her? She had been whisper close to her father’s enemy, yet she had felt something so extraordinary it had taken her breath away.
Outside the buttery door the kitchen maid, Daisy, sat peeling apples and batting her eyelashes at several admiring soldiers. Anne gave a short huff. Apparently Uncle George or anyone of importance must not be around, or those soldiers would never dare loll away in such a manner.
She straightened her prim white collar, brushed the chaff and weed seeds from her skirts and gingerly strolled across the cobbled path toward the darkened buttery. Humming softly, she made her way, as though she hadn’t a care in the world. Without glancing at Daisy, she knew the servant would be much too involved with her own pastimes to pay her any mind.
Anne pushed open the buttery hatch. Smells of fermenting ciders and acrid pickles in brine rushed at her. She ducked around the table filled with covered crocks, cringing as she always did at the huge flies humming at the windows.
In the hall, boot steps clanked along the floorboards. Her pulse quickened as she waited, ear to the door, until the footsteps faded down the hall. Quiet. She drew a deep breath, hiked up her skirts and dashed toward the stairs. Grinning with success, she bolted up the steps, two at a time.
“Mistress Anne?” Uncle George called from the doorway of his study, down the hall. His ruddy face appeared more crimson than usual. Anne’s spirits sank like a rock. She stopped dead still, her eyes wide.
“Mistress Anne. You’re late. Come here this instant!”
Her mouth felt dry as she answered, “Yes, Uncle George.” She patted the damp tendrils of hair that threatened to spill from under her cap, straightened her creased apron and turned to meet her fate.
Chapter Two
Fear and apprehension mixed in the pit of Anne’s stomach as she strode toward her uncle, who scowled from the doorway.
Her mind scrambled for an excuse while she prepared herself for the violent tirade she knew was coming. “I’m sorry I’m late, Uncle George,” she said as she came before him.
“I’ll be interested to hear your explanation later, but I’ve something much more pressing to discuss with you.” Although his tone was amiable, the hard lines of disapproval in his face betrayed his intent.
Anne eyed him suspiciously as she swept past. No sooner had she crossed the oak-timbered threshold of the study than she understood why her uncle had put off meting out her punishment. There, in front of the crackling hearth, sat Mrs. Jane Herrick, her uncle’s goddaughter. Of course he’d never discuss his niece’s errant behavior in front of company, she thought wryly.
Her relief for the slight reprieve mingled with curiosity. Usually, when George had important guests, Anne was excused from attending. She knew he believed that her presence would remind her uncle’s friends that his older brother was an enemy of Cromwell’s Commonwealth.
“Mistress Jane, you remember my niece, Anne Lowell?”
Jane dimpled beguilingly, the black silk fan in her hand fluttering in response. “Of course, Master Lowell. How could anyone forget your charming niece?”
Charming? Anne exchanged glances with her uncle. Although his eyes were unreadable, she guessed he thought Mrs. Herrick too refined to regard the gossip that blazed across Parliamentarian hearths about his rebellious niece, abandoned by her father like an unwanted kitten, for him to raise.
Anne bobbed a curtsy and took a seat as far away from her uncle as she could. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched George gaze with adoration as Jane charmed him with small talk that Anne usually found wearisome.
Anne pushed back a defiant red gold curl from under her cap as she studied the young woman. According to George, Jane exemplified everything a young Puritan woman should be. A few years older than herself, Jane had married a physician several months ago. A pristine cap covered Jane’s silvery blond head. Her white skin with a pink rise to her cheeks contrasted becomingly with the Puritan black gown she wore. Her pale gray eyes and narrow chin spoke of an obedient nature, George had remarked more than once. For once, Anne had to agree with him. The woman was as perfect as an April crocus.
She felt like a toad by comparison. Anne nibbled her lip as she considered her attributes. Her mouth was too full to be considered comely, she knew. Her skin might be worthy except for the spill of freckles, Satan’s tiptoes, George had called them, that peppered the curve of her cheeks and upturned nose. Who could blame her uncle for being ashamed of her?
“I was commenting to your uncle,” Jane cooed, “how splendid the autumn foliage appeared this morning when we rode through the woods. The beech woods have turned a bright gold and the oaks—”
George pounded his fist on his knee. “I fail to understand how your husband thought it safe for you to ride without escort,” he blustered, ignoring Jane’s shocked surprise.
“Master Lowell!” Jane sat up with a start and touched her cheek with the tip of her fan. “I was perfectly safe. Besides my husband, our two menservants accompanied me.”
“Humph! You are to be commended for your faith, dear lady, but your husband should have had the good sense to accept my offer of a military escort. The roads are teeming with ruffians, not to mention that... that...highwayman, the Black Fox.”
“The Black Fox!” Anne’s voice held a reverence that caused her uncle to shoot her a quelling glance. She had overheard Daisy, the scullery maid, say the outlaw robbed Roundheads of their gold and gave it to the Royalists for their fight to restore King Charles to the throne.
George snorted. “Enough of your dreamy thoughts, mistress. He’s the highwayman who had the audacity to lighten the purse of Colonel Twining and his valet, Babson, only last week.”
Anne stifled a laugh behind her hand. How she wished she could have seen that. The thought of a common rogue getting the better of that arrogant Twining was exhilarating. She despised the colonel, contrary to most females, if Daisy could be believed. Anne felt her cheeks flame with outrage as she remembered how Twining had leered at her whenever he had thought her uncle wasn’t looking. But what truly irked her was that Uncle George had refused to take her complaints seriously.
Jane smiled reassuringly at Anne. “There’s no need to worry, my dear. You can be sure the Black Fox is far from Wycliffe Manor since Colonel Twining and his soldiers have arrived.”
Anne’s gaze shot to her uncle. “Colonel Twining? You didn’t tell me he’s been invited to dinner.”
A strange look passed between her uncle and Jane Herrick. Finally George cleared his throat while his gaze dropped to his lap. “Mistress Anne, I’ve something to tell you. Mrs. Herrick has kindly answered my request to coach you in the proper deportment for your appearance this evening.”
A flash of foreboding skittered up her spine. “If you’ve paired Colonel Twining as my dinner partner again, then I’d prefer to remain in my chamber and go without food for a week.”
George’s ruddy face darkened. “Don’t tempt me.” He craned his neck and rubbed his finger along the inside band of his shirt, then glanced with pleading at Jane.
Jane dimpled back at him, then turned the dazzling smile on Anne. “Your uncle only wishes that you make your finest impression on his guests this evening. I thought we’d practice some polite phrases you may wish to use during dinner, and perhaps we might subdue your hair—”
“Aye, do something with her hair.” George scowled back at Anne. “God’s teeth! She looks like the devil’s own spawn with that wild mane.” His black brows knotted together. “Look how it threatens to unfurl from her cap like Lucifer’s red banner fluttering on a windy Sabbath morn.”
Jane smiled. “When I’m finished managing your niece, she’ll be the paragon of acceptability. I assure you, sir.”
Anne curled her fingers into the tufted ends of the chair. “Uncle George, I demand to know what’s going on.”
“You’ll demand nothing!” George answered. “You’ll do what Mrs. Herrick says. For once, you’ll behave without embarrassing me when...when I announce your betrothal at dinner.”
Nothing could have prepared Anne for the shock that coursed through her. She shook her head numbly. “Betrothal? To whom?”
“Colonel Twining has offered for your hand,” her uncle continued, “and I’ve accepted for you.”
Anne gasped, unable to get her breath. She could only stare at him while she tried to take in what he was saying. Her uncle continued speaking, but her mind blocked out his words. Betrothal? She was to wed Colonel Twining?
Shock and panic mixed with betrayal. Anne sprang to her feet, her knees shaky. “Uncle George, certainly y-you can’t m-mean to wed me to that...that...”
“It’s well time you’re wed.”
Anne rushed to him and knelt at his knees, her gray skirts billowing out behind her. “Please, don’t do this. I promise I’ll never disobey you again.” She swiped at another rebellious curl. I’ll do anything—”
George stood and jerked her to her feet. “Anne, calm yourself. Your behavior is unseemly.”
Jane leaned forward in the chair, the black fan in her hand flitting like a wounded bird. “There are worse fates than to marry a handsome, wealthy man such as the colonel, my dear.”
Anne jerked free and turned to face her, aware suddenly that not only Mrs. Herrick, but everybody must have known of the betrothal except herself. She felt like a fool, as well.
“Twining is a lecher and I’ll never marry him!”
George glowered down at her. “Oh, yes, you will!” Then he turned and forced a smile at Jane. “Forgive me, my dear, but would you allow us a few minutes alone?”
“Of course, sir.” Her gray eyes slanted toward Anne, her expression sympathetic. Then she folded gracefully into a curtsy before closing the door behind her.
George’s blue eyes snapped with anger. “Your wedding will take place six weeks from tomorrow, and that’s final. Now follow Mrs. Herrick and do everything she says. For once, you’ll behave as your position dictates.”
Anne squeezed her fingers on the edge of the chair. “What would my father say if he knew you’ve betrothed me to a—”
“Hold your tongue!” George’s voice rose as his attempt at constraint dissolved before her. “I hold no loyalty to your father and you’re old enough to have loyalties of your own. You’d best appreciate a man like Colonel Twining, not a dandy like your father, a fop who’s disgraced himself and his family, flying his plumes against the Commonwealth.”
Anne returned her uncle’s fiery gaze with one of her own.
“How can you say that about your own blood?”
“A sorry fact I’d like to forget. He would rather chase romantic rainbows than be a father to you. He never wanted you or your mother. He’s never coming for you, and the sooner you understand that, the better you’ll be.”
“How dare you speak of him so!” Anne squared her shoulders and faced him down. “He’s been fighting side by side with the king at Worcester. For all you know, my father may be dead—”
“I pray to God every day that he is!”
A wash of renewed anger coursed through her. For the first time, she realized how vast was the well of rage and resentment that festered beneath her uncle’s reproach. Her eyes stung with frustrated tears, but she blinked them back. “Nothing I do will make you accept me, because I’m your brother’s daughter. You can dress me as a Puritan, threaten to bend me to your will, but I’ll always be a Royalist’s daughter. Unlike you, I’m proud to know my father is a man who had the courage and vision to stand with King Charles against the tyranny of Parliament.”
Anne picked up her skirts and whirled toward the door to find Colonel Twining, resplendent in a crimson wool uniform, blocking her way. His granite gray eyes bored into her and she knew immediately that he had heard everything.
She felt like a chick with a hawk circling overhead.
Well, so be it! Maybe if he knew of her repulsion for him, he’d break the marriage contract. The idea gave her hope.
Anne pushed past him, but Twining grabbed her arm and half dragged her back into the room.
“My dear, what has upset you?” His stare glittered with feigned expectation.
“You know very well!” Anne’s chin rose defiantly. “I’ll never marry you!” She tried to wrench from his hold, but his grip tightened on her wrist like a vise.
“I wouldn’t be so hasty, if I were you,” he replied silkily.
“Let go of me, you...you...weasel-faced lecher.”
Twining’s thin lips lifted in amusement. “I’ll overlook your passionate expression, my dear, as long as we understand each other.” He pulled her closer, his voice as final as a death knell. “By Christmas, you’ll be my bride.” She grappled against his grip. His mouth twisted in what appeared to be enjoyment. “You may take your leave, my dear, but return to the study within the hour, when I’ll escort you into the great hall for dinner.”
Anne stopped struggling. His hawklike sweep of the nose and the square jaw quivered as if he were in pursuit.
“And if I refuse?” His smoky eyes sparked as though fired by her challenge. She almost thought he hoped she’d defy him.
“You’ll obey,” he said finally. “Because I’m planning a very special wedding present for you, my dear.” His hard gaze raked over her. He was so close she could smell the tobacco and what she thought might be brandy. She was afraid if she didn’t hurry and leave she might be sick.
“I don’t want anything from you,” she managed to reply.
His black eyebrows flicked up. “Very well, if that is your wish.” His gray eyes glittered. “But I’ve already submitted a petition to Lieutenant General Cromwell to pardon your father from the charges brought forth by the Commonwealth.” She heard a stifled gasp from her uncle sitting nearby.
Twining’s face lit with amusement. “That’s right, my dear Anne. When we’re married, your father will receive a full pardon. That is, if you comply with your uncle’s wishes.”
Words failed her as she took in what he had said. The very generosity of his offer demonstrated his power. Would he truly grant his political enemy a pardon? His expression reminded her of a weasel crouched in the bushes waiting for the stray duckling. Certainly her father was too proud to take favors from the enemy—especially if he knew the cost.
