Lady Silence (17 page)

And a few moments of freedom from people and
the vicissitudes of an outside world that would not leave her
alone.

How very
small
of her to rail against Fate. She was a
better person than that. But she was young and full of hope,
however foolish. Mind and heart clasped her complaint close,
refusing to let go. Damon, her Damon, should not be Earl of
Moretaine. During the month she had spent at his side in the Farr
Park bookroom, her girlish fantasies about Damon Farr, dashing
cavalry officer, had withered and died. And been reborn as
compassion for the man whose wounds were not of the flesh but of
the soul. And gradually become so much more, as she caught glimpses
of the kinder, more thoughtful man hidden beneath the cold military
façade. There were, after all, enough shining lights on her family
tree—if a bit tarnished here and there—to allow the waif to build
castles in the air. Damon of Farr Park, if truth were told, was not
so far above her touch.

The Earl of Moretaine most certainly was.

A peer might look as high as he pleased for a
wife. Every matchmaking mama and predatory daughter avid for a
title, was going to be after him. Leaving the chances of a girl
whose only claim to a title was the colonel’s derogatory
designation, Lady Silence, no hope at all.

Katy slowed her chestnut to a mincing walk,
allowing the mare to approach the stream and dip her head for a
cooling drink. Fortunate animal. She herself would have to wait
until she returned to Castle Moretaine. Katy sniffed the breeze.
Almost, it seemed, she could smell coffee, bacon, and hot muffins.
But it was such an unusually fine day, rich with sunshine and crisp
autumn air . . . and she had not been beyond the walls of Castle
Moretaine for a full five days.

Not far ahead was a copse which, she had
discovered, hid an intimate glen obviously designed for the
pleasure of Castle Moretaine’s residents and guests, for it
featured a curved marble bench where one might sit and enjoy the
view while basking in the beauty and solitude of the moment. The
bubbling stream with water meadows beyond, birdsong of amazing
variety, and glorious privacy—as if the world and its cares no
longer existed.

There she could dismount and fill her aching
soul with serenity, for the marble bench also served as a fine
mounting block. Katy’s lips curled in wry laughter at herself.
Kate, the pragmatical. The girl who found a way over and around all
obstacles.

Until now.

The glen was waiting. Perhaps, today, it held
inspiration, a solution to her problems. Katy patted the horse’s
neck, drew up the reins, and headed her mount toward the copse.

After his abominably late start on the day
after the funeral, Damon had vowed to do better today. But when he
reached the stables, he discovered his friends were more spry than
he. Gone out a half hour since, the groom told him.

Grief and alcohol were lethal enemies of the
brain, but the colonel had not survived nearly seven years of war
without developing keen instincts. Instincts that did not lay down,
roll over, and fall asleep just because he was wallowing in a sea
of conflicting emotions. An alarm shivered through him. There was
something he should remember . . .

The library. Brandy. He’d told Fox and
Thayne about Katy. All about Katy, from her arrival at Farr Park to
his doubts about her character . . . to his speculations that her
demure exterior hid a questing spirit, deserving to be
freed.
Hell!
He’d even told
them about her morning rides. He’d suggested . . .
encouraged
them to test her, see how
far she would go.

Drunken sot that he was, he’d set them on
her!

To punish her for tempting him?

He should be drawn and quartered!

“
Is Katy Snow riding this morning?”
Damon snapped.

“
Aye, col—m’lord. Hasn’t been out since
the poor earl—God rest his soul—passed on, but today she was here,
same as usual.”

“
Which way?”

“
She mostly goes east, m’lord. Path
along the stream. Or so it seems from what I can see from ’ere,” he
added a trifle hastily. “Sometimes she rides into the village, but
seems a tad early for that.”

Damon leaped on Volcán, jerked the reins from
the groom’s hands, and galloped off. Even as he castigated himself
for being in such a lather over what was likely nothing, he tried
to recall his exact words. Flirtation. Surely he’d only mentioned
flirtation. Test the chit, see if she made eyes at every man she
met. Hadn’t his own steward been caught in her snare? The doctor?
That damned footman? Even the Castle Moretaine groom had kept track
of her comings and goings.

Flirtation, he’d said . . . yet he had
implied that Katy was a female of no discernible background, a
servant without protection.

Do your worst.

He could not have said it.

Do your worst
.
Yes, he had.

Hell and the Devil confound
it!
He’d all but handed her to them on a silver
platter. A succulent treat complete with the piquant sauce of her
mysterious background.

Gritting his teeth, Damon slowed to a
trot as he entered the wooded ride at the edge of the park, then
burst back into a gallop as a patch of sunlight signaled a clearing
ahead. Hay fields to the left, the stream and water meadows to the
right.
Here . . . she had to be here
somewhere.
If he failed her, he was forever
damned.

The land was nearly flat. He rounded a clump
of willows drooping over a bend in the stream, fully expecting to
see her . . . and his so-called friends as well.

Nothing. Just tall waving grass, the dirt
path, and bubbling stream.

Damon pulled up his horse, swearing
softly. If she wasn’t here, he’d never find her. The grounds of
Castle Moretaine comprised five thousands acres.
Blast the woman! Where was she?

They’d found her, damn them. Fox and
Thayne. They were hiding somewhere, doing God knew what. Damon’s
rage soared. She was
his. How dare they
lay a hand on his woman?

Or was she giving herself to them, embarking
freely on a new life with a new set of protectors?

Blood pounded in his ears. Volcán, sensing
his rider’s unrest, snorted and stamped his hooves. Grimly, the new
Earl of Moretaine brought him under control. Not far ahead was a
small copse, planted by his grandfather to add scenic beauty to
this ride along the river. Very well, he’d go that far and not an
inch farther. Why make an ass of himself, playing Knight Errant?
Foolish chit probably didn’t want to be rescued anyway.

And then he heard the scream. A
high-pitched penetrating ululation that sent even the battle-tested
Volcán into a skittering caracole.
Katy!
Katy was in trouble.

And it was all his fault.

But somewhere in that hundred yards to the
copse, a new, more terrible, thought clicked into place. Fury
gripped him. If Katy could scream, she could talk.

~ * ~

Katy was only part way into the stand
of trees at the east end of the hay field, thoroughly enjoying the
sun-dappled shade and delicious privacy provided by a fine mix of
oak, mulberry, and elm, when she heard hoof-beats behind
her.
Damon!
He’d followed her
. . . was looking for her.

The hoof-beats were rather loud. He wasn’t
alone. Her shoulders slumped in disappointment. Katy brought her
mare to a halt. With the curve of the path obscuring her vision,
she could only wait and wonder.

Major Foxbourne and Captain
Thayne!
In vain she looked for Damon. The light
dimmed, the forest grew cold. Ridiculous to feel danger here, but
Katy shivered. There was something about the way they were looking
at her. Her breath caught in her throat.
Dear God, she recognized that look!
But surely
they wouldn’t . . . not their colonel’s mama’s companion on the
earl’s own lands.

They closed in, one on either side, much too
close for a conventional exchange of polite greetings. The three
mounts were but inches apart. “Miss Snow,” Major Foxbourne purred,
“how delightful. We hoped we might meet you this morning.”

Katy granted them a cool nod, even as she
withdrew into herself, vowing to find a way to keep them from
touching her. For that’s what they wanted, she knew it. At twelve,
she had run from that look. Later, the boys in the village had
evidently decided that her position at Farr Park protected her from
touching, but not from naked glimpses of what they would like to
do. Oh, yes, she knew naked lust when she saw it. Cool, calculated
lust, without a hint of hesitation. Which, in itself, seemed odd.
Decidedly odd.

They had her pinned now, there in the
narrow path, their large geldings intimidating her dainty mare as
easily as the two officers were intimidating her. They were
speaking, making incredible suggestions, not of using her for
themselves, as she had expected, but of her becoming the earl’s
mistress, allowing him to set her on the path to life as a famous
London courtesan. Such beauty was wasted in the country, they told
her. She was destined for far better. The finest of everything laid
at her feet. She would mingle with the men of the
ton
, the wealthy and powerful—noble
men who had defeated Napoleon Bonaparte and were destined to rule
the vast empire Britain was establishing around the
world.

Now was the time to speak up . . . to tell
them what she thought of their grand scheme. That they must be mad
to wave whoredom before her as if it were a high treat.

But her lips refused to move. Her tongue, so
long disused, sat like a lump of clay in her mouth. Whatever the
mechanism that allowed people to talk, it had rusted over. Or was
it her brain that was frozen, unable to transmit the command?
Perhaps she simply could not believe two officers, supposedly
gentlemen, could speak to her so.

“
I believe she needs encouragement,”
Major Foxbourne said to Captain Thayne. “Hard to believe such a
beauty’s a skittish virgin, but there you have it. I suppose
anything is possible.”

“
Virgins bring a higher price,” Thayne
agreed, pressing his mount directly into the mare’s flank.
“Colonel’s panting so hard after you, you could have anything you
want,” he said to Katy. “A house in St. John’s Woods, silk gowns,
your own carriage and pair, diamonds draping every part of you.”
His salacious gaze examined her tight-fitting military-style habit
from head to toe. Again, Katy shivered.

“
A kiss,” declared Foxbourne. “Warm her
up with a kiss, that’s the ticket. Try her out a bit, see if she’s
worthy of our colonel.” He leaned forward, one arm snaking about
her waist.

Katy thwacked her riding crop against the
side of his head. The major swore. Combat was short-lived. The
riding crop disappeared into the underbrush, and Katy found herself
twisted hard against Foxbourne’s chest, his furious face descending
toward hers.

“
I say . . .” Captain Thayne
interjected, belatedly recognizing that their “flirtation” had gone
out of control.

Harsh lips bruised Katy’s. Punishment, not
lust. When the major finally eased the fierce pressure, Katy
snapped her teeth over his lower lip, biting down hard. Foolish,
perhaps, but oh-so-satisfying.

He boxed her ears.

“
Major!” Captain Thayne roared, but
Foxbourne had gone beyond reason, back to the beserker days of the
worst of the Peninsula. He leaped from the saddle, dragging Katy
with him, his hands tearing at the buttons of her habit even as
they fell.

For Katy, all the old horrors came back,
bursting past the dam she had so carefully erected. She had
promised herself she would not think of it, would not remember. And
then the Hardcastles had come to Castle Moretaine. And now
this.

She had saved herself once. She could do so
again. She only had to open her mouth and scream. Surely someone
would hear her. Someone would come.

If she screamed loud enough, perhaps
the major would come to his senses.
Yes,
surely it must be so
. Foxbourne could not truly intend
to have her here, on the earl’s own acres and in front of his
friend.

But to make a sound—particularly a loud
sound—after so many years . . .

The front of her habit was open, exposing the
fine lawn of the shirt inside. His hands were ripping at the thin
fabric . . .

Katy summoned every ounce of courage, the
spirit that had sustained her through the years.

But no sound escaped her mouth.

The major shifted his attention to her
voluminous skirts, his hands frantically searching for a way
beneath the layers of heavy twill and lacy petticoats.

Katy took a hard, heaving breath, tried
again. Her scream rose and echoed through the copse, silencing the
birds, penetrating all the way to the meadow. Where Colonel Damon
Farr had almost given up the search.

It was worse than he’d feared. When Damon
charged up to the knot of horses on the path through the woods, Fox
had Katy on the ground with her skirts up over her head, although,
thanks to Thayne’s determined hold on one arm, the major had not
progressed any farther. Damon thought he’d put the heated surge of
battle behind him, but the satisfaction of clubbing Fox off Katy
was as fine as any moment he could recall. A second blow sent the
major crashing into the brush at the edge of the path, where he had
the good sense to lie still.