Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 07] - Married Past Redemption (20 page)

Conscience jabbed at her as she saw again the image of a lean,
strong hand reaching out to grasp her reins. Had it not been for
Strand's chivalrous intervention, she might have taken a very ugly toss
this morning. He had, in fact, narrowly missed suffering such a fall
himself. Apart from that, his fortune had been a boon to her
hard-pressed family, and she had willingly entered a
mariage
de convenance.
It would be shabby indeed to now require of him more than he had
offered, or to fail to give credit where due. With this in mind, she
completed her toilet, decided she looked passable, and hastened
downstairs.

The coffee room was empty and the aroma from the kitchen so
enticing
that she was tempted to request that her breakfast be served. Her
anxiety about Brandy was of prime importance, however, and she decided
to go down to the stables while she awaited her husband.

She heard male voices as she entered the spicy dimness of the
low
building. Several men were gathered in a stall at the far end, and when
she came nearer to them she was surprised to discover Strand was still
here. He had discarded his jacket and was kneeling, carefully applying
salve to Brandy's back legs, both of which were badly cut and scraped.

Aghast, as she perceived the extent of the animal's injuries,
Lisette cried, "Oh! I am so sorry! Is it very bad?"

Strand glanced up. He looked dusty and grim and said
wretchedly, "My
own fault. How stupid that I allowed the mud to fool me. I should not
have ridden the poor fellow."

She felt crushed by remorse and, perhaps because she had
endured a
good deal of nervous strain this day, was quite unable to cope with it.
Not trusting herself to speak, she quickly left the stables and walked
around to the side of the inn. Here, she discovered a pleasant garden
enhanced by the rippling song of a little brook that meandered through
it. She sat down on a wooden bench and strove to compose herself.
Heaven knows she'd not intended to cause so bad a thing. Poor Brandy.
If he was badly hurt, she would be responsible. Whatever had caused her
so completely to lose her sense of propriety as to gallop about all
over Sussex like some hoydenish gypsy girl? Whatever Timothy would
think of her behaviour of late, she dared not imagine. He had been used
to tease her because she was "always so curst serene." He had once said
as much to Grandmama, and the old lady had remarked with her sly
chuckle, "Still waters run deep, lad. If our ice maiden ever thaws, she
may surprise us all!" Grandmama and her whims… Lisette sighed. It was
not to be wondered at that her temperament was suffering, considering
all the sorrows and humiliation she had endured. She sighed again as
one of those same humiliations slipped back into her thoughts. What was
she like, his blond beauty? She
was
a beauty,
beyond doubting, but was she of gentle birth, or nothing but a
predatory opera dancer, or some—

"My apologies, ma'am." Strand's grave voice disrupted her
reflections. "If you would wish to come inside, our breakfast awaits."

He had washed, his fair hair had been carelessly brushed into
a
semblance of tidiness, and he had again donned his jacket and tucked
his broken hand back into the sling from which it had been removed
while he worked with Brandy. Standing, Lisette noted these things
absently, for she was searching his eyes. She cried a horrified,
"Oh—no! Never say he must be destroyed?"

He took the hand she had reached out to him and looked at her
keenly. "I shall most certainly say no such thing! I intend to leave
him here for a few days. The head ostler's a good man and will take
excellent care of him. Brandy will make a full recovery, I have no
doubt." He frowned, and muttered, "Had I not made such a blasted mull
of things, he'd have suffered less."

"Do not blame yourself," Lisette said miserably. "I should
never have galloped off,
ventre a terre."
She
looked down at the thin hand still clasping hers.

Strand's grip tightened. "Well, you would not have, had I not
provoked you into doing so." Surprised, she looked up into a smile that
astounded her with its kindness. "I am the villain in this piece, you
know," he said.

"Villain?" She was oddly confused. "No, indeed you were
splendid.
Had it not been for you, I would have likely broken my neck. How you
managed that jump with only one hand and no reins, I shall never know.
I am truly most grateful. I wish—I wish we might—" She stopped, her
lashes sweeping down.

Gazing at her, Strand breathed, "Might—what?"

"Might—cry friends." She felt him start and, glancing up,
found him staring at her with an incredulous expression.

"Friends . .
.?" he echoed. "Friends—with
my own wife?"

She blushed and looked down. "Oh, I know ours is but a
mariage
de convenance,
and—and that we do not care for one another,
but…"

Strand released her hand and turned away. After a moment, he
said in
an odd sort of voice, "A terrible basis for matrimony, was it not? Had
your father not been temporarily embarrassed, I'd have had no chance of
winning you."

He was mocking her, of course, but she quickly lifted her
eyes. He stood with his back to her, looking out over the busy brook.

"My father was not 'temporarily embarrassed,' as you so kindly
put
it, Mr. Strand. We were—I think my brother would say—'properly in the
basket.' "

"And you were the price of the family reprieve." He turned,
smiling, but his eyes were empty. "I'm a regular Shylock, am I not?"

The tension seemed to have eased. Relieved, she said gaily,
"You may
find you made a poor bargain, sir. You seem to possess an uncanny
ability to rouse the worst in me."

Strand brightened, and with laughter dancing into his eyes
again, said, "No, do I? How famous!"

They
talked easily through the meal, so
that Mr. Drye was
convinced he served an ideally happy couple and was encouraged to
contribute to the conversation when bringing food or coffee to the
table in the recessed window bay that was, he informed Lisette, "Mr.
Justin's favourite spot."

"I can see why my husband comes here." She glanced from the
mellow
homeliness of the interior to the colourful garden. "Truly, it is
delightful and greatly to your credit, Mr. Drye. May I ask why it is
called The Pines?"

"Why, that were my grandfather." He beamed. "There had always
been
oaks here, y'see, ma'am, but by the time he come into the property he'd
travelled about the world a bit, being a seafarer, and he'd seen some
pines in foreign parts what he was much taken with. The inn was called
The Oaks in them days, but he sent for his pines and planted 'em at
last, and then struggled with 'em all his life. They never took, poor
old chap. Year after year, he'd put 'em in and watch 'em wilt. Never
would change to Scotch pines, though many there were as told him
they'd
take all right. Bound and determined he were, even to the extent of
changing the name of the inn. When he was dying, he used to lie in bed
and look out at the last of his prize trees, one he had great hopes
for. Well, it started to wilt, so me father, being a good-hearted soul,
and very attached to the old man, took it out quick one night, brought
in a Scotch pine in a tub, and they told Grandfather his foreign tree
had took at last. He passed to his reward quite happy—looking at that
there Scotch pine, and never knowing it didn't come from Norway, like
he thought. There it is, ma'am." He bent forward, pointing into the
garden where a fine tall tree dominated a spot beside the brook. "You
can see how nice it growed."

Strand laughed. "I wonder he doesn't come back and shake his
fist at the imposter."

"No, but I think it very well done," argued Lisette. "How kind
your father must have been, Mr. Drye."

"Aye, well, we all got to do what we can, haven't we, Mrs.
Strand?
Folks we love come and go, and sometimes we don't never know how much
we care about 'em till they're taken and it's too late for to do
anything to let 'em know. So it's best to be as kind as we may, whilst
we may—if'n we don't want to have to look back with regret for the rest
of our days. A little bit o' compassion is about the best investment a
man can make, don't you agree, sir?"

Watching his wife's rapt face and thinking a great deal,
Strand said, "Yes."

"What a wonderful philosophy," Lisette elaborated. "And is
that why you never changed the name?''

"Partly that, ma'am, and partly because folks had got used to
it and
thought it was a bit of a joke. Folks always like a little mistake.
Take my name, for instance—that's a funny one, ain't it? Me, a
tavernkeeper, with a name like Drye! Cor, luvvus!" He grinned and, with
his eyes brighter than ever, murmured, "Me missus has been standing
over there waving at me something dreadful these past five minutes
'cause I'm jawing, and you be newlywedded, so I'd best go 'fore she
hauls me out by the ear!" He nodded and went cheerily off to where,
sure enough, his good wife awaited him with total indignation.

Her cheeks a little pink, Lisette glanced at her husband only
to
find him busily engaged in winding his pocket watch. "A little bit of
compassion…" she said thoughtfully.

He glanced up at her from under his lashes. "I can see I must
be a
great deal more patient." At once Lisette's proud head tossed upward,
and he went on gravely, but with a telltale quirk tugging at his lips,
"With Brutus, that is."

By the time they returned to the stables, Yasmin looked bright
and
rested. The tall grey mare beside her looked more than rested: she
looked, in fact, all but asleep, and Strand's decisive stride was
checked at the sight of her. "Good God!" he ejaculated and, whirling on
the apprehensive ostler, demanded, "What the deuce are you about?
Where's Thunderbolt?"

"Sprained his hock, sir." The ostler added a placating, "We do
be a
bit short now, Mr. Justin, bein's a Lun'on gent come through and hired
Sally-O and Pickles, and Mrs. Middle's eyes be all swole. 'Fraid Dasher
here is all we got 'vailable-like."

Strand grunted, swung into the saddle and, after a few minutes
of
hard work, succeeded in bringing Dasher's head up so that they might
leave the yard.

By the time they had travelled two miles, Lisette was fighting
to
restrain hilarity, and Strand was equally occupied with curbing floods
of profanity. Darting an irked glance at his bride as they sauntered up
an inviting slope of the Downs—a slope created to be galloped over—he
saw laughter brimming in her eyes and gave vent to a martyred sigh.
"You'll note, ma'am, that I am moderating my speed?"

"You are all consideration," she nodded, the dimples beside
her mouth peeping.

He laughed. "I suppose I deserve this poor slug. She puts me
in mind
of one of the horses I had the misfortune to acquire on the night I was
returning home through a rainstorm with a certain repulsive dog."

Lisette blinked innocently into his accusing glance, then
cried,
"Oh! I had quite forgot poor Brutus. I cannot even recall where we were
when last I saw him."

"Not far from home, to which he doubtless returned with all
speed."

"I wonder why? He usually wants to be wherever you are."

"Why, the breeze came up, you see, and our Brutus is not as
hardy as
he appears. That's the reason—or one of 'em—that I palmed him off on
that gullible dimwit, Bolster.'' Strand at once perceived that he had
offended his bride, for Lisette's amused smile was replaced by a
shocked stare. "Good Gad!" he groaned.
"Now
what
have I done?"

"It just so happens, Mr. Strand," she said coolly, "that I
like Lord Bolster."

" 'Mr. Strand' again," he mused. "Well, at least it wasn't Sir
Justin." And failing to win a smile back to her eyes, said with a hint
of impatience, "For heaven's sake, Lizzie, don't be so top lofty! I've
known Bolster since we was in short coats. He's as good a man as one
could meet, but if you expect me to speak of him with reverence, I—"

"I expect—Mr. Strand," Lisette declared in frigid tones, "to
be
addressed by my name—not that revoltingly common abbreviation
with
which you choose to taunt me! And I further expect that a poor soul who
is not quite, er—right mentally, will be treated with kindness, at the
very least!"

Mystified, Strand echoed, "Not quite—
what?
Oh, d'you mean because he stutters? Well, that buys him no special
privilege."

"You know perfectly well what I mean. Poor Lord Bolster's
mental
impairment is—" She stopped, frowning her displeasure as her husband
succumbed to a shout of laughter. "Well! Really!" she said with
considerable indignation.

Strand was so hilarious that Dasher woke up and turned to
survey her
rider with drowsy curiosity. "Oh," moaned Strand, wiping tears from his
eyes. "How wretched of you to—to tease me so! And I properly believed
you!"

Lisette blinked. "Tease you? But—
isn't
Lord Bolster—deranged?"

"Oh, my God!" And he was off again, his mirth so infectious
that a
slow answering smile softened her irate expression. "Is that," he
sighed at length, "why you were so generous as to take Brutus for him?
Oh, my poor wife! You have been properly hoaxed. Whoever told you so
ridiculous a tale? Jeremy's blue-devilled just now because of his
romantic muddle, but I do assure you he has every one of his wits
intact.''

"But—but I heard Badajoz had left him… er—"

At this, the laughter vanished from his eyes. "Bolster was
badly
wounded and buried under a pile of the dead. He was found barely alive
and in deep shock. But there is nothing wrong with him mentally. Only
try to get the best of him in any transaction! I wish you may succeed,
in which case you will be the first one to do so! Why anyone would tell
you such a rasper I cannot think. Everyone likes old Jerry!"