Tallie's Knight (13 page)

Tallie sat up, her
queasiness forgotten in the light of her discovery.

For some reason she
felt immensely cheered. She’d had some slight suspicion that she’d been, in
some unknown way, the cause of his quarrel with her cousin.

The moment they had
arrived back from the church he’d sent her upstairs with a maid to refresh
herself while he spoke to Laetitia.

Tallie, annoyed to be
dismissed like a child, had crept back down the stairs to listen at the door,
but had heard frustratingly few actual words —only the sound of their voices.
His voice had been icy-cold, cutting, as if flaying her cousin with sarcasm,
but Tallie could not see why he should have been so cross.

She had a right to be
upset —a tearful Mrs. Wilmot had explained how Laetitia had prevented herself, Brooks
and the children from coming to the wedding. But he would care little about
that; he’d wanted a small wedding —she’d heard him say so. And look at how few
people he’d invited!

Pressing an ear to
the thick wooden door panel, Tallie had been sure she’d heard something about a
dress. Her dress? She’d pressed her ear harder to the door. But then he had
said something about a village half-wit, so that couldn’t be it. And Laetitia
had denied any responsibility for it and burst into noisy tears. It had all
been very peculiar, and Tallie had been most intrigued, but then she’d heard
his footsteps coming towards the door and she’d fled up the stairs.

So, it was all a hum
—Tallie was convinced of it. And she was going to teach her husband a lesson
about attempting to trick women out of their promised rights. She pulled open
the shutters which covered the coach window. The sound of the pounding hooves
and the creaking springs was almost deafening. Holding the leather straps
tightly, Tallie knelt on her seat and peered out of the window.

It was very dark.
Clouds moved across the sky, obscuring the moonlight intermittently. Wind
whipped at her hair, tiny pellets of rain stung her cheeks and dark shadows
whooshed past the window at an incredible rate. Goodness knew how fast they
were travelling —Tallie had heard some gentlemen kept teams of horses that
could travel at twelve, even fifteen miles an hour. The speed was a little
scary, but also very exciting.

Tallie took several
deep breaths. The fresh night air was most exhilarating, and she felt a thrill
of naughtiness as she breathed it in —Miss Fisher had maintained the night air
contained evil humours.

Her pupils had been
strictly forbidden to breathe it. Tallie wound the straps around her wrists
more securely and leaned farther out, inhaling blissfully. Her husband was out
there somewhere ahead, riding his own horse —not for him a stuffy ride in a
horrid jolting coach.

The coach lanterns
provided some light, by which she could see the outline of the two rear horses,
but there was no sign of Lord d’Arenville. He was probably a long way ahead of
them.

“What the devil do
you think you’re doing?” a voice suddenly roared in her ear, giving Tallie such
a fright that she almost let go of her straps.

She turned her head
and saw her husband had come up close beside the carriage, so close she could
almost reach out and touch him. Her mouth dropped open. She stared, wide-eyed,
suddenly oblivious of the lurching of the coach. This was her husband? This
creature of speed and power, shadows and moonlight —this was The Icicle?

He rode as if born to
the saddle. Tallie had heard the expression before but had never been able to
imagine it. She stared, half fearfully, at the superb black beast beneath him,
gleaming with sweat in the moonlight. She noted its strong arched neck, the
powerful hindquarters, the steam coming from its nostrils, the slight flecks of
foam at its mouth. It seemed enormous, and very fierce, its hooves pounding
through the night. And yet her husband dominated this huge, powerful beast
effortlessly. Tallie had never ridden a horse —it had not been on Miss Fisher’s
curriculum. But ancient myths and legends had.

Suddenly Tallie knew
exactly what a centaur looked like.

She had always
imagined them to be rather ridiculous creatures —but this. He was magnificent.

She stared at horse
and man, pounding along in the intermittent darkness, now a mysterious black
creature of the night, now a gleaming silver knight, kissed by moonlight. He
rode bare-headed, and wet locks of dark hair clung romantically to his brow.
How he could ride his horse so perilously close to a racing, bouncing carriage
was more than Tallie could understand —it looked frightfully dangerous.

And then she suddenly
remembered —he was probably trying to scare her.

She turned a blinding
smile on him, freed one hand and waved.

He moved even closer.

“Is something wrong?”
he shouted.

Hah! Thought Tallie.
You hope in vain, my lord.

“Not… in the least,”
she shrieked back at him, her hair whipping about her face.

“In fact… it is
monstr—” The coach lurched and she nearly fell off her seat again.

“What did you say?”
he yelled. “Are you all right?”

Tallie plastered her
smile back in place.

“I am per… perfectly
well, my lord,” she shouted as she jounced around on the leather cushions.

“This tr —trip is… most
delightful! I am having—” She hauled herself back from the edge of the seat
again and clamped her fingers onto the window frame.

“I am having… a won —wonderful
time. It… is monstrous exciting!”

She directed the
biggest smile she could muster out into the darkness.

That should do it,
she thought.

“We’ll stop in an
hour or so.” Lord d’Arenville rode even closer to her window. “You can rest and
recover yourself then. We shall sleep the night at an inn.” He galloped off
into the darkness.

Sleep the night!
Tallie gulped. She had forgotten —it was her wedding night. And at some time
tonight, in some unknown inn, Lord d’Arenville would know her, and she would
become, in truth, his wife. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

The inn was small and
ancient, with exposed black beams and a sagging roof. Lamps spilled warm
puddles of golden light across the wet cobblestones. The coach stood in the
courtyard, the horses weary, their breath smoky against the shadows.

The rain had
intensified in the last hour. Lord d’Arenville waited to hand Tallie down. She
emerged stiffly and stumbled as she landed on the wet and slippery cobbles, but
a cold, strong hand caught her and she was safe. Her husband pulled her hard
against his body and allowed his greatcoat to drop over her, shielding her from
the rain.

The sensation was
overwhelming. His body radiated warmth and strength and power. And an odour —not
at all unpleasant, she decided— of horse, damp wool, leather and fresh male
sweat. Tallie allowed her body to lean against his, knowing her behaviour was
indecorous and that there were grooms and other people watching. She was too
cold to argue, too tired to pull away —and in any case his arm was wrapped
around her like a warm steel band, and she could not have moved away if she’d
tried.

She had never been so
close to a man before and was entirely taken up with the sensations it produced
in her. Odd, fluttery sensations. And a sort of breathlessness.

Nerves, she decided.
Bridal nerves.

“Landlord!” Lord d’Arenville
shouted, hustling her inside. “A private parlour, and refreshments for my wife!”

He handed her over to
the care of a large clucking woman, the landlord’s wife. She ushered Tallie to
a small, cosy sitting room with a fire crackling in the grate.

Shivering with cold,
Tallie stood as close to the fire as she dared.

Lord d’Arenville’s
coach contained several warm fur rugs, which she had used, but they hadn’t
prevented a chill from seeping into her bones, a chill she knew stemmed as much
from nerves as from cold.

Tallie looked around
her. The inn might be old, but it was clean and warm. There was a knock on the
door and the landlord’s wife bustled back in, bobbed an awkward curtsy and set
down a tray containing a large steaming jug, some cut lemons, a small brown pot
and several pewter mugs. An enticing aroma of wine, spices and citrus fruit
came from the jug.

“Ere you are, milady.
‘Is lordship bespoke some mulled wine, and says you’re to take some immediate
and not to wait for ‘im to arrive. ‘E’s seeing to the ‘orses, makin’ all right
and tight.” She chuckled. “There be no need to worry. Our Jem reckons it’s
Christmas —such prime bits o’ blood ‘is lordship’s ‘orses are.”

She poured some
steaming liquid into a mug and handed it to Tallie, beaming.

“Drink it down now,
milady. It’ll warm your blood proper.”

It was very strange,
Tallie thought, to be addressed as milady, but she supposed she would become
accustomed to it. She took a cautious sip of the steaming drink, then smiled at
the hovering woman.

“It’s very good,” she
said softly, and sipped again.

The woman beamed.

“Good of you to say
so, milady, but there’s more lemons if you want them, and honey, too, if it be
too sour for you.”

“No, no, it’s very good
just as it is,” Tallie assured her, taking a large swallow of the hot drink and
feeling the tangy warmth of it curl around her empty insides.

“Thank you.”

The landlord’s wife
seemed to swell with delight.

“A pleasure to be
serving such a kind-spoken lady. The Quality ain’t so easy to please in
general. Now, I’ll be off to the kitchen, milady, but I’ll be back in a trice
with dinner for ‘is lordship and yourself. I’ve got a couple o’ fat hens
a-roasting, and a I stewed pig’s ear and faggots, as tender and sweet as you
could wish for. And mutton pie, if ‘is lordship fancies it.” She frowned and hesitated.

“I —er— I didn’t ‘ave
much warning of your arrival, milady, so I’m afraid I ain’t got no jellies or…
or delicacies what a lady might—”

“Please don’t worry,
Mrs.” Tallie reached for the jug, refilled her mug, added honey, and sat on a
plush-covered chair.

“Mrs. Farrow, milady.
Farrow, my ‘usband be the landlord—”

“Mrs. Farrow, you
must not worry about any lack of ladylike delicacies. I am hungry enough to eat
whatever you can provide, and I am sure Lord d’Arenville is too. And if he is
not,” Tallie added, with a gleam of mischief, “he has only himself to blame,
does he not?” She took another mouthful of mulled wine. “He did not, after all,
give you sufficient notice of his arrival.”

The landlord’s wife,
appalled at being implicated in any criticism of a lord, uttered a series of
embarrassed disclaimers and hurriedly curtsied herself out.

Tallie reached
forward and refilled her mug. She sat back in her chair, snuggling against the
warm plush, remembering Miss Fisher’s high, adenoidal voice: “A lady never
allows her spine to contact the back of a chair.” She took another sip of
mulled wine. It really was a most deliciously warming and relaxing concoction.
She had tasted wine before, and had found it rather nasty, but this —the
lemons, honey and cinnamon— made such a delightful difference.

She kicked off her
slippers and tucked her stockinged feet under her —another of Miss Fisher’s
solecisms— and basked in the warmth provided by the fire and the mulled wine.
The scent of roasting meat tantalised her taste buds. She leaned her head on
the back of the chair. So nice not to be bouncing and jolting around. Such an interesting
journey. She closed her eyes.

The dashing
highwayman thundered along the road in daredevil pursuit of the runaway coach.
The coach lurched and swayed perilously, but the kidnapped princess remained
calm, knowing her beloved was riding ventre a terre to rescue her.

Desperately she
battered at the shutters which the evil Count had nailed over the coach
windows, but they were too strong for her. Then, suddenly, crash! With a
splintering of wood the shutters were wrenched away from without. Laughing with
joy, the lost princess leaned out, her long dark tresses tossing romantically
in the wind.

“Beloved,” he called
in his deep and manly voice.

“I am here. Hold out
your arms.” Smiling into the darkness, the princess trustfully held out her
arms. Hooves pounded, wind whipped at her hair, and then out of the inky depths
of the night rode the highwayman, moving as one with his magnificent jet-black
steed. He rode perilously close to the razor-sharp wheels of the coach. The treacherous
coachman turned his gun and fired. She gasped, filled with horror.

But the highwayman’s
gleaming white teeth glinted in the moonlight and she heard his soft laugh.
Suddenly she was seized in a strong, secure grip and lifted by powerful arms
onto the back of his gallant steed.

“Cold, my little
love?” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, and he wrapped his black
velvet cloak around her shivering body and drew her close.

His strength
supported her and his body warmed her, smelling of leather, wet wool and fresh
male sweat.

“You belong to me
now, Tallie, my dearest one,” he said, “and I belong to you.” And, holding her
safe against his heart, he galloped into the night…

Magnus, stripping a
sodden pair of leather gloves from his hands, had to duck his head under the
low, smoke-stained portal as he entered the private parlour. His riding
buckskins and his high leather boots were spattered with mud.

He straightened,
sniffing appreciatively.

“Ahh, mulled—” He
stopped, seeing his bride of ten hours curled up in a chair like kitten, her
slippers kicked carelessly off, sound asleep.

He stood looking down
at her. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders; damp wispy curls clung to her
pale forehead and clustered around her neck.