Fallen Angel
Autore
Sophia James
Letto da
19,3K
Capitoli
18
Chapter One
Airelies, Kent—August 1861
Brenna stood still, stock still, head tilted at the low sounds of a fine summer evening, and listened. The river ran behind her and the plane trees rustled in the light night winds, just as they always did. But something was different; Mars and Bellona, her hunting dogs, stopped with their hackles up stiffly along bony spines as if they had felt it too. Brenna’s hand went quietly to her gun before going forward, shaky fingers pushing the flintlock guard up and inserting a steel-tubed charge. The trees were thicker now as they entered into the wooded copse a half a mile from Worsley, bordering on the Northern London Road, and she had to thrust the leafy branches aside to push through towards the sounds which she could now identify with more clarity.
Voices. Men’s voices. Low and soft and dangerous. A spurt of fear leapt into her heart, making it beat hard, and she stepped back in retreat, signalling her dogs to do the same, crouching in the undergrowth to get a look at what it was the men were doing before she left.
Two men came into her vision, dragging a third barely conscious man between them, his head bloodied, a blindfold tied roughly across his eyes, the fine linen of his shirt and the cut of his trousers strangely out of place against the rough homespun of the others.
‘My God, highwaymen,’ Brenna thought, one hand moving unbidden to her mouth as if to stop the words that might come; the other one tightening on her weapon. Mars growled suddenly from behind her and Brenna held his muzzle, willing him into a calmness she herself was far from feeling. She watched the blindfolded man being tied roughly to the thick bough of an elm tree, then the two men walked away.
Listening, she tried to determine their movements. They’d be going back to the coach without doubt, for it was a robbery here in progress. She wondered at the fate of his lackeys or outriders and at the audacity these robbers had to strike on such a well-travelled portion of the road. Creeping forward, almost at his back now, she rounded the tree to his left, watching all the time for the return of the others whose voices she could hear as indistinct rumbles further out of view. Crouching as she reached him, she sensed his knowledge of her being there for his head turned in her direction, bandaged eyes sightlessly looking for the source of sound. She spoke then, quietly, in the lowest whisper that she could manage. ‘You have two men with guns, busy now with the spoils from your carriage, I think…’
He stiffened and broke across her words. ‘Can you loosen the ropes and this thing across my eyes?’ His husky voice was deep with anger.
‘I’ll get your ropes first. It will be safer if they should return.’ He nodded and she fumbled with the cords knotted across his wrists, cursing herself for the time it was taking and watching all the while for the reappearance of the others.
She just had them loose as boots crashed back into the small clearing, and as the man beside her whipped the cloth from his eyes she dropped down to her knees and sighted her gun, shooting it low into the leg of the first robber and ramming the charge into the barrel to take the second shot. Rough arms, however, pulled her behind the protective bough of a tree as a bullet whistled overhead, and she was held down firmly against a broadly masculine chest, the shirt gaping open to reveal all that lay within. Fury and shock hit her simultaneously, along with the echo of a more unfamiliar emotion. For a moment she felt safer than she ever felt before as the hard lines of his body rippled beneath her fingers. Strength, energy and unblemished brown smoothness. And heat. Then her dogs crashed between them, fearful of her closeness to this stranger. Blushing furiously, she pulled away from his grasp and crouched down beside him, careful to leave some space.
‘Give me the gun and get out of here,’ he ordered. When she did not move, his eyes met hers in question.
‘Get out of here, Princess,’ he repeated quietly.
‘You are practised with weapons…?’
His smile was unexpected as he took the gun and she felt her heart lurch with choking excitement. Instinctively she drew back from him. She must never let anyone close. She knew that. She had always known it.
‘I’ll keep them at bay until you are safe,’ he returned, jamming in the next flintlock and resighting the gun. She noticed the crested gold ring on his little finger and the threads of the same colour in his hair and then she ran, lifting the skirts of her hunting habit and fleeing across the forest into the safety of the fields, glad of the dogs at her side. The sound of gunshots echoed through the glade behind her: three, four, five and then silence. Biting at her lip, she imagined him falling, gold-green eyes sightless and still, and she was winded by the feeling of loss and worry.
‘Please, God, let him live, let him be safe.’ The words became a litany tumbling in her breath as she hurried down the paths to Airelies Manor and threw open the door, her heart pounding loudly in her ears as she leaned back against it. Mrs Fenton came from the kitchens to investigate the noise and, amazed at Brenna’s appearance, was at her side in a moment.
‘What on earth is wrong, love?’ she burst out, wiping flour-powdered hands on her large apron.
‘There’s some highwaymen in the woods. Lock the doors and windows and get the guns from the study. If the gentleman they’re trying to rob gets shot, they’ll be up at Airelies next. I think they saw me!’
Rose Fenton jammed the brass bolts home, locking the floor catches for further protection. ‘My God, Brenna. We’re alone here save for Albert and young Stephen. We can’t possibly shoot anyone.’
‘I just have,’ the younger woman answered, horrified anew as the housekeeper began to cross herself, uttering holy incantations to a forgiving God.
‘You killed someone?’
‘Shot his knee off, I think. At least it should slow him down a bit.’ She stopped herself from mentioning the other man. The gentleman would be safe, she told herself. He seemed strong and fit and the gun in his hand had been reloaded with expertise. She tried to recall the crest she had seen on his ring, a lion rampant across two drawn daggers. Strength and danger. She smiled at the way the image suited him so exactly, the colour returning to her cheeks as she ran to each front window, pushing the locks into place. The feel of her uncle’s gun in her hand heartened her further, as did the silence in the valley. Should she go back to help him? She dismissed the thought summarily. Her reappearance would more likely compromise his safety than help him. But still she could not relax as she strode up and down the front hall, eyes glued to the scene outside for any sense of movement.
No more shots had rent the quietness of evening, although they had heard the shouts of men from the village a short time ago. Mrs Fenton’s white face brought her back to the moment and she struggled to hide her own worry from the elderly housekeeper.
‘Whoever is dead or alive seems unlikely to bother us now,’ she said quietly and consulted the clock at the end of the hallway. ‘But, to be sure, we will pack in the morning and return to London. And I will ask Albert to send Stephen down to Worsley for any word of the incident.’
Just as she had finished speaking, however, a conveyance turned into the drive, stopping at the front of the house. The door was thrown open and Brenna’s heart leapt in shock as she fleetingly saw the man who’d been bound to the tree step out, her gun held firmly in his hand. Without further thought she turned to the housekeeper.
‘Tell him I have gone. Tell him, thank you for my gun and tell him…’ she called over her shoulder as she ran up the stairs ‘…tell him I don’t wish to see him again.’ She disappeared into a top bedroom just as the door knocker sounded.
Smoothing out her apron, Rose Fenton took a deep breath before opening the door with a less than enthusiastic smile, to be confronted by the most handsome gentleman she had ever had the pleasure of meeting, even despite his numerous bruises. He had hair the colour of burnt copper and gold-green eyes. The dark burnous cloak he wore was torn across the shoulder, the gold appliqué fraying badly.
‘May I help you, sir?’ she enquired breathlessly, her eyes on Brenna’s gun, which he suddenly handed to her, bowing in apology, a smile on his lips.
‘I have it from the inn at Worsley that a Miss Brenna Stanhope is in residence here and I think this may be hers. I can’t be certain.’
The housekeeper cut his words short. ‘Yes, sir. Miss Brenna told me what happened and she bade me to thank you.’
‘She’s here, then?’ His glance perused the empty spaces inside. ‘Might I speak with her for a moment?’
Rose Fenton blocked off his view by moving in front of him. ‘No, sir, she’s…she has just gone…’ The lie came picked from thin air and with little plausibility.
‘Back to London?’ he queried uncertainly.
‘No, not for now. She’s gone south.’
The man leant against the wall outside, a slight frown sifting across his features. ‘She doesn’t want to see me, let me give her my thanks?’
‘No, sir’.
‘Could I leave her a letter?’
‘No, sir. She just wants to forget the whole incident. It’s finished with and she’d rather just have it at that.’
‘I see,’ said the other, straightening and moving back from the overhanging portico. ‘Could you make sure she knows I have come and please do convey my warmest thanks.’
‘I will, sir,’ Mrs Fenton answered, frowning as the man looked up to a window on the first floor. The movement of a figure flitting back quickly from view behind heavy velvet curtains was easily caught.
‘You have other guests here?’ he enquired carefully, watching as she answered.
‘No, sir.’
Rose Fenton breathed a sigh of relief as she closed the door.
Upstairs, Brenna witnessed his departure, a sense of disquiet permeating her whole being.
He had seen her.
He had even found out her name and where she lived. Could the information harm her? Could the interest she had heard in his voice translate into a menace? Or a damning curiosity?
With a deepening frown, she observed the carriage winding its way from Airelies and out into the darkness of the main road north.
