Cherished Enemy (44 page)

She smiled at him. “Oh, poor Howard! Must my father suffer that also?”

Victor picked up the coil of rope. “As soon as you have said your farewells.”

The colonel held out his arms. Wrapped in them, Rosamond was unable to say more than a muffled “Oh … Papa…”

“There, there, child,” he said gruffly. “'Tis not forever, you know. If there ain't an amnesty soon, be dashed if I won't trot across the Channel to see you.” She buried her face in his shoulder and over her curls the colonel looked to Victor.

“You'll guard her well, boy?”

“With my life, sir. Now, if you will be pleased to sit down…”

Binding him securely, Victor said, “Now, you'll not forget, Colonel? Charles knocked down one of the troopers, and 'twas Rosamond bent the blunderbuss over the head of t'other. Singleton tried to wrest the musket from Charles, but hurt his wound and collapsed. You have that, Howard? At gunpoint I was forced to tie you both, and then made to help carry de Villars away.”

“They'll not believe that,” said the colonel. “Fairleigh told 'em he was dead.”

Victor scowled. “Yes, he did. To help us, I suppose, so we must protect the hound. Very well, tell Holt we took him because we wanted to prevent his being given a traitor's burial in unhallowed ground.”

Rosamond, who had watched the proceedings tensely, asked, “Rob? Are you to accompany us, then?”

He smiled at her. “Did you think I would allow you to go without I knew you were safe? Charles will need help with Treve, and Jock has but one good arm. Of course I come with you.”

Overjoyed, she whispered, “Thank God!”

Scowling at her radiant face, the colonel grumbled, “Devil take it! Am I to be saddled with a blasted rebel for a son-in-law?”

Victor's hand faltered on the knot. Very pale, he stammered, “I—it would be my … great honour if—if you'd permit it, sir.”

Rosamond flew to kneel beside the chair. “Papa—I love him. Please—
please
say we may be betrothed.”

“Of all the miserable coils,” snorted the colonel. “First you tie me up and then you ask my permission to marry a—a confounded Scot! I'll have you know, Robert Victor MacTavish, it ain't the thing! Not the thing at all! And furthermore, the curst knot is too tight! Are you trying to force me to—”

The twinkle in his eyes had not escaped Victor. He took up the gag. “Open wide, please.”

Colonel Albritton smiled into his daughter's tearful eyes. “Oh, very well,” he said grudgingly. “But—”

He was interrupted by a distant pounding.

Rosamond sprang up, whitening.

Gagging the colonel, Victor said grimly, “They're breaking out of the shed!”

Charles ran in, a tearful Deborah behind him. “Hurry! Jock's bringing the carriage. I'll help with Treve.”

“Into the wardrobe with you, Miss Deb,” said Victor. “You must be in a swoon when they release you.”

Deborah, tearful but brave, kissed Rosamond and was incarcerated in the wardrobe as Rosamond whispered grief-stricken farewells to Howard and her father.

The Honourable Trevelyan de Villars was lifted and deposited tenderly into the boot.

The carriage rumbled across the lawns and disappeared into the misty dawn.

Five minutes later, the door to the wood-shed crashed open and four exceedingly irate military men erupted through it.

*   *   *

His arm fast about Rosamond, Victor craned his neck, peering into the cloud of dust that boiled up behind the rocking carriage.

Clinging to him, she asked anxiously, “Is it still there?”

It was. A sleek coach and four splendid horses that they had been quite unable to lose these past ten miles and more, and that raced at full tilt behind them even now that Jock had brought the team to a full gallop. They had been stopped once by three sleepy dragoons and subjected to a nerve-racking search. Waved on, Charles had fallen into an exhausted sleep, and Victor had fancied them safe, but either Fairleigh, or that damned Holt, he thought, must have commandeered the coach and were hard on their heels.

The carriage jolted hard over a pot-hole. Flung against Victor, Rosamond cried, “Oh, poor de Villars! He will surely die!”

‘We all will surely die,' thought Victor. ‘Jock's lost the team!' He turned a smiling face. “Not Treve. 'Gainst his principles. I think I'll lend Jock a hand.” He removed his arm from her waist and managed to let down the window. “Wake Charles if anything goes amiss.”

She gazed at him fearfully. “Do be careful!”

He backed through the window, sat on the sill, and grabbed the roof. In another minute he had fought his way to the box and was sliding onto the seat beside Jock, who clung desperately to the reins. Ears back, eyes rolling, the team was properly runaway. Victor snatched the reins. “Why the hell did you not shout?”

“Thought—I could hold 'em, sir!” Despair was in the shrill voice. “D'ye ken who 'tis that follows? 'Fore God! Ye're never whipping 'em up, Lieutenant?”

Victor sent a swift gleaming grin at him. “You did well enough, but we need a wee bit more speed!”

Jock's jaw dropped. “Aye, but—but the puir wee laddie in the boot…”

“You should only see
him
handle a team!” Victor leaned forward, calling encouragement to the terrified horses, then asked, “How far, Jock? D'ye know?”

“Four miles. Give or take. And a waeful rough road, sir. Ye'll be obliged tae slow doon.”

Victor narrowed his eyes. A hill ahead, a valley to the left, a sheer slope to the right. No sign of habitation. Everything green and golden on this early autumn morning, but the going was harder, well enough, the lane becoming more and more rutted and pot-holed. To their right, he knew, was the sea. A narrow, humpbacked bridge loomed up. Jock Addington shuddered and closed his eyes, but Victor's hands were strong and steady on the ribbons and the enormous old carriage thundered over, the wheel hubs almost scraping the wall on either side.

The lane dipped sharply, swung around the base of a hill, then climbed another rise. Victor fought the ribbons, and Jock gave a gasp as the off front leader swerved onto the verge and the coach rocked madly. Victor gritted his teeth and thought, ‘Hang on, Treve!' They topped the hill and below them the lane disappeared into woods. To the right a narrow dirt track wound off across a weedy and neglected meadow where shrubs and gorse bushes rose in haphazard clumps.

“Here we go,” he shouted, and hauled at the reins.

Jock gulped, “Whisht!”, gripped the seat with his good hand and closed his eyes again. The carriage leaned precariously, the horses screamed with fear and strove mightily. Bounce, and jolt and rock. And then they were streaking across the meadow, to halt with a jar that sent Jock flying from the seat. Victor grabbed him in the nick of time, and pulled his head down. “Off!” he whispered with somewhat redundant succinctness. “Hold 'em quiet!”

Shaking violently, Jock scrambled down and reeled to the leaders.

Victor swung over the side and stuck his head in the window. Rosamond was picking herself from the floor. “Oh…” she said vaguely. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” he grinned. “Where's Charles?”

She looked down. Charles's head came up. “What happened?” he enquired dazedly.

“You lost your wig,” said Victor. “Stay quiet.”

He had managed to guide the team in behind the gorse bushes. A small concealment, but perhaps so small as to go unsuspected. He peeped through the branches, hearing the team before he saw it. At his ear, Charles whispered, “Holt?”

“Perhaps. A prayer, Father.”

Charles bowed his de-wigged head at once.

Moving with smooth precision, the black team raced over the hill.

Victor held his breath.

Without pause, team and carriage swept along the lane and into the woods.

Victor sighed. “You're a powerful pray-er, Charles. Tell me now, can we reach the coast by some other route?”

Charles glanced about for landmarks. “Ah! Bottle Hill! Yes. But 'twill be rocky. We'd best look to Treve.”

“No time. He'll live or die with the rest of us. Up. Quickly, before they realize they've been tricked and come back for us!”

He climbed inside and took Rosamond in his arms. She clung to him, trembling. He kissed her hair. “Easy, my little Sassenach beauty. Easy. Ten minutes only, and we'll be safe aboard.”

Rosamond closed her eyes. ‘I wonder…'

19

Lying on a dirty mattress on the deck of the yawl, de Villars drank gratefully from the mug Rosamond held to his lips, then fastened Victor with an indignant look. “The next time … I die,” he whispered. “I shall ask for another … physician. And—and your driving, Rob … is—”

The brave attempt at levity ceased. His teeth clamped onto his lip and his eyes closed.

Watching Victor's strained expression as he tightened the bandage, Rosamond murmured anxiously, “Oh, never say he is—”

“He's an ingrate,” said Victor, praying his friend would pull through this nightmare. “Your finger on the knot, love. Thank you.”

De Villar's long lashes fluttered open. He was deathly white beneath the dark stubble of beard, his face drawn, his eyes full of pain, but one of those eyes flickered in a dauntless wink.

Victor smiled at him. A dashed good man was old Treve. He touched the lean cheek gently. “No fever yet, thank God,” he muttered, and glanced up as Charles strode across the deck. “When do we sail? I'd thought—” His gaze held on the pistol in the clergyman's hand. Charles's face was set and grim. Victor came to his feet.

Frightened, Rosamond gave a little gasp and started up.

“Stay down,” said Victor curtly. He called, “Lowe—how long?”

The smuggler, striving with ropes and tackle, shouted, “We've to wait for the tide, sir! Not soon enough, dammem! Sam! Fetch me musket!”

In silence, they all watched the black team canter along the dirt track that led to the cove.

“Jove, but they're beautiful goers,” muttered Victor, levelling his own pistol. He shouted, “Halt! Or I fire!”

The black carriage slowed and stopped. A door swung open.

Victor took careful aim.

A girl jumped from the black coach and began to run towards the yawl, holding her skirts recklessly high with a resultant flutter of petticoats and camisole.

“If that's Holt,” murmured Charles, lowering his pistol, “he is much improved.”

An older gentleman was handed from the carriage and proceeded at a more sedate pace towards them.

“Treve!” sobbed the girl, reaching the yawl. She lifted a dark and lovely face that was just now drawn and anxious. Tears glittered in the great dusky eyes, and had left glistening lines down her pale cheeks. “Oh, Rob—why ever did you not wait for us? Help me, please!”

“With the greatest of pleasure.” Victor jumped down to the rocks that formed a natural quay and lifted the pretty widow so that Charles could reach and help her aboard. “Had we but known 'twas your lovely self, Mrs. Rebecca…”

His words were wasted. With a flutter of petticoats, Rebecca Parrish rushed to de Villars, who, opening weary eyes once more, gave a gasp of joy. His pale lips formed the words, “Little … Parrish…”

Rosamond, still kneeling beside him, drew back wonderingly.

“Odious … man…” gulped the newcomer, wiping away tears with the heel of her hand and sinking to her knees beside him. “I might have known I'd find you with—another lady!”

“But—indeed—” gasped Rosamond, taken aback. “I assure you, ma'am—”

Rebecca Parrish leaned forward, clasping the injured man's hand, raining light kisses on his unshaven cheek, his brow, his chin, and murmuring between whiles, “Oh—Treve! My dear one! My love! If you
knew
how—how terrified I have been…!”

A cultured voice said quietly, “You must forgive them, Miss Albritton. They are to be married very soon, you see. Although he does not deserve her, of course.”

Victor was conducting a slight and very elegant gentleman across the deck; a gentleman clad in a flowing cape and whose head shone like silver in the sunlight.

Charles performed swift introductions and Rosamond made her curtsy to de Villars' great-uncle.

Ever courteous, Lord Boudreaux restrained his deep anxiety and bowed politely. Then he asked quietly, “Will he live?”

Charles looked down at the lovers, oblivious to anyone but themselves. With a stifled sigh, he said, “Now that Treve has his lady, sir, I fancy he'll live to be a hundred. How did you know he'd been hit? Surely, Thad Briley cannot have reached you so soon?”

“No. Was he coming, then? He likely headed for my Town house, whereas Mrs. Parrish and I had journeyed to Rye to meet Treve. Snowden Boothe sent word to me there, thank heaven. We set out at once for Lennox Court, suspecting Treve would seek refuge with you. Unhappily we just missed you. I knew Thaddeus Briley has—er, dealings with Lowe. It seemed our best hope, so we came this way. We tried to signal your coach.” His lordship shrugged, then dropped to one knee as de Villars whispered his name. “I'm here, boy.” He took the weak hand and his voice shook a little. “It's France for you for a while, but we'll have you well in no time…”

Victor tugged at Rosamond's hand and she crept away with him.

*   *   *

He had found a quiet place overhung by the low bank that edged the little cove. A place where they could be alone for these last few moments, and they had sat on the sand, clasped in each others' arms, blissfully sharing the caresses and the words of love that were theirs alone.

Now he drew back reluctantly, and looking into his wistful eyes, Rosamond knew, and the cold grip of terror seized her once again. “You're going back,” she accused.