His Mistletoe Bride (30 page)
Read His Mistletoe Bride Online
Authors: Vanessa Kelly
A few of the girls ran up to her, tugging on her hands. With a laugh, Phoebe allowed them to pull her into the group. “Where are the others?”
“They've gone off to look for a Yule log. Delia, please do not pull on Lady Merritt's pelisse. You'll stain it.” Mrs. Knaggs delivered the scold in the mildest of voices, but the little girl, all big eyes and pink cheeks, started to cry. With a sigh, the vicar's wife began to comfort her. “I do apologize, my lady. The poor dear tends to get overwhelmed with the excitement.”
Phoebe smiled and bent down to gently snug the girl's woolen scarf around her neck. “There is no need to apologize. I shall go look for the others, which will give Delia time to recover.”
The girl, clearly mortified, pressed her face against Mrs. Knaggs's generous stomach. The vicar's wife rolled her eyes. “Perhaps that would be best,” she said in a loud stage whisper.
Biting back a grin, Phoebe took the trail into the woods, following the footprints. After perhaps two hundred feet, the trail divided. Several tracks of prints ran in both directions, showing the children had split into two groups. For no other reason than the left path cut through a magnificent stand of noble oaks, Phoebe chose it. She set out, following both the footprints and the faint sound of laughing children that drifted through the trees.
The air had a clean bite to it, and for the first time in days the sun had broken through the clouds. It filtered down through the bare branches of the noble canopy of oaks and beeches, sketching rows of shadows on the snow-covered ground. She slowed her pace, enchanted by the signs of life all around her in the forest depthsâthe cloven prints of a deer, the dainty trails of marks left by birds, and the tidy tracks of a fox, cutting across her path and snaking deep into the woods. Birds flitted and sang in the upper branches. She recognized the blackbirds and the sparrows, and heard the song of the thrush.
Phoebe stopped and drew in a deep breath, reveling in the austere beauty of her surroundings. Raising her face to the pale winter sun, she drank in the solitude, so grateful to be once more in the country after her tumultuous interlude in smoke-filled London. Peace settled over her, and she breathed out a prayer of gratitude to the Maker of all things.
A sharp crack and then a desperate rustling sounded off to the left, jolting her. A fierce growl was followed by a frantic whimpering that signaled some creature was in distress. Phoebe peered through the trees in the direction of the noise, but could see nothing. The whimpering was soon followed by several high-pitched yips that sounded like a dog.
Whatever it was, it needed help. The voices of the children had now faded, so it was clearly up to Phoebe to find the poor animal and render assistance.
She left the trails, pushing through the underbrush, which in this part of the woods seemed to be mostly a kind of trailing thornbush. The branches snagged her skirts, forcing her to stop and untangle them, but she forged steadily on. The yipping had been replaced by more whimpering, which now sounded near at hand.
After a minute, she broke into a small clearing and found the source of the noiseâa bedraggled little dog, perhaps some kind of terrier, whose bristly, dust-colored coat was tangled up in a holly bush. As she rushed over to help, he broke into pitiful yelps.
“Oh, dear,” she said as she crouched down beside him, “you have gotten yourself into quite a mess.”
His ears flattened and his breath came in anxious pants, but she was heartened to see that his tailâfull of knots and as tangled up as the rest of himâfeathered in a desultory wag. Clearly a stray by the look of him, he seemed distressed rather than vicious.
“Now, Mr. Doggy,” she said in a soothing voice, “I would beg that you keep your teeth and claws to yourself. If you stay very still, I think I can get you free.”
He whined, but his tail whipped a little harder. She let him sniff her hand, and when he showed no signs of biting her, she set to work. The poor thing cried piteously as she struggled to free him, but he never once bared his teeth or tried to claw her, which spoke of an excellent temperament.
It took several minutes, and by the time she finished, it seemed almost as much fur was left behind on the branches as remained on the dog's scrawny body. Despite the cold, perspiration trickled down Phoebe's spine, and she huffed with relief when she finally had him free.
“There, sir. You are once more at liberty,” she murmured as the poor beast frantically licked her gloved hand.
He did not struggle as she took him in her arms and stood, wincing at her protesting muscles. Her skirts were covered in mud and leaves, with wet patches at the knees and hem. The damp had leached into her bones, too, since the winter sun had already begun its decline toward the horizon. The shadows of the trees now stretched across the clearing, and a late-afternoon chill had descended. In the stillness, even the birds had stopped singing, and Phoebe suddenly became aware of the silence.
Actually, the silence felt menacing. With the dog shivering in her arms, she turned in a slow circle, unable to shake the sense that something lurked in the trees.
Nothing.
Shaking her head in self-disgust, she hefted the dog more comfortably in her arms and started to retrace her steps. But before she could reach the path she heard a loud snap and then a gasp, quickly choked off. Whipping around, she saw young Sam Weston at the edge of the clearing, clutching the bridle of a small donkey. Behind him, half hidden in the woods, several men and several more donkeys, all laden with packs, had come to a halt.
One of those men stepped in front of Sam, raised his arm, and pointed a pistol straight at Phoebe.
Chapter 27
Phoebe gaped at the man, her brain addled with shock. She had seen hunting rifles before, but Quakers had little traffic with guns. To stare down the barrel of a pistol pointed directly at her chest seemed impossible. The man brandishing the weapon looked ready to use it, too. Broad-shouldered and sturdy, his face was partly covered with a scarf, but his dark eyes glared daggers. The menace visible in his gaze and stance sent a wave of fear crashing over her.
“Pa, don't,” yelped Sam. “It's Lady Merritt.”
Phoebe practically swallowed her tongue. This man was the village publican? Mr. Weston was one of the few locals she had yet to meet, but she could hardly believe he would actually shoot her. Cautiously, she took a step backward, clutching the stray dog to her chest. As if sensing her fear, he nudged her chin, giving her a small lick.
“That's far enough,” snarled Mr. Weston, yanking down his mask. “If you take another step, I might be forced to use this.” He waved his pistol in an alarming manner.
Phoebe jerked to a halt. A fierce scowl distorted Mr. Weston's features, but it was the desperation she saw in his gaze that convinced her to remain motionless.
Sam dropped his donkey's bridle and rushed up to his father. “Pa,” he said in a loud whisper, “you can't do that to her. She's a
lady
!”
lady
!”
Without shifting his gaze, Mr. Weston gave Sam a shove. “Shut your gob, boy. I'll take care of this.”
Phoebe's temper flared, warring with her fear. How dare the man bully his son!
“It is not necessary to threaten me,” she snapped. “I will not run, nor will I cry out for help. The last thing I want is for my husband to discover you on his lands. There would be the devil to pay if he did, I assure you.”
Mr. Weston gave a harsh laugh. “And I can assure
you
that we've been paying the devil for years, thanks to men of his
lordship's
ilk. There's nothing you can say or do that'll frighten me, my lady, and that's a fact.”
you
that we've been paying the devil for years, thanks to men of his
lordship's
ilk. There's nothing you can say or do that'll frighten me, my lady, and that's a fact.”
“And what about your son?” she asked. “Are you so willing to risk his life? Mr. Knaggs told me some of you were involving the children in this business, but I could hardly believe it.”
He glowered at her, but anger had a good hold on her now. For once she welcomed it, allowing it to sweep away fear and carry her along on a boiling tide. “Thee had no business involving the children, no matter how difficult life has been. It was very poorly done of thee to act in so sinful and reckless a manner, Mr. Weston. Shame on thee.”
The publican's jaw sagged for a moment, but then his face flushed red with anger. Shoving the pistol into his belt, he stomped toward her. Phoebe tried not to cringe when he grabbed her arm. She also clamped down on the urge to protest his rough treatment. It would do no good, and would only upset poor Sam more than he already was. The little dog in her arms, however, issued his own form of protest, snarling and baring his teeth at her captor.
“That's quite the pet you've got there, my lady,” he sneered. “Not exactly a lap dog, is he?”
“I found him tangled up in that bush. That is the only reason I was here in the first place. I heard him whimpering.”
Startled, he glanced down at her. “Oh. That was kind of you. Especially since he's such a runty-looking beast.”
The dog snapped at him and tried to leap from her arms, but Phoebe held him tightly against her chest as Mr. Weston frog-marched her across the clearing.
“Sir, I would ask that you not frighten him,” she said in a sharp voice as they reached the others.
“He don't look frightened to me.”
Mr. Weston came to a halt by his donkey, holding her fast by the arm. For several long moments they stared at each other. From the disgruntled, rather baffled expression on his face, Phoebe got the impression he did not know what to do with her. The other men in the group were just as uneasy, shifting from one foot to the other and murmuring amongst themselves. She thought she recognized a few of them, although scarves obscured their features.
Suddenly, Mr. Weston appeared to come to a decision. “Sam, take the dog from her ladyship,” he ordered.
Phoebe tried to jerk away. “I will not let you hurt him.”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course I'm not going to hurt him. What kind of monster do you take me for?”
“The kind that involves his son in dangerous, illegal activities.”
Again, she saw that flash of desperation in his eyes. “Do you think I want to do this? There's barely enough blunt in the whole damn village to keep body and soul together, you daft woman. Why the hell do you think we're doing this?”
Phoebe bristled. She did not set much store on titles or formality, but she did not appreciate the label of
daft woman
.
daft woman
.
“That is going to change, Mr. Weston. Lord Merritt has promised that any man who wants a job can find one at the manor. That includes you.”
“Mucking out stables? No thanks, m'lady. I'll take care of my boy in my own fashion, without any charity from you or his lordship.”
“Yes,” she retorted. “I can see you are making a fine job of it.”
He jerked slightly, as if she'd slapped him, then his face reddened again. “No thanks to you or your husband,” he sneered. “Or the old earl, either. Now give Sam the dog and let's get on with it.”
Phoebe tilted her chin. “I have no idea what you want to
get on
with, but I have already made it clear that threats are unnecessary. I will not turn you over to the authorities, nor will I reveal your identity to my husband.”
get on
with, but I have already made it clear that threats are unnecessary. I will not turn you over to the authorities, nor will I reveal your identity to my husband.”
“Pa, listen to her,” pleaded Sam.
“Aye, Ned,” piped in a man who sounded suspiciously like the local blacksmith. “My missus says the lady is a good 'un. Let 'er go and let's get out of 'ere.”
That intervention was all it took, and suddenly everyone was arguing with everyone else. Sam tugged on his father's arm, pleading with him to let her go, and the dog set up a barrage of excited snarls and yips. Mr. Weston seemed to be arguing with all of them, even as he kept a grip on her arm. Phoebe was convinced they must be the noisiest smuggling ring in England.
A familiar, lugubrious voice cut through the din.
“Ned Weston, you will unhand her ladyship now.”
A shocked silence fell over the glade as everyone spun to stare at Mr. Christmas, who had snuck right up on them. Not that such a feat had been difficult to manage, since they had been making such a din an elephant could have paraded by and they would not have noticed.
Much to Phoebe's surprise, Mr. Weston dropped her arm. “Thank you,” she said automatically. Then she peered at Mr. Christmas, attired in a dark greatcoat and sturdy boots, and looking for all the world likeâ
“Mr. Christmas, not you, too,” she groaned.
Mr. Weston snorted. “That Friday face, one of us? Not likely. But he's always skulking around when we're making a run across the manor's lands, just to make sure we don't get up to anything. Acts like we're common criminals, he does.”
“You
are
criminals,” Phoebe said. Then she switched her attention to the butler. “You knew about these smuggling runs?”
are
criminals,” Phoebe said. Then she switched her attention to the butler. “You knew about these smuggling runs?”
After he nodded, she studied him for a few moments, while the men all exchanged uneasy glances.
“And you wanted to make sure no one got hurt,” Phoebe said. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, my lady,” Mr. Christmas answered mournfully. “To that end, I would suggest Mr. Weston and his men move along. Lord Merritt is on his way to join you and the children, and I fear he will be upon us soon. I shudder to think how he might react if he were to discover you thus.”
That image made Phoebe shudder, too. “You are absolutely right. Mr. Weston, you and your men would be wise to depart immediately.”
The publican looked ready to argue, but she held up her hand. “I have promised not to alert his lordship to your presence, and I intend to keep that promise.”
Her stomach twisted at the idea of withholding the truth from Lucas, but right now she had no choice. If he discovered the smugglers were making runs across manor landsâand that Mr. Weston had threatened herâLucas would hand the entire gang over to the law for deportation or execution. That would blight too many lives to count, especially those of the children. Phoebe simply refused to carry the burden of such a dreadful outcome.
Mr. Weston rubbed his face, frustrated and, she thought, worried. He glanced down at Sam, who clutched his father's arm in a nervous grip.
Phoebe shifted the dog and reached out to rest a hand on Sam's shoulder. “Mr. Weston,” she said in a gentle voice, “you must trust me. I would never do anything to hurt the people of Apple Hill, including you and your men, or your families. But my husband has a different notion of justice. So, you must leave now, or face the consequences. I fear they would not be pretty.”
“Pa, let's go,” urged Sam.
Mr. Weston hesitated, then nodded as the other men started to melt into the woods. He gave Sam a little nudge. “Go along, boy. I'll be right behind you.”
Sam threw Phoebe a grateful smile, slipping away with his donkey to leave her, Mr. Weston, and Mr. Christmas in a wary circle, staring at each other.
“I have your word you won't tell?” Mr. Weston asked her.
“You do.”
His mouth loosened in a grudging smile. “You ain't what I expected, my lady.”
“Thank you. I think.”
He let out a gruff chuckle and touched the brim of his cap before heading after his son.
“Mr. Weston,” she called after him. He paused in the shadow of the trees. “You cannot evade my husband or Mr. Harper's men for much longer,” she said. “The smuggling must stop, before Sam or anyone else is hurt.”
Silent and still, holding the donkey's bridle, he stared back with a somber expression on his face. For the first time, she noticed how careworn he appeared. A man with too many burdens. “We'll see, my lady.”
He faded into the forest, and all was still once more. Except for the presence of Mr. Christmas, Phoebe could almost imagine the entire episode had been a dream.
“My lady,” said the butler, casting an anxious glance over his shoulder, “you must return to the others.”
Phoebe nodded as she rearranged the dog more comfortably in her arms, then she and Mr. Christmas crossed the clearing, heading for the trail. “I will not ask how you knew about the smuggling run,” she said to him. “I do not think I want to know.”
“That would be for the best, my lady.” He eyed the dog in her arms. “Is your ladyship bringing the animal to the manor?”
“Of course I am! Did you think I would leave him out here to fend for himself ?”
“No, madam. I simply wonderedâ”
“Phoebe! Where are you?” Her husband's call sounded alarmingly close, and they both froze in place.
“My lady,” Mr. Christmas said quickly, “if you don't mind, I'll take another route back to the house.”
She nodded. “Fine. But next time you hear anything at all about the smugglers, you must tell me. We cannot let this happen again.”
He gave her a courtly bow, exactly as if he were ushering her into dinner, and then faded into the woods as expertly as the smugglers. Phoebe gave a ghost of a laugh. Mr. Christmas must surely be the oddest butler in the land.
“Christ, Phoebe! There you are.”
She whipped around, biting back a startled shriek. Only a few hundred feet away, Lucas stalked toward her along the trail. She cast a quick glance through the woods, but Mr. Christmas had vanished.
“Why did you go off like this?” Lucas asked in a stern tone as he came up to her. He looked so big and strong, and so worried, she could not help tumbling thankfully into his arms. Only when he held her close did she fully realize how frightened she had been. She shuddered with relief, leaning into the comforting hardness of his brawny chest.
“Are you all right, my love?” he asked urgently.
“Yes. I . . . I just lost my way.”
He squeezed her a little tighter, and the dog, nestled under her arm, yelped.
“What theâ”
“Lucas, be careful,” Phoebe exclaimed as she pulled away. “Do not hurt the poor thing.” She stroked the dog's ears, soothing him. “I heard him crying in distress. That is why I left the trail.”
He raised his eyebrows as he studied the bedraggled bundle in her arms. The animal gave a pathetic whimper, feathering his tail.
“Good God. He looks like a drowned rat. What do you intend to do with him?”
She scowled. “Take him home, of course, and give him a bath and something to eat. The poor thing obviously has not had a decent meal in days.”
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