The Savage Miss Saxon (29 page)

That left only Harold, Alix and Nicholas, and five horses—three of which refused to budge an inch when the Earl tried to turn them about. Mannering tugged; the horses resisted. Mannering pulled; the horses reared, then dug in their heels. Mannering cursed; the horses merely blinked at him.

“Well that’s the last straw!” Nicholas exploded, venting his pent up fury any way he could. “Tell me, Alix,” he purred, tuning toward the pseudo-Indian maid, “now that Harold has succeeded in turning these nags into immovable statues, does his vast store of Lenape magic extend to including a way to get them moving again? Or on second thought—do you think we should just have them bronzed and made into bookends?”

Alix spoke a few words to Harold, who then extracted another small leather pouch from beneath his bear skin and began pouring its contents on top of the dried animal blood he had sprinkled about earlier. “That’s milk,” Alix said unnecessarily. “It will cover the smell of the blood and the horses will move again. It’s really very simple, actually.”

“Simple,” Nicholas repeated dully. “That certainly is one word for it.”

Harold returned the now-empty pouch to its hiding place and picked up the horses’ reins, easily leading them into a large circle that ended up heading them toward Saxon Hall. Then, stopping beside Nicholas, he held out his right hand in a sort of salute and intoned gravely, “
Itah, Issimus.
”

“What did he say?” Mannering asked. “Has he found yet another way to call me a fool?”

“You should be honored, Nicholas,” Alix told him. “Harold said, ‘Good be to you,’ and then he called you ‘
Issimus
,’ which means brother. Harold has only ever called one other person that—my father. Now that Chas is dead—”

Alix’s words broke off abruptly as she clapped a hand to her careless mouth. Surely now Harold would start in to wail as he had done every time someone mentioned Chas’s death. But Harold did not begin the eerie keening that was his way of mourning his great friend. The Indian only bowed his great black-faced head and intoned softly, “
Bíschi, n’tschu gámink. N’palléha
.” Then he faded into the night, the three horses following along docilely behind him.

Alix stood very still, watching Harold as he began the measured loping gait that he would sustain throughout the long trip back to Saxon Hall, as Nicholas watched Alix’s stiffly held back and her proudly held chin that was etched so clearly in the moonlight. Then, as he watched, her slim shoulders began to shake, and he reached for her, turning her toward him so he could see her tear-streaked face.

“He—he said,” Alix began, visibly controlling her features, “Harold said, ‘It is indeed so, my friend is across the river. I am sor-sorry.’ Oh, Nick, it’s so sad. I’m sorry t-too. So very, very sorry.” Then her face crumpled and she began to cry—really cry—for the first time since Chas’s death.

Nicholas gathered her into his arms in the middle of the dark roadway and let her weep. What a paradox Alix is, he thought—part child, part savage, and more than any female he had ever known, all woman. Left alone in Philadelphia with only an eccentric half-breed Lenape—a living anachronism actually—for a companion, she had set off for a strange land and an uncertain welcome from her only living relative, who turned out to be yet another living anachronism.

But she had not allowed herself to be defeated—not even when her life became even more muddled with the addition of an unwanted fiancé. No, she had not buckled under, had not given in. She had kept her fighting spirit intact. She would have won out against him too, he realized shamefully, if her heart hadn’t gotten in the way. Poor Alix. Harold’s quiet acceptance of Chas’s death seems to have been the last straw. She must feel so dreadfully alone now—with her father gone and me, with my stiff-backed pride, denying her offer of love.

He tightened his arms about her shoulders. “Hush, darling,” he crooned into the curve of her neck. “I’m here. I’ll never leave you, Alix, I swear it.”

Her sobs slowly died away into a quiet sort of sorrow, but she did not release her fierce hold, her arms wrapped around his back. “I love you, Nicholas,” she whispered into his shoulder.

“I love you too, darling—more than life itself.”

Alix took a deep, shuddering breath and looked up into his face. Dredging up all her courage, she pushed out a smile that brought a dimple to her left cheek and asked, “Does that mean you’ll marry me, my lord?”

He pushed her a little bit away, holding her by the shoulders, and peered down into her face—so dear to him, so heartbreaking in its mixture of hopefulness and anxiety. How could he deny her?

She was waiting for his answer. He could feel her body trembling under his hands. It wasn’t fair to keep her on pins and needles—not now, after she had bared her very soul to him. Love warred with honor—and love won.

He looked deeply into her eyes and a slow smile turned up one corner of his mouth. “Yes, my dearest savage,” he said gently, “I will marry you.”

When they were at long last mounted and headed toward Saxon Hall, holding hands as they rode along in the path of the moonlight, the silence that followed their loving was loud with their unspoken thoughts—thoughts that they both knew, could reach out at any time and destroy their newfound happiness.

Chapter Eleven

M
atilda Anselm did not admit defeat gracefully—as her late, harassed husband would have been the first to say (as long as he first made quite certain his wife was not within earshot). She had planned long and hard, determined her Helene would wed the Earl of Linton. Even now, after the Earl had so pointedly given her and her children their
congé
, she found it hard to believe all her machinations had come to nothing.

But she had run out of options—unless her luck changed, and changed quickly. She had given the project her best shot and that shot had fallen far wide of the mark. So thinking, she at last reluctantly decided to return to her own highly mortgaged home and use the remainder of the winter to plan one last assault on the
haut ton
in the spring. Surely Helene’s beauty was sufficient to snag some other lord—even a Sir or an Honorable would do if he were sufficiently plump in the pocket.

And so, her mind made up at last, Mrs. Anselm penned a short communiqué to her housekeeper apprising her of the family’s intention to take up residence shortly after the holidays—a piece of information that would doubtless send that poor, beleaguered woman straight for the brandy decanter, as Mrs. Anselm was a most demanding mistress.

As Mrs. Anselm made her way down the stairs to the mail pouch that was kept on a table in the foyer, she heard Poole and one of the footmen in conversation. As was her custom, she immediately halted in her tracks and pricked up her ears to hear any gossip that might come her way—not that Poole was likely to say anything of importance, but lifelong habits die hard.

“This jist came special fer his lordship,” the footman was telling Poole, waving a large, official-looking envelope beneath the butler’s pug nose.

Poole extended one white-gloved hand and took the envelope, holding it as far from his eyes as possible as he read out the name scrawled on the flap just above the seal. “John Mortlock, Esquire, and Sons, Cambridge,” he worked out painfully. “This be the letter his lordship has been pestering us about.” He handed it back to the footman. “The Earl is out riding, Martin. Place this on the table beside the mail pouch so’s as he sees it first thing when he comes in. Then,” he finished stuffily, looking the lad Martin up and down, “go to your room and do something about your hair. You look like you combed it with a rake.”

“Yes, sir!” Martin shot back smartly, retrieving the letter and doing an abrupt about-face in order to place it precisely in the center of the silver tray next to the mail pouch. Then he turned again, ran an assessing hand over his sandy locks, sighed, and made for the baize-covered door leading to the servants’ quarters.

Blessing her good fortune, Mrs. Anselm acted swiftly before anyone else could wander into the foyer. Quick as a cat, she swooped down the steps, scooped up the letter, and retreated to the privacy of her chamber. She had no idea what she would find upon opening the letter (with a larcenous expertise acquired through long practice), but as she began to read, a slow smile fitted itself across her face and she was hard pressed not to jump up and do a sprightly jig at her good luck.

With the myopic vision of a mother intent on marrying off her beautiful but brainless daughter, she had not been able to see any reason for the Earl of Linton to choose that dark-haired nobody from the Colonies over her Helene. She, of course, excused any possible physical attraction Mannering might have for Alix with the same nonchalance with which she would dismiss Linton’s small indiscretions after his marriage to her daughter. Men were inclined to indulge in these little adventures with women from the lower orders—as she obviously considered Alix, even if her grandfather was of noble blood—but she certainly couldn’t understand why he felt he had to
marry
the chit.

Now she knew. Well, this letter would certainly put a whole new light on the subject—as Nicholas would surely realize once he read it. But before he reads it, she thought as she sat fanning herself with the heavy envelope, I shall have to find some way to get Helene back into his good graces. Then he will quite naturally turn to her in the midst of his rejoicing and the matter will be settled once and for all.

I shall produce the letter the night of the pantomime, she thought. Helene shall certainly be in her best looks then—in her new gown that so sets off her complexion. After dinner when she has wound Mannering around her little finger by way of her sweet singing and harp playing, I shall casually set this letter where he can find it. Yes, she told herself, nodding her head in satisfaction. That upstart heathen will not usurp my daughter in this house. This time I cannot fail!

Jeremy, Cuffy, and Billy felt their noses were put slightly out of joint by Nicholas’s capture of the highwaymen (Alix having wisely given Mannering all the credit in her telling of the story), but they were sure their superb handling of the pantomime would serve to cast Mannering’s feat quite nicely into the shade.

The boys had, they believed, come up with a true inspiration—they would hold the pantomime at Saxon Hall and fill the evening with an entire round of medieval celebration. Sir Alexander happily agreed to the scheme once Cuffy told the old gentleman that, as host, he would be crowned the Lord of Misrule and could then preside over the contents of the wassail bowl.

Alix also fell neatly into their plans, pointing out that, as they were all wearing costumes anyway, it would then be doubly easy to slip Reginald into the scene without detection. Alix was a bit distracted anyway, torn between elation over her newfound love and a nagging fear that Nicholas had somewhat compromised his principles in agreeing to marry her, and it was by and large left to the three boys to devise the evening’s entertainment.

They did not stint. Indeed, they threw themselves into the project, as Linton was heard to mutter, with ten times the enthusiasm they brought to their studies—more’s the pity.

They spent whole days closeted with Sir Alexander, plying him with gin and listening to his rollicking stories of long-ago Christmas celebrations. Soon they were as caught up in the spirit of the thing as was Sir Alexander—who found himself feeling at home to a peg in his role of Lord of Misrule.

Under Sir Alexander’s direction, the trestle tables—having been designed so that each table top could be lifted off its trestles—were cleared away and temporarily stacked to one side in the Great Hall, while load after load of rushes were scattered on the cold stone floor “for atmosphere,” or so said Sir Alexander. Harold’s wigwam was banished for the duration.

Reginald, who had been keeping much to his room anyway, was then found to be annoyingly allergic to the rushes and was taken with sneezing fits each time he dared to enter the chamber. “At least we’ll always be able to locate him when we want him,” Alix laughed, handing the poor suffering soul one of her grandfather’s large handkerchiefs. “Between keeping Reginald here out of sight until the proper moment and keeping the old man from swimming in the wassail bowl, we shall quite have our hands full!”