Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | A Traitor′s Touch

A Traitor's Touch
Helen Dickson


AWAKENING A FORBIDDEN DESIREAfter a lifetime spent hating the cause, loving a Jacobite is out of the question for Henrietta Brody. But with Scotland ready for battle her only chance for survival is to journey with her enemy – the dangerously handsome Lord Simon Tremain.His protection awakens a forbidden desire in Henrietta. But, torn between her past and her future, the Jacobite and the man, reason and passion, she must fight to resist this traitor’s touch.









Henrietta felt those eyes—felt them as powerful as a physical force, probing deep within her.


‘I think it is time we reached a clear understanding about what is happening between us.’

His words confused her. The dangers he posed to her senses and emotions were immense, yet the physical desire she felt for him continued to ache inside her. A small, insidious voice whispered a caution, reminding her that any liaison with Simon would bring her nothing but heartbreak, but another voice was whispering something else, telling her not to let the moment pass, to catch it and hold on to it.

Still she hesitated, for what she was contemplating went beyond anything she had ever contemplated before. All she wanted was for him to hold her again and to kiss her into insensibility.




AUTHOR NOTE


I thoroughly enjoyed writing A TRAITOR’S TOUCH, which is set in 1745–6 against the turbulent issues that beset both England and Scotland at that time. The climax of the story is the Battle of Culloden.

Dark family secrets, hidden hurts, desperation and undeniable love—all these and more appear in A TRAITOR’S TOUCH.

Beautiful, clever Henrietta Brody flees London to escape a ruthless murderer. With little more than the clothes on her back she sets off on a lonely, friendless road to the wilds of Scotland, determined to find her uncle. She enlists the aid of handsome Lord Simon Tremain—a staunch Jacobite whose values and loyalties to the cause are against everything Henrietta believes in.

While the battle of Culloden and the issues of the time are real, the characters—with the exception of The Bonnie Prince—are entirely fictional.


A Traitor’s Touch

Helen Dickson






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


HELEN DICKSON was born and lives in South Yorkshire, with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that drove her to writing historical fiction.

Previous novels by Helen Dickson:

THE DEFIANT DEBUTANTE

ROGUE’S WIDOW, GENTLEMAN’S WIFE

TRAITOR OR TEMPTRESS

WICKED PLEASURES (part of Christmas By Candlelight) A SCOUNDREL OF CONSEQUENCE FORBIDDEN LORD SCANDALOUS SECRET, DEFIANT BRIDE FROM GOVERNESS TO SOCIETY BRIDE MISTRESS BELOW DECK THE BRIDE WORE SCANDAL SEDUCING MISS LOCKWOOD DESTITUTE ON HIS DOORSTEP MARRYING MISS MONKTON DIAMONDS, DECEPTION AND THE DEBUTANTE BEAUTY IN BREECHES MISS CAMERON’S FALL FROM GRACE THE HOUSEMAID’S SCANDALOUS SECRET* (#ulink_3cd80250-c563-5d00-b9aa-4eb3a66c372b) WHEN MARRYING A DUKE … THE DEVIL CLAIMS A WIFE THE MASTER OF STONEGRAVE HALL MISHAP MARRIAGE

* (#ulink_c2151c3f-0433-5cf8-8c50-55916e1c7736)Castonbury Park Regency mini-series

And in Mills & Boon


Historical Undone! eBooks :

ONE RECKLESS NIGHT

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Contents

Prologue (#uc790c4c2-954b-5752-a8df-01d111878d28)

Chapter One (#u9afc505c-56e9-5c8e-ac4c-ca6abaa519e2)

Chapter Two (#u0d5aedd9-f674-50f6-ad59-96cb1c3d732d)

Chapter Three (#u90ba9232-3dd4-5509-b587-00f8d2a3703c)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue

1734

On the discovery of a plot for the capture of the royal family and the proclamation of King James across the water, Andrew Brody was arrested with other malcontents and hanged at Carlisle. His body was brought home to Glasgow in a plain wooden box. To spare his wife and young daughter the sight of his blue and grotesque face, its tongue bulging from a rictus mouth, the lid was kept nailed down.

Maria, his wife, went mad with grief. She wept day and night and could not eat. She was terribly ill and there was no consoling her.

After two weeks, their seven-year-old daughter, Henrietta, went outside to look for her mother, thinking she might have taken a turn round the garden. When she failed to locate her she turned to go back to the house, but for some reason she did not fully understand herself, stopped and looked towards the river. Following a moment of indecision, she began to walk towards it. Perhaps it was to satisfy a sense of nostalgia, to recall happier times when the river had been a magical place. Or perhaps it was some other, darker sense that impelled her to get a closer look.

Whatever it was it led her along the bank of the gently swirling river. And that was when she saw a woman’s body floating face down in the water, her hair forming a rippling halo on the surface.

It was her mother.

Henrietta’s stomach lurched and she called her mother’s name and drew closer to the edge, hoping she was not too late, but knowing that she was. She turned and ran back to the garden.

‘Help me!’ she cried to the gardener raking up leaves into a heap. ‘My mother—she’s in the river. I don’t know what to do! Help me! Please help me!’

The gardener threw down the rake and ran towards the river, the girl following close on his heels. On seeing the body, he quickly assessed the situation. Wading into the water, he hauled his mistress onto dry ground and rolled her on to her back. He stared down at the lifeless form, at the woman’s face that was so white, but still beautiful in death.

The gardener looked up at the child. She stood like a small frozen statue, her eyes wide and filled with horror, and he could feel the agony coming off her, sense the torment twisting her soul like a weighted rope. Slowly she got down on her knees, staring into her mother’s bloodless face, her small hand smoothing her dark brown hair back from her forehead over and over again, whispering words the gardener could not hear.

The girl was remembering all the days spent with her mother, how they would sing and gossip. How nothing could touch them then. But now she was gone. The vivacious, spirited and delightful woman was gone. The girl told herself over and over again she would not see her mother again in life. But now she must not think of it, else she would lose her mind like her mother.

Eventually the gardener rose on stiff legs. ‘It would seem your mother has had an accident, Miss Henrietta,’ he said by way of explanation, while knowing otherwise. ‘I will carry her to the house,’ he said gently. The child did not look up, did not break the rhythm of her hand stroking her mother’s hair as she whispered tenderly, as though they two were the only people left on God’s earth. ‘I will be gentle with her, I promise, but I think we should take her home now.’

The gardener waited a while longer, watching a swan with three cygnets in her wake sail stately by. Then the child got to her feet. Her face glistened with tears and bewilderment filled her green eyes as though she was desperate to understand why her mother had left her.

‘Please don’t hurt her.’

Swallowing hard with a resolute nod, for one heartbreaking moment, the gardener looked down into the young face. ‘I won’t.’ And so, carefully, more carefully than he had ever done anything in his life, he bent and took the dead woman into his arms, trying not to look at her face as he carried her to the house.

* * *

The funeral coming so soon after her father’s interment was too much for the child. She drew in a breath of panic. She did not want to be there. She did not want to be afraid all the time—afraid of death. Her father’s brother, Uncle Matthew, came and took her in his arms.

Matthew shook his head in despair. Tears lit his eyes. He tried to explain. All this had happened because her father was a Jacobite. Matthew was of the opinion that men should be free to worship God as they chose, as long as they obeyed their king and did no harm by it. Tragically his brother had supported the wrong kind. The Jacobite cause had been his life. Even when he was condemned he saw his last journey to the scaffold as a veritable moment of glory, as though he were raised suddenly to celebrate for his good deeds, instead of hanged for his seditious acts against the Crown.

The girl could not get beyond the Jacobite word. This new knowledge of the circumstances surrounding her father’s execution, followed so quickly by her mother’s suicide, haunted her day and night. The anger and hate directed at the Jacobites entwined, swelling and blooming inside her, threatening to consume her body and soul. It was anger and hatred more acute and darker than anything she had ever known.

And then Uncle Matthew took her away—to London—putting as much distance between her and the event as was possible.


Chapter One

1745

Baron Charles Lucas and his wife Dorothy had embraced Henrietta in her hour of need and taken her into their lives and their home with the kind of easy, unconscious goodness that was born of good breeding and a happy life.

And now they were both dead. Along with their coachman, they had sustained fatal injuries in a carriage accident when they were travelling home from the theatre. Within the space of twenty-four hours, Henrietta was forced to grow up quickly and keep herself in control for the sake of the grieving servants. But beneath her calm exterior she endured a sickening and inevitable turmoil over the loss of the two people who had given her a sense of worth and for whom she had borne a real and unselfish love.

She closed her eyes as the enormity of their loss made her realise how alone she was and she knew she would have to consider wisely how to make the best of her circumstances and to think about her future. After considering the advantages his niece would reap in London, including learning everything a young lady should be cognizant of, Uncle Matthew had placed her in the hands of Baron Lucas and his wife Dorothy, her mother’s dearest friend. They had been delighted to become Henrietta’s legal guardians. She was the apple of their eye, the child they had never had.

Uncle Matthew was the only family Henrietta had. As a youth and being a scholar with much intelligence and curiosity, he had sought to quench his thirst for knowledge and had gone abroad to enrich his education. He had been gone some time. When he came home, expecting to be welcomed by his brother, he had found unexpected tragedy. Never having married and seeming to have a dislike for all society following the terrible circumstances of his adored brother’s brutal death, he’d acquired a crofter’s cottage close to Inverness and, surrounded by his precious books, become something of a recluse. Henrietta knew she could be sure of a warm welcome there.

But maybe she wouldn’t have to leave London. Dorothy had assured her that she would be well provided for. Henrietta remembered how the dear lady, who’d insisted she call her aunt, had smiled and said that Henrietta’s mother had been a good friend to her—as close as sisters they had been—and that she honoured her memory in the best way she knew by honouring and taking care of her daughter to the best of her ability.

Remembering this, Henrietta swallowed and set her jaw.

Hearing carriage wheels on the gravel drive, she glanced out of the window. Her heart sank. It was dark, but she could see by the carriage lamps that her guardians’ nephew, Jeremy Lucas, had arrived at Whitegates to claim his inheritance. Followed by his wife, Claudia, he breezed through the great entrance hall and into the salon where Henrietta was sifting through some correspondence, mainly letters of condolence from friends of the elderly couple.

The moment Jeremy entered the room with his wife flouncing after him the atmosphere thickened with tension. Tall and lanky and fashionably attired without prudence, he walked with a swagger as if he owned the world. He was a popular, much sought-after figure about town and could be charming when the occasion demanded it, but Henrietta had seen the cold, cunning heart behind the charm. He was inclined to call at the house unannounced. The last time had been the day after the accident. He hadn’t seen fit to turn up for the funeral which had been a mere twenty-four hours ago.

Henrietta rose, smoothing down her black skirts as she turned to face him. Jeremy felt a deep resentment towards her and had never made any attempt to disguise the fact.

‘Jeremy! You were not expected. However, you are welcome.’

While his mind noted the young woman’s perfunctory courtesy to him, his mind catalogued the valuables in the room. ‘I should damned well think so since it’s my house.’ His eyes gleamed overbright as he strutted like a well-preened rooster on the oriental carpet, eyeing and fingering precious heirlooms he had coveted for years.

Henrietta’s face tightened with the effort of holding back a sarcastic rejoinder. She braced herself for what was to come, for after her dealings with this man in the past she knew it was not going to be pleasant. She glanced at Rose hovering in the doorway, a pensive look creasing her round face.

‘Is everything all right, Miss Brody?’ she enquired, glancing nervously at the visitors.

‘Yes, thank you, Rose.’

Rose stepped back, but was not out of sight. Her faithfulness to her mistress remained as strong as the time when she had come to live with Baron Lucas and she had long ago proven her confidante in the most troubling times.

‘Bring us some refreshment, will you, Rose?’

The maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried away.

Henrietta and Jeremy Lucas were isolated enough that they could converse in private in the salon, yet the servants were still close enough that Henrietta did not feel as if she was under any threat. It was indicative of her mistrust of Jeremy that she even thought of such things—that she was actually considering herself to be in possible danger in her own home.

‘The servants are disrespectful,’ Jeremy informed her as he sat down heavily on a chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him, unconcealed malevolence in his pale blue eyes as they swept insolently over her. ‘But no matter. I have not come here to discuss something that can be replaced.’

Henrietta stiffened, all her senses alert. ‘Replaced? What are you talking about?’

‘Servants are two a penny. Now I’ve come to take up residence, if any of them want to remain they must know their place.’

‘Quite right, Jeremy,’ Claudia piped up in her shrill voice. ‘You show them how you mean to go on from the start and that you’ll stand for no interference from them.’

Henrietta looked at Jeremy’s wife. During several visits, Henrietta’s red-gold tresses had incensed the hard-faced virago, causing Claudia to berate the whole Scottish race as being slow-witted and to demean Henrietta as a heathen, a derogatory appellation many an English Protestant was wont to lay on the Roman Catholics.

True to form, Claudia was gaudily attired, her generous assets amply displayed. She wore too much powder and paint for good taste. Her dark hair was piled high on her head and a black patch dotted her cheekbone. With her nose tipped disdainfully high, her hazel eyes hostile, Claudia gave her a haughty smile as she doffed her gloves and tossed them aside. Prowling slowly about the room, her skirts swishing in her wake, she trailed well-manicured fingers across polished surfaces, lingering on a valuable figurine while eyeing other knick-knacks as if to assess their value.

‘If you have come to discuss the will, Jeremy,’ Henrietta said, trying to hide her aversion to the man, ‘the solicitor is coming tomorrow.’

‘I am aware of the contents, Henrietta. I called on Braithwaite earlier. As you know, Braithwaite has had the honour of being the family solicitor for the past ten years—’

‘Who has been absent—America, I believe—for the past two years,’ Henrietta pointed out.

‘I am aware of that, but he has recently returned,’ Jeremy retorted, irritated by her interruption. ‘He made up my uncle’s last will and testament.’

‘Which you are telling me he has made privy to you. Clearly there has been some mistake and your uncle had not informed you—’

‘Be quiet,’ Jeremy snapped, shoving himself out of the chair and glaring down at her, his long, ungainly body quivering like a snake about to strike. ‘I’m not interested in what you have to say. My uncle kept a copy of the will, which I will find in his study when I go through his papers—and which I intend doing this very night. But understand this, Henrietta Brody. Everything has been left to me. The house, the money—everything—and I aim to take immediate possession.’

A feeling of alarm began to creep through Henrietta. She had never discussed such matters with her guardians. Indeed, there had been no reason to do so. But she knew they had cared for her and would not have been so unconcerned for her that in the event of their demise they would have failed to make provision for her future. She had certainly not expected much, but she could not believe they would have overlooked the matter.

‘You were not included,’ Jeremy went on. ‘But then why you should think my aunt and uncle should have left you anything at all defeats me. You were not a relative. You were nothing to them.’

‘Jeremy’s right,’ Claudia’s shrill voice piped up. Catching Henrietta’s look of disdain, she bristled. ‘And don’t look at me like that. Jeremy will wipe that smirk off your face when he sends you packing. You think you’re better than me, don’t you, you stuck-up Scottish witch—you and your high-handed ways. Well, you’re wrong. You’re not fit to clean my shoes.’

Even after enduring the loss of her guardians and Jeremy’s cruel words, Henrietta refused to yield to Claudia that very thing she craved most—an undeniable feeling of superiority. Highly offended by his words, though her anger and animosity rose up within her, she forced herself to remain calm. ‘I do not believe that and I was certainly not expecting anything of value. Having lost both my parents and being alone in the world, I was extremely grateful when they welcomed me into their home. I was deeply devoted to your aunt and uncle and I know that over the years they grew attached to me. Your uncle was a methodical man about his affairs and I cannot believe that when the situation changed and my own uncle made him my legal guardian he would not have made provision for me—at the very least to give me time to vacate the house when you took possession.’

Jeremy smirked. ‘Well, he didn’t,’ he bit back, thoroughly enjoying putting her in her place. ‘I expect they were fed up with you mooning about the house and hoped to marry you off before their demise. Just who do you think you are? A lady?’

‘If you knew your aunt and uncle at all, you would not have said that. They were good, kind people and would not brush people off so easily—especially those they cared about.’

Jeremy reached out and jerked Henrietta’s face around, his long, clawlike fingers bruising her tender flesh. ‘Where you are concerned they appear to have done just that. I own this house now. I am master here and as soon as the will has been read I want you out of it.’ Removing his hand, he thrust her away.

Henrietta stared at him. She was now certain that he was not aware that his uncle had executed a new will, let alone changed his solicitor. It didn’t augur well for the future. Displeased with the way Mr Braithwaite conducted his business—he was not a man noted for his discretion—both his uncle and aunt agreed that Mr Goodwin, a barrister in the city, was a man of probity, wisdom and common sense in equal proportions. She was surprised that Mr Braithwaite, who was a close friend of Jeremy’s, had failed to mention it. Although why on earth he should not have done when he had nothing to gain by not doing so she could not imagine. She was on the point of informing Jeremy herself but when he began bearing down on her once more, his cold eyes conveying to her that if he became vexed or angry enough he would have her forcibly removed, her mouth went dry.

Recognising her fear, Jeremy felt a surge of power. He laughed, a thin, cruel laugh that chilled Henrietta. ‘You, Miss Henrietta Brody, have been a drain on this family for too long, playing on my aunt and uncle’s goodwill when they took you in, living in the grand manner you think is your due. You have got above yourself. Enough is enough, I say, so pack your bags and be ready to leave as soon as Braithwaite has read the will.’

‘That’s right, Jeremy. You tell her straight,’ Claudia quipped while running her fingers appreciatively down the thick damask curtains and eyeing the crystal chandelier and Turkish carpet beneath her feet. ‘Nothing but a beggar—an upstart she was. She doesn’t belong here—never did. It’s time she was put in her place.’

Henrietta thought that was comical coming from her. Hadn’t Jeremy plucked her off the stage in Drury Lane? She would have laughed out loud had the situation not been so serious.

‘She will be, my love. I guarantee it.’ Jeremy looked Henrietta over, noting her trim figure, with its tiny waist, her prim beauty, the red-gold of her hair and softly rounded curves beneath her mourning dress. As much as he had intended exacting revenge on his uncle’s ward, with her proud head elevated to a lofty angle and her eyes blazing defiance, as much as he might have wished otherwise, it was blatantly obvious that Claudia suffered badly in comparison.

‘You cannot do this,’ Henrietta said. ‘I beg you to reconsider.’

‘I suppose I could—for a price.’

‘Now don’t you go making any bargains with her, Jeremy,’ his wife chided. ‘She’s going and that’s final.’

‘I suppose something could be worked out between us,’ Jeremy said, his gaze dwelling on a rounded breast, giving no indication that he had even heard his wife.

Henrietta shrank as she felt the weight of his stare. She could feel his eyes burning into her flesh through the fabric of her dress. Her heart pounded and she looked up at him, suddenly wary. His eyes held a hard, predatory gleam and a confident smile stretched his thin lips that made her skin crawl. His thoughts were the kind a decent young lady would not invite.

‘Of course there is the matter of your guardianship to consider, Henrietta. It cannot be overlooked. As the legal ward of my late uncle, I expect the responsibility has fallen on me. In which case I have legal ownership of you. You must obey me. Obviously you have not yet come of age whereby you can make lawful decisions on your own. I am duty-bound to provide for you.’

It was the smugness of his expression which finally brought Henrietta’s senses to life. ‘I am not your ward,’ she retorted, seething at his arrogant assertion. ‘I do not believe there is the mention of any guardianship being transferred to you in any will. A moment ago you were prepared to throw me out on the street. That was hardly an act of solicitude.’

Jeremy’s eyes became less threatening. ‘I acted a tad hastily, I admit. As I said, I will allow you to remain for the time being—’

‘But for a price,’ Henrietta said, cutting him short, incensed by what he was suggesting. ‘How dare you insult me so? To have made such suggestions at all is disgusting, but to make them in the presence of your wife is doubly so. How dare you come here prancing about like some arrogant lord, you graceless fop? I would rather take my chances on the streets than remain here with you and your wife. I would rot first.’

Jeremy’s eyes flared as her insults hit their mark. His face darkened to a motley red. ‘And you will. I’ll see to that, I promise you,’ he flared, his whole body shaking with rage. ‘Now go to your room and don’t come down again until I give you permission.’

There was a warning in his voice which sent a shiver of fear through Henrietta. She backed away. ‘Most willingly.’

She turned on her heel, leaving the room as two maids came in carrying trays laden with a silver tea service, fine china and a plate of sweet delicacies to tempt the palate.

She was halfway up the stairs when, having second thoughts, she decided to return to try again to inform Jeremy about his uncle’s change of solicitor. The door was ajar and she paused, steeling her nerves for further confrontation, but on hearing Claudia’s shrill voice she remained where she was.

‘I thank the Lord she’s going. She couldn’t continue living here.’

‘Don’t worry, my love,’ Jeremy said, biting into one of cook’s delicious iced cakes, scattering crumbs down his fine silk waistcoat. ‘You won’t have to put up with her for long. Henrietta Brody no longer has any place here and, as soon as the will is read, one way or another she will cease to exist.’

‘It’s a pity we failed to get rid of her along with the old fools. But then we must be thankful that everything went off as we hoped, better even since they had the sense to die and leave you everything.’

‘It had to be done. I couldn’t wait any longer. With creditors baying at the door, it was either that or the debtors’ prison.’ A sudden vision of himself locked in a filthy prison cell at the mercy of other prisoners and the guards flashed into Jeremy’s mind’s eye. It was a vision that had haunted him too much of late for comfort. ‘It’s not too late for Henrietta Brody. I vow I’ll see her hanged before I let her touch an object or a penny of what’s mine.’

Henrietta listened in amazement and shock to this eruption of venom. Horrified, she saw at last the cynical calculation of these two, who had coolly set about playing on her guardians’ goodness and her own innocence. Even more than their revelation was the contemptuous way this creature who was Jeremy’s wife dared to speak of her guardians’ memory that roused her anger.

‘Not only that, the girl’s a papist, isn’t she?’ Claudia added with scorn. ‘They’re likely to stab one in one’s bed with the smallest hint of an uprising. Don’t forget what happened to her father.’

Having heard enough and horrified at what their words implied—that they had been responsible for the death of her guardians and that she would have suffered the same fate had she not pleaded the onset of a cold, which had prevented her attending the theatre that night—Henrietta backed away from the door and, turning quietly, made her way to the baron’s study. The desk where he kept his private papers was locked, the key kept in a drawer in a separate bureau, although the deeds to the house and other important papers he kept with Mr Goodwin.

Opening each drawer in the desk in turn, she sifted through some household accounts until she found what she was looking for. Jeremy was right. There was a copy of the will, but it was the recent will drawn up by Mr Goodwin. Hearing Jeremy leave the morning room and cross the hall to the kitchen where he proceeded to bark orders at the staff, clutching the will in her trembling hand, gingerly she closed the study door. Afraid of making a sound, stealthily she tiptoed across the hall and flitted up the stairs to her room.

With shaking hands she opened the copy of the will and scanned what was written. She read enough to know that if she valued her life she must get away immediately. As Baron Lucas’s sole heir it was natural that Jeremy would expect to inherit his entire estate, but he had excluded Jeremy in favour of her.

Caught in a nightmare, she realised she was completely alone, at the mercy of demons that were intent upon destroying her. Who was to know what Jeremy would be tempted to do if he found out she had knowledge of the terrible crime he’d committed, one he would hang for? And on the morrow when he discovered his uncle had changed his solicitor and made a new will, leaving her everything, the knowledge would elicit terrible repercussions from Jeremy and she was not strong enough to stand against him.

Briefly she considered throwing herself on the mercy of her guardians’ friends, but dismissed this immediately. Jeremy had always been a golden boy and, because of the shocking events in her family’s background, they had quietly resented the position she had acquired in the Lucas household. No one would believe the conversation she had overheard between Jeremy and his wife and that he had murdered his uncle and aunt to get his hands on their money to keep him out of debtors’ prison. It would be her word against his, and were she to seek out Mr Goodwin, he would ensure the inheritance came to her, but he would never believe she was under threat from Jeremy.

So, with no one to whom she could turn to for help and with only herself to rely on, knowing that if she was to save her neck she had to do something, she acted on pure instinct. She would not be beaten. She would not sit and wait for Jeremy to destroy her with the same vicious cunning as he had his aunt and uncle. She had to get away and get away with all speed.

A concerned Rose followed her into her room, where Henrietta lost no time in telling her what had occurred and that she must leave the house with all haste. That Jeremy and his wife had admitted to killing her guardians she kept to herself. The fact that Jeremy could have done something so horrendous was difficult for her to take in, but if he could take the lives of his own flesh and blood without a qualm, he would not turn a hair in getting rid of her.

Sending Rose to find her some clothes suitable for riding a long distance, preferably male attire since she didn’t want to attract attention to herself and her very gender rendered such an undertaking dangerous, she also asked her to instruct Robbie to saddle her horse and bring it into the yard at the back of the house, and not to say a word to anyone. When Rose had disappeared to do her bidding she snatched up some small items she would need—the copy of the will, a purse containing several coins and some of her jewels, so that she could sell them if it became necessary. She also had the presence of mind to arm herself with a small dagger to defend herself from vagabonds and highwaymen. It had belonged to her father and she prayed she would not have occasion to use it. Rose returned with some clothes she’d commandeered from the young groom.

‘Robbie won’t miss these,’ she said, handing her the breeches.

They were ill-fitting and stained with saddle oil and other distasteful substances, but they would serve their purpose. The shirt, which came down to her knees, she tucked into her breeches, and her youthful breasts she bound flat with a snug-fitting chemise. Shoving her arms into the sleeves of one of her old jackets, she thought she was beginning to look the part, but how Lady Lucas would have admonished her ward for riding in such an immodest and unladylike style.

Glancing in the mirror, she considered her features for the hazard they might pose. Was there something that might betray her: the pert nose, the large green eyes that slanted upwards, her long silky black lashes and the soft, too-pink and delicate mouth? Small and slender, she would have no trouble passing herself off as a youth—not even Jeremy would recognise her dressed like this, but she would have to do something about her hair. The long, soft, curling tresses would become a liability she could ill afford.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Rose said, deeply concerned for her safety.

‘I don’t, Rose,’ Henrietta said, handing her the scissors. ‘All I know is that I cannot stay here with Jeremy. What I heard tonight gives me reason to fear for my life. I have to get away and it’s imperative that I look the part, which is why I want you to cut my hair.’

Rose was appalled at what she was being asked to do. ‘But—your lovely hair? I can’t do that.’

‘Yes, you can. It’s necessary. This is a time for survival, Rose, not girlish longings. It will soon grow again. Now hurry. I have to leave before Jeremy comes looking for me.’

* * *

When Rose had completed her task and disposed of the shorn hair, Henrietta heard Jeremy down below, his voice raised in anger. Hearing the noise of the study door banging shut, the noise reverberating through the house, she trembled with fear.

‘Where is she, damn you?’ he shouted to a terrified servant, having decided to take a look at his uncle’s documents and being unable to find the key to his desk. ‘In her room, is she? Get her. She will not hide from me.’

Suddenly Henrietta felt Rose’s arms around her. A sudden tug of emotion made her hug Rose in return. Before the feeling could turn to tears, she pulled away and stood upright like a soldier.

‘This is just terrible,’ a tearful Rose said, wiping her wet cheeks. ‘That you are being forced to leave your own home without a place to go. Where will you go?’

In her present terrible plight, there was only one place Henrietta could go, only one person who could help and advise her—her uncle—and he was hundreds of miles away in the wilds of Scotland. She was in no doubt that it would be a monumental undertaking for her to get there safely. Fearing that Jeremy would interrogate Rose and demand to know her whereabouts, Henrietta considered she was better off not knowing. ‘I can’t tell you that, Rose, but I mean to leave London. I’ll write to you when I reach my destination. I promise. Wish me luck, Rose.’

‘I always do, miss. God keep you safe,’ Rose whispered. ‘I will be praying for you.’

Shrouded in a black woollen cloak, her cropped red-gold hair dulled with a smidgen of soot and hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, hearing Jeremy’s loud, harsh tones, with hate beating a bitter note in her breast, Henrietta hurried out of a back door to her waiting horse. She shivered as the reality of what she was planning to undertake hit her. It would be wiser to wait until morning, to set out on her journey in the light rather than in the dark, but she could not wait. Without a backward glance, like a shadow she slipped away on to Hampstead Heath without encountering a living soul.

* * *

As she rode on to the heath, Henrietta looked around with renewed spirit and saw that no black clouds hung in the sky to mar her plans. There was no hampering wind, either, and, since it was late August, the air was warm. Fortunately for her, she knew the heath well and there was no lane or byway with which she was not familiar. It was a rambling, hilly place embracing ponds and ancient woodlands. Unfortunately Hampstead Heath had a sinister reputation for criminals. There was no doubt that there were major hazards to crossing it at night and that ordinary dangers were compounded by those threatened by highwaymen.

Driven by some compelling need to put as much distance as she could between her and the threat Jeremy Lucas posed, digging in her heels she rode off at a gallop, the horse’s hooves thudding over the turf. Approaching woodland, fearing she might be knocked from her horse by low branches, she slowed her horse to a walk and entered the interior. Every now and then she paused to listen, straining her ears for every sound. All was silent in the darkness. The moon and stars were hidden behind thick cloud.

She picked her way through the undergrowth and stopped when she came to a clearing, staring at the dark silhouette which was the tumbled ruin of a cottage. There were no lights showing. Intending to ride on by, she looked ahead. As she did so, something flashed in the corner of her eye. She swung about—a lantern had been put out and she realised there was someone outside the building. Afraid that if she rode on whoever it was that lurked there would come after her, dismounting, she tethered her horse to a branch. With her heart thudding in her chest, she crept forward and ran the last few paces, crouching against a side wall and creeping towards the corner of the building. Pressing herself against the wall, she realised only then that her legs were shaking beneath her. For a panic-filled moment, the mere awareness of her fear threatened to collapse her self-control, but she pressed trembling fingers to her lips, resolving to overcome her trepidations by her own will and fortitude. Though the full moon gleamed brightly overhead and cast a strip of moonlight over the ruin, deep in the shadows along the walls the blackness was almost palpable.

Holding her breath, she peered around the corner, seeing that she was several feet from what had once been the door. A man was skulking in the gloom, long and dark like the shadows. She waited until her heart had slowed and her breathing had steadied. Somewhere on the heath she heard an owl calling, the haunting sound echoing in the silence. Hardly breathing, soundlessly she pressed herself against the wall and waited.

Suddenly she heard the sound of horses, the thump of their hooves on the ground and the clink of their harnesses. Retreating along the wall, she stood in the shadows. Three men rode up and halted in front of the building. They slid to the ground and the man in the shadows stepped forward to greet them.

Her curiosity getting the better of her, Henrietta crept forward once more to observe them more closely, straining her eyes in the darkness as she wondered at the reason for them meeting so furtively. She could see the outline of the horses and the shape of the men. They stood close together, murmuring in consultation. Two of them broke away and walked in her direction, pausing to converse. Straining her ears, she was just able to hear what they said.

‘Good to see you, Jack,’ the man who had been waiting said.

‘Have you been waiting long, Simon?’ asked Jack.

‘About half an hour,’ Simon replied in low tones.

‘You have come from Dover?’

‘I met with the agent. He’s a reliable source—a Frenchman and a friend. He deals in commodities and is of great use to us.’

‘Just one of our brave liaisons. You’ve a long ride ahead of you before you reach Edinburgh.’

‘Aye, but a necessary one. I mean to stop at my home over the border. I have arrangements to make should things not turn out as we hope. I’ve one or two loose ends to tie up here in London, but I hope to be heading north long before dawn. It appears Prince Charles has arrived in Scotland with only a handful of men. It will be common knowledge soon. Convinced the English Jacobites will stage an uprising, he is already planning to invade England. I mean to ride north to assess the situation.’

‘I’m loyal to the cause, but planning a rising to put his father on the throne is foolish in my opinion.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Simon said, ‘but he had his head set on it. The proclamation states that by the ordination of Almighty God, King James, VIII of Scotland and III of England and Ireland, asserts his just rights to claim the throne of three kingdoms, and to acknowledge the support of these divine rights by the chieftains of the Highland clans and Jacobite lords—and various other such loyal subjects of His Majesty King James. We need soldiers, weapons and money, which we don’t have.’

‘Then he will fail. We need the French to succeed.’

‘If we wait for the French to help us, we’ll be waiting a long time. But then again, with the British at war with France and all the armies fighting in Europe, perhaps now is the time to act.’

Simon shook his head. ‘I have my doubts. I fear support in Scotland may be lacking. Some clan chieftains will rally to the call. Others who are loyal to the British government will not. There are many who consider it a better place since the Stuarts left. It has become a proud nation—united with England. The people have grown richer, more powerful and more respected throughout the world. They fear the return of the Stuarts will bring fresh misery and have no stomach for war. What of you, Jack? Are you afraid to continue? Does he have your support?’

‘Certainly. We’ve come too far to retreat. I will inform our men here in London of events. To bring about the change there is nothing that I would not do on behalf of Charles Stuart. If he succeeds, I will know I played my part. Few men will be able to claim as much. What do you think, Simon?’

‘I agree, but it would be better if King George could be removed by diplomatic coercion.’

‘That won’t happen. The part you play in this drama is great and heroic. You are to be just one of our liaisons in the north. We could not have chosen a man who knows that part of the world better.’

‘True, I know it well enough. But if the rebellion is to succeed, there are grave times ahead. Those who support Prince Charles will be branded as rebels and as traitors to the English Crown.’

‘It will be nothing to what our fellow Catholics have already endured. If they have been safe for a time, it is only because they—we—have learned to be silent. You, Simon, rebel in the name of the Stuarts, I in the name of the Catholic martyrs. We have suffered for over two hundred years. This will be just one more test of our resolve—I pray it will be the last.’

‘I agree, but I cannot imagine that Prince Charles’s arrival after so many years of darkness and despair for the Jacobites is about to allow the sun to break through the clouds.’

Realising her curiosity had unwittingly placed her in danger, Henrietta followed this exchange with amazed disbelief. Beyond a doubt, everything that had happened to her in the past few hours had the incoherence of a bad dream. She was shaken, for in this day of Jacobites, of plots and counterplots, imprisonment and treason, it would seem she had stumbled across a nest of Jacobite conspirators. Somewhere in the dark chambers of her mind a memory stirred—not a pleasant memory—and her father’s tortured face flickered for a moment in her mind’s eye, which she quickly shoved away. A cold shiver travelled down her spine.

As a Catholic, she had followed the Jacobite cause with reluctant interest. James Stuart’s court, the exiled king of Scotland—or the Pretender to the throne, depending on one’s loyalties—was in Rome. He had mounted an abortive attempt to regain his throne in 1715 and had failed through lack of support. Since then he had worked ceaselessly at trying to gain support from fellow monarchs, reiterating his son Charles’s legitimacy to the throne of Scotland and England.

What she had just overheard suggested that Charles Edward Stuart had come to claim his father’s throne, prepared to resort to armed rebellion to restore the Stuart monarchy. As she adjusted her position her cloak brushed against the wall, dislodging a loose stone, which fell at her feet with a soft thud. It alerted the men and they fell silent. She stood stock-still, her heart drumming in her chest, and cold sweat trickled along the side of her face and down her spine. She knew that her breathing must be deafening—she was certain that she could be seen and heard in spite of the darkness.

A long moment passed. Hearing the men exhaling ragged oaths, she also heard footsteps coming closer. She shuddered and swayed slightly to keep her balance. She was sure that they would find her. She had to get away. Cautiously she began to retreat backwards. A man stepped round the corner of the building—a formidable silhouette bent on bloody murder. He stood motionless, staring at her. The moon chose that moment to slip from behind a cloud, haloing his tall, powerfully muscled form with its brilliance. His hat was slung low over his face, shadowing his features, but she thought she saw his eyes, and ironic ones they were. His gauntlets were made of fine leather, with gold thread trimming the edges. While she wore one of her old cloaks, this man wore a cloak of fine black cloth interfaced in gold. He said not a word as their eyes clashed across the distance.

Like the prey entranced by the predator, Henrietta was momentarily transfixed. She remembered then of the harm he might do to her. He did not speak, but the second he moved towards her, she whirled around and fled in the direction of her horse. She raced with all the stealth at her command, but when her foot caught in a hole she nearly tumbled headlong. Recovering her balance, she rushed on. She could sense the man coming after her, feel him gaining on her, and then he reached for her, but in the blink of an eye, she ducked under his arm and fled.

‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ he growled. Pivoting round, he reached out and grabbed her, wrenching her arm up her back. ‘I wouldn’t struggle, if I were you, boy. Stay put,’ he coolly ordered.

Letting out a cry Henrietta struggled to free herself, but she was no match for his strength. With one hand he grasped her arm, and with the other resting on the hilt of his sword he hauled her back to the others.

‘Keep still, you little savage. It will do you no good. Lower your weapons,’ he said to his comrades. ‘’Tis naught but a youth.’

The sound of his voice sent a thrill down Henrietta’s spine, and she trembled for some unknown reason. Glancing at the men, the one called Jack brandishing a dagger, told Henrietta that they wanted blood. Suffering the painful grip, she began to fear for her life. When she had come to live on the edge of the heath, one of the old grooms, who loved to tell stories, had told her a host of gruesome tales about the fearsome things that had happened to people who had been on the heath after dark. She would never have believed that such things could happen to her. But one cannot be confronted by four dangerous men and not fear for one’s life.

Little by little, she was learning the hard way that most cruel of all lessons—that if she were to survive, she would have to use all her wits to do so. But she guessed she was not going to be good at deception. It did not come naturally to her. She had no experience of it and had never had reason to resort to dishonesty.

Though she held her chin high and glared in a show of grand defiance, she knew she was defenceless. But when she glanced at her captor, big, black and fierce and for all the world like some fearsome being from Hades itself, a strange, murderously tranquil smile on his face, she blanched and, when he released his hold on her arm, she spun around, seeking any escape route. Unable to see a way past the men who had formed a ring around her, there was nowhere to flee. Her heart pounded. The man called Jack reached out to try to grab her, and Henrietta reacted in self-defence, reaching for the knife in her belt, the blade flashing wickedly in the moonlight. Jack fell back with a garbled curse.

‘Why, you young pup, I’ll gut you for that.’

‘Try it if you want my blade in your own,’ she replied with admirable self-possession, pitching her voice low, while inside she was trembling with terror, knowing she would never have the courage to use the weapon.

Simon looked her over. It was clear the lad could take care of himself, but he was insane if he thought he could take on the lot of them. He held out his hand. ‘That’s a nasty blade you have there, lad. Hand it over.’

Henrietta’s eyes were wide, filled with fright. She swept the surrounding men with a nervous glance. ‘And get myself killed?’

‘You’re already in trouble and you can see you can’t escape. Don’t make this any worse for yourself than it already is.’

She wetted her lips with a nervous flick of her tongue and again eyed the men. ‘But they—’

‘I’m the one you’d better worry about,’ he warned in a low voice. ‘Give me the knife,’ he coolly ordered. ‘And do that very slowly, for I am not at all amused.’

Henrietta grimaced at the man’s unintentional pun, but she did not relinquish her weapon.

He waited immovably, the men looking on in palpable tension as the fierce youth dared refuse Simon’s order.

Simon flicked his fingers impatiently, beckoning her to hand the knife over—he stretched out his waiting palm, watching her intently. ‘Hand it over,’ he said in a hard tone. ‘You’ve got no choice.’

Henrietta agonised over the decision, the war of emotions transparent on her face, but after a long moment, she slowly yielded, handing it over.

Simon clasped the weapon and thrust it into his belt. ‘There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it? Take my advice, my fine bandit, and study your craft more. You are a most inferior footpad.’

Henrietta found herself meeting dark eyes set in a face of leanly fleshed cheekbones. There was a cleft in his strong chin, his nose was thin and well formed, slightly aquiline, and beneath it were generous, but at the moment unsmiling, lips. There was an air of the professional soldier about him, a quality that displayed itself in his crisp manner and rather austere mien. The handsome features bore the look of good breeding and those eyes, glinting with a sardonic expression and blue, she thought, seemed capable of piercing to her innermost secrets, causing a chill of fear to go through her.

‘For pity’s sake! Do not kill me,’ she pleaded, having no idea of the kind of men she was dealing with.

An evil laugh was the answer. ‘No witness—that’s the first rule in this business.’

‘Who—who are you?’ Henrietta demanded, feeling most uneasy.

Simon raised his eyebrows at her question. ‘Who am I? I might ask the same question of you—and with considerably more justification.’ He looked the youth over disapprovingly, taking in every detail of his clothes. His eyes quickened as he studied him with the keen glance of a man accustomed to noting the minutest detail around him. The lad was no country boy, though he might dress like one. His voice gave him away. Simon was secretly intrigued. ‘Explain what you’re doing here, lad. Why the devil are you wandering about the countryside by yourself?’

‘That’s my business.’

Simon’s eyes gleamed coldly in the darkness. ‘Not any more.’ The hard line of his mouth tightened and the crease at the corner grew deeper. ‘The person who sent you cannot have done so merely for the pleasure of visiting the heath after dark.’

‘Why should you think anyone sent me?’

He stared at her intently. ‘If you are indeed here on a mission, the most likely supposition is that you’re an agent. But whose? Did you follow us here?’

‘No, I swear I didn’t. I—I saw the light and I was curious.’

‘Perhaps you are on a mission, which argues a high devotion to duty, and I must congratulate whomever employs you on their ability to inspire it.’

Henrietta stared at him, beginning to realise what he was implying and that he was accusing her of spying on them. ‘No one employs me. I work for no one.’

‘And we are to believe that?’ Jack grumbled. ‘What are you running away from, lad? Maybe the law, eh? Likely you’re a thief, I shouldn’t wonder.’

To hear herself accused of theft was more than Henrietta could bear. ‘I am no thief,’ she retorted fiercely with a fine and cultured accent, ‘and I forbid you to insult me!’

‘Forbid? Listen to me, laddie, you’re in no position to forbid anything. I’d watch that tongue of yours if I were you. There’s nothing to stop me taking you by the scruff and tossing you in the river.’

Henrietta was too angry to be frightened. ‘If you wish to throw me in the river, feel free to do so. You will be doing me a service. I regret that I was mistaken in you. I took you for a spy. It seems, however, that you are a murderer!’

‘Hell and damnation!’ Jack, seething with fury, was about to throw himself at the insolent young pup, but Simon cast himself bodily between them and thrust him back.

‘Let it be, Jack. Can’t you see he’s only a lad? He’s scarce out of breeches.’ He turned to Henrietta and gradually his stern visage softened as he stared at the worried figure. When a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, he quelled it as quickly as it came. ‘I’m sorry, lad. My friends are a long way from home. I fear their manners need as much improvement as their judgement. How old are you?’

‘Old enough to know what’s what,’ she replied sullenly. ‘Not that it’s any of your concern. I have not asked you questions—but after what I overheard, I imagine there are people who would be extremely interested in what you are about. Unpatriotic activities, they would say, of which gathering support for Prince Charles Edward Stuart, Young Pretender to the throne, is one.’

Simon nodded slightly. ‘You heard right. We meet in secret. ’Tis dangerous for us to meet like this.’ He glanced at his silent friends who remained motionless. ‘You must understand,’ he went on, ‘that if you fear for your skin, you will keep your mouth shut.’

‘And if I don’t?’

Anger glinted for a moment in Simon’s eyes, then receded. ‘It would be a dirty deed I would have to undertake—regrettable since you are but a lad—on that you must accept my word. What have you to say?’

Henrietta bit her lip, the words sticking in her throat. The men gathered before her, silent and antagonistic as they awaited her response.


Chapter Two

Henrietta’s eyes flashed defiance as she held Simon’s stare. There was a self-assurance about him which was unmarred by arrogance. It inspired her confidence and she relented.

‘You have my word that I shall not speak of what I overheard. I have my own reasons for remaining silent.’

He nodded, satisfied. ‘That is all that I shall say on the matter.’

‘Thank you. When your friends turned up I was about to go on my way, but I was afraid of what you would do to me if you heard me.’

‘So if you aren’t a spy, what are you doing here?’ Simon demanded.

She gave him a scowl that suggested he mind his own business, but then thought better of it. With four angry men glaring at her, she was in no position to argue. ‘I’m going to my uncle. I—I’ve moved out of the house of the people I was living with.’

‘Do they know where you are?’ Simon watched the youngster thoughtfully.

‘They’d turn over in their graves if they did,’ she answered quietly.

‘I see,’ Simon said, beginning to understand her plight. ‘And your uncle? Where does he live?’

‘In Scotland.’

‘That’s one hell of a journey for a lad to undertake alone.’

‘I have no choice. There—are reasons why I have to leave London.’

‘You make it sound like a matter of life or death.’

‘It is.’

She shivered and sent a furtive glance over her shoulder, as though expecting something terrible to materialise out of the darkness, her gaze scanning the impenetrable blackness among the trees, cocking her head, as if listening for something, some far-off noise.

Simon was sorely tempted to dismiss her remark as wild exaggeration, but by rights he could not do so unless he had a chance to delve into the matter. His gaze softened at the lad’s plight and he instantly suffered a pang of compassion. He couldn’t be any older than fifteen and he didn’t think he had known much kindness. He reminded him for all the world of some little prey animal, his preternatural senses alerted to the imperceptible sound of some fierce predator’s approach. His curiosity for this unfortunate youth was beginning to grow.

‘Do you have a name?’

Henrietta squirmed uneasily and glanced around her.

‘You do have a name, don’t you?’ Simon enquired with a hint of sarcasm.

A brief, reluctant nod gave him an affirmative answer. ‘Henry,’ she prevaricated evenly. ‘My name is Henry.’ There—her first lie. It wasn’t so bad.

Fixing her eyes on the man’s face, she studied him as much as she was able in the moonlight. She had heard him say he was to go to Scotland. Hope surged up in her. He was on a mission—a dangerous one, too, if what she had heard was to be believed—and could not be too particular in the matter of formalities. For her, this meant safety, luck beyond hope which she could not afford to lose. If he were willing to take her with him, she was prepared to offer any service she was capable of giving—within reason, that was—in exchange for a helping hand.

Henrietta became set on a course of action and, in spite of a very reasonable fear of rejection, she continued. She was on a tightrope with an obligation to move forward, not backwards. Having come this far, she had to speak the words she had rehearsed in her head.

‘Since you are to go to Scotland, will you take me with you?’ She had no qualms about making the request. She was desperate. Overwhelmed by a sense of her own audacity, she braced herself for rejection.

Simon stared into her hope-filled eyes, thought of his vital secret mission, and let out a sigh. ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘But why?’

‘Because it’s a mad idea.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Yes, it is. I might be about to let you go, but I have no intention of playing nursemaid to a quick-tempered lad.’

Undeterred, Henrietta took a step towards him, her chin jutting belligerently. ‘I’m past the stage of being in need of a nursemaid. I can take care of myself. You’re going to Scotland anyway—I heard you say so. At least if you take me with you, you’ll know your secret is safe.’

His eyes narrowed on her expectant face. ‘That sounds like blackmail to me.’

Henrietta allowed herself a smile. ‘Not really, but I suppose it must look like that from your position.’ Her smile faded. ‘I do know that the content of your discussion can be classed as a treasonous act for which all of you could be hanged if caught. But I don’t care who you are and what you are about is your business. All I know is that I stand a better chance of reaching Scotland unmolested if I do not travel alone.’

Jack stepped forward, not at all happy about the lad’s suggestion. ‘Don’t be swayed, Simon. Think about it. Time is a luxury you can’t afford. The lad will hold you back.’

‘You’re right.’ He looked at the youth, his expression uncompromisingly hard. ‘As I said, it’s out of the question. I’ve important matters to take care of and I’ve no desire to saddle myself with a troublesome lad. Now away with you. Think yourself lucky we’re letting you go with your life.’

* * *

Henrietta went on her way across the heath, heading towards Highgate, feeling angry and mortified as well as bitterly disappointed. Everything that had happened to her seemed so improbable. She had, to be sure, a little money, but so very little it would not enable her to subsist for more than two weeks. She had her jewels, but they were not worth very much. Of sentimental value since the pearl necklace had been her mother’s and the rest given to her over time by Aunt Dorothy, she would be most reluctant to part with them.

* * *

It was way past dawn when she reached Hatfield, thankfully without mishap. Saddle-sore and starving hungry, there was a weariness in her eyes as she dismounted and pushed her woollen cloak back over one shoulder. Leading her horse, with her mind on finding something to eat, she walked along the street, glancing into alehouses as she went. Never having entered such establishments, she was reluctant to do so now.

Was it only yesterday that Jeremy had turned up at the house? It seemed an eternity since she had left. It had needed only a few hours to make her first an outraged young woman because of the injustice meted out to her by Jeremy and now a fugitive who would soon be hunted down by that same man when he discovered the truth about his uncle’s will. She prayed he wouldn’t think of looking for her north of the border. But when she thought of Jeremy, who had treated her so cruelly, no remorse troubled her mind.

With an effort of will, she drove out these gloomy thoughts. She was young and strong and determined with all the force that was within her to overcome the malign fate which dogged her and to do that, it was necessary to remain in possession of her wits for the long trek to Scotland. Tethering her horse to a post, she glanced about her warily, feeling terribly conspicuous in her masculine garb.

There was a bustle in the street as the town was coming to life. An assortment of rustic-looking folk went about their business. A loud curse made her jump swiftly aside and she waited as a couple of huge, plodding horses, their foam-flecked sides heaving, drew a large wagon piled high with casks. Intent on staying out of their path she heedlessly stepped backwards into a loitering group of youths. Their presence was first noted when a voice called loudly, ‘Young fool! Look where you’re going.’

Spinning round in alarm, she stared at the youths, the eldest of whom was about sixteen. He stepped in front of her, his feet spread, his thumbs hooked in his belt and a tattered hat askew on an untidy thatch of brown hair. He towered over her, looking her over suspiciously.

‘Can’t say I know you. What you doing here?’ he demanded boldly.

‘I—I’m just passing through,’ she nervously stammered, lowering her voice to fit in with her masculine attire. Uncertain and dismayed at this unexpected confrontation, she glanced uneasily towards the others who were circling around her. For the most part, they seemed only to be seeking some diversion from boredom. She could not be too careful and sought to make them more cautious.

‘I’m supposed to be meeting someone—my uncle,’ she lied in an attempt to make them back away. ‘He—he should be here...’ Her voice trailed off and she looked around expectantly.

One of the youths laughed loudly and gave Henrietta’s shoulder a shove. ‘Hope he’ll come to your rescue, do you?’

Hands seeming to come from every direction reached out to shove and push. The next instant her hat was snatched from her head, baring a mop of shaggily cropped hair. Henrietta threw her hands over her head, at the same time opening her mouth to vent her outrage. For some reason she thought better of it and clamped her jaw shut, angrily making a grab for her hat, only to see it passed from one to the other. Incensed, she stood there with her fists clenched, refusing to show her fear. ‘Give me back my hat and I’ll be on my way.’

Immediately one of the youths shoved her shoulder and she found herself stumbling backwards, but not before she’d made another grab for her hat as it went sailing through the air. Jamming it on to her head, she glowered at them, ready to do battle if they attempted to take it again. Her jaw slackened as she stared amazed by the sight of the three youths suddenly backing off and pressing themselves against the wall.

A tall figure in a swirling black cloak strode into their midst. Large and powerful, a cocked hat set jauntily sideways on his head, she recognised him as the man Simon she had met on the heath the previous night. Henrietta was more unsettled than she was prepared to show by his sudden appearance. Now, in broad daylight, he bore a striking resemblance to the pirates whose exploits she had relished when safely between the covers of a book. This man had no black patch over his eye or gold rings in his ears, but these details apart, he seemed the living image of a gentleman of fortune.

‘On your way, the lot of you,’ he barked, brushing them aside as best he could. ‘I’m sure there must be chores to occupy you other than abusing others.’

He watched the scrambling departure of the youths before turning to the individual who found herself meeting eyes of deep blue set in a hard and unsmiling face.

‘I thought it was you,’ Simon remarked sharply. ‘You appear to be in a spot of bother.’

Henrietta’s heart lurched in her breast. She was torn between resentment because he’d refused to let her go with him to Scotland and relief that he’d rescued her from possible harm at the hands of the three youths.

Observing the lad’s expression of concern, Simon said, ‘You need to watch lads like that. They clamour around and then they’ll suddenly disappear—along with your purse. I don’t doubt that half of them will end up dangling on the end of a hangman’s rope one day. I was about to get myself a bite to eat. Would you care to join me?’

Having recovered her composure, Henrietta raised cool, bright eyes holding more than a measure of distrust to his. She hadn’t forgiven him for abandoning her on the heath. Having witnessed her humiliation at the hands of those louts, he was infuriatingly sublime in his amusement. If her situation weren’t so dire, she’d cheerfully tell him to go to the devil.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ she replied sullenly. ‘My mother told me never to talk to strangers.’

‘Your mother was right, but you were happy to talk to me last night when you thought I could be of use.’

‘That was last night. Things look different in daylight. I don’t want any handouts.’

‘I wasn’t offering to pay for your breakfast. I merely thought you might like some company, but it seems I was mistaken. The least you could do is thank me for getting you out of a scrape.’

‘I didn’t ask you to,’ she retorted ungraciously. ‘I can take care of myself.’

‘Is that so?’ His eyes did a quick sweep of the small, slight form in ill-fitting garb before him, noting the pathetically shorn hair of an indeterminate colour and badly stained breeches. There was an air and manner about him that held his attention. ‘By the looks of you someone needs to take you in hand.’ His jaw set squarely, he turned away. The lad was proving to be a headache. And yet...those snapping green eyes...the soft mouth and curve to the cheek...

Simon! an inner voice commanded. Enough! It will be your downfall if you pursue this train of thought.

It was indeed enough—but even so he found himself turning back. He glanced at her horse. ‘Get your horse and come with me if you want some breakfast—before those young ruffians come back and finish what they started.’

Turning on his heel and leading his horse, he headed for the back of the nearest inn. Racked with indecision, Henrietta glared at his retreating broad back, the hollow ache in her middle reminding her how hungry she was. Seeing her three abusers loitering on the street corner still eyeing her with malicious intent, though it chafed her to do so she grabbed her horse’s bridle and hurried after him.

Leaving her mount to be fed and watered in the tavern’s stable, she was almost treading on his heels when he crossed the threshold into the large and welcoming common room. It was adorned with gleaming copper and brass with a number of tables disposed around the room. A good fire burned in the hearth and a number of serving girls tripped about bearing loaded trays.

There was a stir of interest among them when their eyes lighted on Simon’s handsome form and their eyes boldly appraised him. His expression softened as his gaze swept over one of them—a pretty young girl, her loosely laced bodice barely containing her ripe breasts—and he inclined his head in the briefest of bows. The way he regarded them told Henrietta that this was a man who enjoyed female company. From the flirtatious fluttering of the women’s eyelashes, it was obvious they had fallen prey to his charm.

‘What it is to be so popular,’ Henrietta commented without bothering to conceal her sarcasm as she followed him across the room.

‘Being reasonably handsome—or so I’ve been told—has its advantages, Henry.’ There was something about the amused tilt of his eyebrows, the way the serving girls melted a pathway before him and the sudden mischievous twinkle in his eyes that made her laugh.

‘And I have no doubt many of the ladies surround you like moths around a candle.’

The liquid blue of his eyes deepened. ‘Many moths, but no butterflies—and I have to say that I am not partial to moths.’

The landlady of the inn paused in her work to watch the two cross the room where they settled at a table in the shadow of the wide chimneypiece, where they ordered breakfast and cold beer.

‘You’ve ridden quite a distance,’ Simon said, removing his hat and cloak and dropping them on the seat beside him.

Reluctantly Henrietta did the same before sitting back and availing herself of the chance to take account of her companion. His vigour seemed to fill the room with such robust masculine virility that it took her breath, because she had grown accustomed to a life with her guardian, a diminutive older man. Her gaze leisurely observed his lean yet muscular thighs and she allowed it to wander upwards over his breeches to his narrow waist and powerful shoulders, her eyes settling on his dark features. He had nothing wanting in looks or bearing. He wore a blue jacket and black breeches above his riding boots and his tumble of raven-black glossy curls was secured at the nape.

Settling back in his seat, his long, lean body was stretched out at the table pushed slightly forward to accommodate his long legs. But there was nothing ungraceful about him. The muscles of his arms and legs were sinewy and strong, and finely honed. He regarded her with some amusement, smiling, his teeth very white against the tanned flesh of his face, but there was a disturbing glint in his blue eyes.

She noticed that he was studying her with intent and she was aware of the tension and nervousness in herself. Of course anyone else might have seen past her disguise and laid bare her secret, but with this man, she could only surmise that he was contemplating the disgusting state of her shaggy hair—the soot she had rubbed in to darken it having run and stained her face—and dirty breeches. She avoided his eye and vowed to remember her false identity at all costs. So far there had been no hostility in his voice when he addressed her and she must take care not to raise his suspicions. As a man of the world, he would be familiar with the subtle differences in bone structure between men and women, and he might have noticed that she was abnormal. If he did, fortunately he did not press the matter.

Simon idly watched the serving wenches go about their business, his eyes lighting on a particularly buxom redhead giving him the eye. His mind turned over possibilities and began sketching scenarios in which he would take her somewhere private where their coming together would end in some climatic terminal.

Thoughts of climaxes brought vivid, full-colour visions of Theresa to mind, the last woman he had made love to in the twilight of her father’s French garden—her heavy breasts perfectly round, her face beneath his washed by his kisses, eyes closing tight in pleasure, then opening again to look with delight into his, her mouth stretched wide in a permanent gasp of pleasure. The daughter of a French nobleman, she had meant nothing to him and had receded into the past like so many before her. Still, she had been a beauty all right and he would probably never see her again.

He did not normally permit himself the indulgence of sentiment. There was in his nature a very cold streak and he cultivated it because it protected him. And now, with a rising and rebellion imminent, it was imperative that he did not relax his vigilance. But he was restless, cursing the imagination which sent him thoughts the like of which he had not suffered since he had left Theresa. But he often thought the imaginings were so much better than the disappointing real thing.

His relationships with the fair sex often left him puzzled—where was the blinding ecstasy that came with the mystical fusion of two bodies into one? He was a good lover, he had been told. He found sex interesting, as well as physically pleasant. He rarely had to seduce a woman—for some women he was a highly desirable man—and the thrill of conquest was not what he wanted. He was also an expert at giving and receiving sexual gratification. But over time he had formed the view that ecstasy came not from a man’s pleasure in a woman, but from their pleasure in each other, which was something that seemed to elude him.

Shifting his gaze from the serving wench, he studied his young companion more closely. With short hair and small heart-shaped face accentuating the large green eyes and slim, fragile features and high delicate cheekbones, the youth looked much younger than he had originally thought.

‘We shall have refreshments and discuss what I see lurking in the depths of those eyes of yours.’

Simon waited for Henry to make the opening gambit. But it seemed his expectations would come to naught for Henry volunteered nothing of himself. ‘Since we are to eat together, we might as well get better acquainted,’ he said in an attempt to draw the lad out of himself. ‘My name’s Simon Tremain. I already know you are called Henry. Your family name eludes me?’

Henrietta met his gaze and immediately the shutters came down over her eyes and her expression became guarded. She had the uneasy thought that her companion was like a tall, predatory hawk and that she was a small, disadvantaged animal about to be pounced on. ‘That’s because I didn’t tell you,’ she retorted, not wishing to become too familiar with an active Jacobite whose sympathies were akin to those of her father.

He, too, had been a Jacobite agent, and his scheming and conspiracies against King George had led him to the gallows, leaving his wife and Henrietta to carry the burden of that crime of treason. Nothing would ever lessen the deep bitterness she felt towards the Jacobites. It was a bitterness that burned inside her with an all-consuming intensity. Henrietta didn’t like talking about herself, especially not with strangers. Andrew Brody was a name remembered and still talked about by many.

Simon’s curiosity increased. He arched a brow and peered at his companion, shrugging casually. ‘Just curious.’

‘You ask too many questions.’

‘It’s a habit of mine. You do have one, don’t you?’

When Henry made no further comment Simon did not pursue it. But with this in mind he looked again at the lad and felt drawn to him. He sat erect, his small chin in his heart-shaped face raised, and Simon could see him putting up a valiant fight for control—a fight he won. Despite his ragged garb he looked incongruously like a proud young prince, his eyes sparkling like twin jewels. Simon’s granite features softened and his eyes warmed, as if he understood how humiliated the lad felt on being brought low by a situation that had obviously driven him from his home.

‘I ask your pardon, Henry. It was not my intention to intrude on your privacy. Being a private person myself, I respect it in others, so you can relax. You were serious when you said you were going to Scotland? To your uncle, I believe you said.’

Henrietta nodded.

‘Where in Scotland does he live?’

‘Some miles from Inverness. It’s—quite inhospitable, I believe.’

‘I believe it is.’

They fell silent when the landlady arrived at their table, skilfully balancing a huge tray on one hand. She placed the steaming plates of eggs and ham and wedges of warm bread and butter and freshly made succulent fruit tarts before them, telling them to enjoy their meal. Unable to override the demands of hunger before the landlady had retreated from their table, Henrietta began munching on the bread, savouring the delicious taste. Simon watched her in amusement until the object of his scrutiny became aware of his attention. Suddenly abashed, she slowed down. Simon laughed, then turned his interest to his own breakfast.

Henrietta hadn’t eaten since dinner time the previous day and ate heartily at first, but once her hunger was satisfied, she ate slowly while her companion consumed his portions more leisurely, savouring each taste fully. She felt much better after the meal and, with warmth and nourishment having restored some measure of elasticity to muscles chilled and stiffened by hours on horseback, a gentle drowsiness crept over her and slowly her eyelids began to droop.

When Simon had finished his meal, he wiped his mouth on a napkin and once more fixed his attention on the youth. His head had fallen forward and his eyes were closed. Clearly the long ride was beginning to take its toll. He frowned. The more they were together, the more curious he became about his young companion. He’d already decided that he was a young person of no ordinary cleverness and intelligence. He noted that he ate much too daintily for a street urchin and there was a refined quality to his speech and in his manner that did not tie in with his outward appearance. His breeches and shirt were of poor quality, the breeches having seen much service, and his hair and face were clearly in need of soap and water. Yet his boots and cloak were of good quality and he had also noted that his horse was no ordinary nag, but a valuable blood horse, clearly out of the stables of a gentleman.

‘What—or whom—are you running away from?’ he asked suddenly.

All at once Henrietta’s eyes snapped open and she sat up with a start, wide awake on the instant. ‘Who said I was running away?’

‘You did—on the heath?’

After a moment and lowering her eyes, Henrietta nodded. ‘I am obliged to go to Scotland.’

‘And it’s a matter of life or death, if I remember correctly.’ She nodded. ‘Like to tell me about it?’ he said, ignoring what he had said about intruding on her privacy.

She shook her head. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’ If he were to find out her true identity she wouldn’t be able to deal with the repercussions, and after her unpleasant encounter with those youths, she realised she had a better chance of reaching Scotland with this man to protect her—if he could be persuaded to take her with him.

‘And your parents?’

‘A hint of tears brightened the light green eyes as she spoke. ‘Both my parents are dead.’

Simon felt a pang of pity for the lad. ‘I’m sorry.’

The sympathy in his voice made her study him. He had a warmth of manner which made her feel as if she had known him a long time, and she decided she liked him. ‘Don’t be. It was a long time ago.’

‘But you still miss them.’ She nodded. ‘Well, you’d best eat up if we’re to reach Scotland.’

Henrietta’s eyes shot to his. ‘Are you saying that you’ll let me travel with you?’

Simon’s mouth softened into a lazy smile. He amused him, this youth. Simon smiled at the confidence he displayed in front of him. It flowed out of him. As he met the green eyes he saw the eagerness there. ‘I’m thinking about it. But if you lag behind I won’t think twice about abandoning you. Is that clear?’

At once, Henrietta felt her spirits revive. Now that he’d agreed to let her travel with him, hope and courage returned and she was able to fight with all her strength against the insidious counsels of despair. The prospect of being alone with him made her shudder, but, she reasoned, the protection of such a man while ever she was on the road would be invaluable. She refused to think this man might do her harm.

‘Thank you. I am grateful,’ she said, remembering her manners, unable to conceal her excitement. ‘I will not dawdle. I cannot afford to. I can ride as well as the next—man. I could even act as your squire—or whatever term you care to use—and do it well. I will not be a burden. But if you think you’ve got something to fear from a defenceless youth, well, sir, you’d just better not hire me. And how do you know I’m not a thief who will rob you blind when I get the chance?’

Simon laughed aloud at the youth’s audacity. ‘Call it intuition. I like your spirit. I trust you, Henry.’ He’d already come to the conclusion that the lad was as blunt and honest a youth as he’d met in a long time—and twice as unkempt. He was also beginning to think Henry could be completely exasperating, yet there was something about him that was likeable, too.

‘I expect you’ll be suggesting wages next.’

Her eyes brightened. ‘We could discuss it. How much will you pay me?’

‘Nothing. Meals all found along the way. Take it or leave it.’

‘I’ll take it—and I’ll pay for my own bed. I like my privacy and have a penchant for sleeping in my own room.’

Simon’s lips quirked. ‘I don’t snore, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

‘Never crossed my mind. As I said, I prefer my own room.’

‘That’s settled, then,’ Simon said, half-amused. ‘But you’d better be worth it. I can only hope you know what you’re in for. It’s only fair to warn you that it’s going to be a long haul to Scotland and many things could happen that you may not like. However,’ he said on a more serious note, ‘I find I must place one stricture on the pact.’

Henrietta glanced at him obliquely. ‘And that is?’

‘That until we reach Scotland you will speak to no one of what you overheard on the heath.’

‘I thought I’d already given you my word on that.’

He nodded. ‘I just wanted to make sure.’

Henrietta nodded, drawn to him by his sheer physical presence. For a moment she felt her resistance waver, but then she rebuked herself, bringing her mind to a grinding halt. For her peace of mind she must not let him get beneath her guard. She was grateful to him for agreeing to let her travel with him, but how long could she hope to hide her identity behind the guise of a grubby youth?

‘And while we’re at it,’ he went on, ‘have you not thought of cleaning yourself up?’

Henrietta’s jaw clenched with indignation. ‘Show me the way to Scotland and I’ll be grateful. But keep me out of your plans. Untidiness and a little dirt never hurt anyone.’

The buxom redhead who had caught Simon’s eye earlier came to clear the table, a provocative smile on her lips when her eyes settled on him. ‘Will there be anything else, sir? More ale?’

‘No, thank you. The food was good,’ Simon replied, giving her a wink and returning her smile. Getting up from the table, he chuckled softly as the girl picked up the plates and went on her way, her hips swaying seductively from side to side. He glanced at his companion. ‘Tell me, Henry, have you known the love of a maid? Is that what takes you to Scotland?’

Henrietta’s eyes opened wide with indignation at the very suggestion. ‘No, of course not.’

‘No, you are still young. Whatever takes you there is not for the love of a maid.’

‘How do you know?’ she asked him, making no further attempt at denial.

‘One’s only to look at your eyes, lad. Not a spark of love in them. Take my advice and keep it that way. Women are every man’s downfall and there are too many that are any good for the peace of honest lads like you and me. When I looked into your eyes just now, I saw just one thing. Fear! That’s why I’ve decided to take you to Scotland. I’ve no truck with love. I came to the conclusion a long time ago that it’s a waste of time. But fear! There’s some sense in that. Now come. I’m at your service. I believe,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘that you and I shall deal favourably together.’

Donning his cloak and ramming his hat down on his head, he set off out of the inn with long, purposeful strides, leaving Henrietta to ponder on his words. After a moment she followed him, still wondering why this man who for all the world resembled a pirate and was capable of instilling fear into even the stoutest heart, should fill her with such instinctive trust.

* * *

Hoisting herself into the saddle with an agility that both astounded and impressed Simon, Henrietta gritted her teeth and steeled herself for the ride ahead, refusing to betray her trepidation, for she could only imagine the great distance they would have to travel before they reached their destination.

Henrietta’s stout-hearted mare matched Simon’s big black gelding stride for stride as they headed north. The road was wide and busy with travellers going north and south, some on foot and some on horseback, and the guards on the back of stagecoaches frequently blew their horns merrily as they went by.

But as the day drew on the journey began to take its toll of Henrietta. She tried not to let her companion see it, but she was exhausted with fatigue and her inner thighs were so sore that she felt as if she would never ride again. She could hardly remember the girl who would ride almost daily in the park, cantering on her horse. That girl was a lifetime away from her now.

* * *

As it grew dark they were approaching a large village which likely meant a good inn, a decent supper and a soft bed. Dismounting carefully, she ruefully rubbed her bruised posterior and wished she could groan her misery out loud and sink her tortured body into a hot tub. Averse to revealing any hint of her waning strength, she managed to drag her stiff and aching limbs forward with a modicum of dignity, which, as Simon observed her discomfort, brought a mocking grin to his lips.

‘Sore, are you, lad? Too soft, that’s your trouble. But worry not.’ He chuckled infuriatingly, dismounting and handing the reins to a waiting stable boy. ‘You’ll harden before you reach the Borders,’ he said, offering his wisdom freely.

‘Or expire in the process,’ Henrietta mumbled, having no difficulty imagining how pathetic she must look to him.

‘If you would allow me to offer my assistance, I have some salve in my bags I could massage—’

‘No, I couldn’t possibly!’ Aware of the colour flooding her cheeks, Henrietta shook her head.

‘What’s the matter, Henry? Afraid to pull your breeches down in case I confiscate them?’ Simon leisurely raised a questioning eyebrow.

Irritably Henry gave him a narrow look. ‘No. I’m capable of doctoring myself if need be, that’s all.’

Simon shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Suit yourself, though I guess when a lad is as soft as you are, he might just as well take to wearing dresses.’

‘Will you stop fussing about my looks?’ she retorted crossly. ‘I made the first day without complaint, didn’t I?’

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Simon smiled sardonically. He was becoming used to Henry’s contrariness, but in view of the lad’s youth, he translated it more as bravado. ‘You did, Henry. The challenge will come in the morning when your muscles have stiffened up.’ He glanced sideways at her, a devilish gleam in his eyes. ‘We’ll see how you fare then. Come tomorrow night you might be begging me for that salve.’

Henrietta wouldn’t ask him for his precious salve no matter how desperate she became. Refusing to let him bait her, she bit back an indignant reply. Looking up at him, she saw his face in the deep dusk and the soft yellow glow of the buttons on his jacket as they reflected the light from the window of the inn. It sometimes surprised her just how handsome he was. Self-consciously she tugged down the brim of her hat and followed him inside. The contrast between them was excruciatingly painful when she allowed herself to forget that he was a man on a mission and she a young woman.

The inn was, in fact, commodious. Simon procured them two rooms, but before Henrietta had finished her meal, the effects of the warm fire and wholesome food began to take its toll. Her head nodded with weariness and her eyelids drooped. She had not realised until then the depth of her fatigue.

Relaxed into the corner of the settle across from her, his long booted legs stretched out to the hearth, Simon was not unaware of her exhaustion. Beneath the grime of the road her face was flushed to a soft pink glow and her eyes two sleepy orbs of emerald-green.

‘It’s been a long day,’ he said softly. ‘You look done in.’

‘Yes, it has. Tomorrow will be no different.’

‘Nor the day after that.’

Simon watched her comb her hair back from her face. Suddenly the lad looked so young, vulnerable and completely innocent, despite his air of bravado.

Henrietta looked up to see him staring at her, and when their eyes met, he looked away quickly. From that moment on she grew even more aware of his nearness to her. She sneaked a glance at him from under her lashes and saw that his face was flushed. It was the fire, she thought, because he was sitting so close, or perhaps a result of the ale he’d downed so quickly.

‘Go to bed and get some rest while you can,’ Simon said sharply. ‘I’ll give you a knock in the morning.’

Henrietta nodded. Bone-weary, having shied away from Simon’s practical suggestion that they share one room, she went to bed and was soon drifting into the realms of sleep.

* * *

The sun was not yet up when she was cruelly wakened by the sound of someone banging on the door. Shaking the sleep out of her eyes and struggling into her clothes and boots, she opened the door to find her companion standing there.

‘It’s late,’ he told her, his manner brisk. He was impatient to be on his way. ‘Come and get some breakfast and then we’ll get going.’

Mutely Henrietta followed him, aching in every limb from the effects of the long ride the day before. Snatching a quick breakfast, they continued their journey.

* * *

The sky was overcast, but it was not raining, and towards noon the sun beat down on them. Henrietta pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and mopped her face and neck, wiping away the dust. She shifted her weight in the saddle to ease her discomfort. The day was just like the one before, and the one before that. Apart from the occasional stop to eat and quench their thirst Simon gave her no respite. Not that she complained, for she was determined to show him she could stand the pace.

Though it gave her some assurance that he had not yet guessed her secret, she wondered if all he saw was the dirt on her face and ill-fitting clothes, for it was there his criticism thrived. He could not know, of course, the effort she took to smudge her face and hair every morning when he threatened to dunk her in the river and scrub her clean himself. As uncomfortable as she was in her disguise as a boy, she was unable to discard it.

* * *

The further north they got the quieter the roads. It was midafternoon and they had paused beside a stream to eat some bread and cheese they had bought at the last village they had passed through. Henrietta had removed her boots and was dangling her feet in the cold water as she ate, scooping water into her hands to drink every now and then.

When they were back in the saddle Simon broached a subject she would have preferred avoiding. Instead of setting off at a gallop he was silent and thoughtful as he kept his horse’s prancing pace attuned to Henrietta’s steadier gait. Then, thoughtfully, he turned and looked at her.

In the course of their journey, despite his assertion that he would respect his privacy, Simon had done his best to discover why the youth was hell-bent on going to Scotland, but with a skill beyond his years Henry had managed to avoid giving more than vague, generalised answers, remaining reserved in his friendliness towards him, leaving him no wiser than he had been at the beginning of their journey. In truth, he was concerned about what would happen to him when they reached Edinburgh and they had to part company. Without his protection he would be prey to all manner of dangers that beset lone travellers.

‘When we reach Edinburgh and we go our separate ways, I can arrange for an escort to accompany you to Inverness.’

‘Thank you for your concern, Simon, but I beg you not to worry. I am grateful that you have allowed me to travel with you, but I am fairly self-sufficient and able to take care of myself the rest of the way. You owe me nothing and I will take nothing from you.’

‘You never did tell me why you were running away.’

‘I have no wish to involve you in something that is not your concern. You have problems of your own to worry about.’ She was as determined to remain silent as he was to drag it out of her. She had her pride and her reasons, which she would not discuss with him.

Simon sighed heavily. ‘You are a stubborn lad, Henry.’

‘The same could be said about you,’ she said, directing the conversation from herself. ‘All this time we have been together, not once have you let your guard down.’

‘Not intentionally I assure you. My mind is somewhat occupied with what might be going on over the border.’ He looked across at his companion. ‘Unlike you, Henry, I have nothing to hide. What would you like to know?’

She shrugged. ‘In truth, I haven’t thought about it.’

‘Well, I will begin by telling you that I was educated at a school in France which attracts children of Catholic families in England and Scotland. After that I trained in military arts and saw service abroad.’

‘Do you have a wife?’

Almost immediately his gaze shifted once more to the slight figure riding beside him. ‘I do not.’

‘So you are a bachelor and a soldier. That is a lot more than I knew a moment ago. And now?’

‘Now I follow the dictates of my religion and my conscience.’

‘Which is a dangerous thing to do.’

‘In this present climate it is so. But I am always slow to voice my opinion. In this time of persecution against Catholics in England, since the king and his ministers have not the slightest intention of toleration for the old faith, it is prudent to be diligent, which is why we Tremains have kept our titles and our land. Few families can boast as much.’

She looked at him sharply. ‘You have a title?’

Her surprised amused him. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘What is it? How should I address you?’

‘I am Lord Simon James Talbot Tremain—but I give you leave to continue calling me Simon.’

‘So, you are a lord and you have inherited a fortune, yet you are unattached—uncommonly selfish of you.’

‘How is that?’

‘Having witnessed the way women fall at your feet when you enter a room—’

‘That will be tavern wenches,’ he interrupted with an amused tilt to his mouth.

Henrietta shrugged. ‘What’s the difference? Women are the same the world over and, though it pains me to say so for I have no wish to feed your ego, you are a handsome man. I imagine not a woman in the kingdom will spare the other gentlemen a glance until you have been claimed.’

He cocked an amused brow. ‘Why, Henry, what’s this? Flattery?’

‘No. I was merely stating a fact. But going back to what we were talking about, if the conversation I overheard between you and your fellow Jacobites on the heath is true and Charles Stuart is indeed in Scotland, it can mean only one thing—that some disorder is brewing—that some extraordinary event is anticipated. Is there to be a rising?’

Simon didn’t answer straight away—when he did, he spoke thoughtfully, picking his words. ‘Nothing is that simple, nothing is obvious. I am assailed with a multitude of questions but I will find no firm answers until I reach Scotland and Charles Stuart.’

‘Do you think it will be concentrated in Scotland, if there is a rising?’

‘I cannot answer that, but it has to be on a great scale for it to be of effect.’

‘Will the Catholics win, do you think?’

Simon’s mood had darkened and his expression was grim. Although he looked calm and in control, his mind was in a continual turmoil of conflicts. ‘That depends on the support Charles Stuart can raise on both sides of the border.’

‘What’s he like? Have you met him?’

He nodded. ‘He’s young, with considerable charm and dignity.’

‘And is that enough to bring him to Scotland to lead an army of restoration?’

‘As to that, we shall have to wait and see. I was in Paris myself recently and, by and large, the prospect for a Stuart restoration did not seem to be preoccupying the aristocracy of France. One thing is certain. Whatever the outcome, it will bring about change for the Catholics. If it fails, the damage will do the cause no good and will be so great that both here and abroad they will be condemned. Anyone connected with the rising will be arrested. It would be a hard thing indeed to escape the full consequences if we were to be charged with rebellion and treason. Men have lost their heads for less. The Protestants did not scruple to send men to the gallows merely for saying that James Stuart had claim to the throne.’

Henrietta was scarcely able to grasp the reality of it all as Simon’s words fell like hammer blows against her heart. Remembering the tragedy that had deprived her of her father, as she stared at Simon’s hard profile a chill seemed to penetrate to her very soul. ‘Then may the Lord save you all,’ she whispered.

The prayer was heartfelt and Simon looked at her closely, seeing pain and panic in the eyes of this unusually assured youth.

‘Are you in favour of rebellion, Simon?’

‘In a word, no. But I am of the faith and must support it. Catholic fanatics have been conspiring for years to claim the throne for the Stuarts. They have a long tradition of subversive activity.’

Henrietta’s lips twisted in a wry smile. ‘That I do know,’ she uttered quietly, thinking of her father’s lifelong dedication to the cause.

Puzzled by her words, Simon glanced across at her. ‘What do you mean by that?’

She smiled awkwardly. ‘Nothing. I was merely thinking aloud.’ She looked ahead. ‘See, the clouds are gathering. I’m sure there’ll be rain before nightfall.’

‘I believe you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘If my words have frightened you, I apologise. It was not my intention to upset you.’

Simon’s voice was surprisingly gentle and the unfamiliar sound caused an embarrassed flush to sweep Henrietta’s cheeks in a crimson flood. His head was turned towards her and for a moment she fancied there was a strange expression in his face she had not seen before. ‘You have not upset me, and do not forget that my sole purpose for going to Scotland is to visit my uncle. But now you have spoken of what might be afoot, I can perceive the danger and act upon it should the time arise.’

‘The picture may not be so bleak. I may be wrong.’

‘And I am afraid that you may be right,’ Henrietta whispered, nudging her horse to a gallop as the first drops of rain began to fall and a gust of wind swept the land.


Chapter Three

In London, just when he thought that everything he had ever wanted was within his grasp and relishing the thought that he would have his heart’s desire at last, a sickening dread invaded Jeremy Lucas’s dark soul. He had long coveted his uncle’s wealth, but he was impatient. His uncle was in good health and likely to live another score years and ten. He could not wait and in the end he had triumphed and that was all that mattered. Until now. Everything around him had turned sour.

It had never occurred to him that there might be a problem, but on his search of the house, when he failed to locate his uncle’s legal documents—his financial papers and deed to the house—he became frantic. His worries increased when Mr Goodwin presented himself at the house and asked to speak to Miss Brody. On being told that he was his uncle’s solicitor and the late gentleman’s entire estate had been left to Miss Henrietta Brody, without so much as a blink, Jeremy saw to it that the respected solicitor met a timely end at the point of his sword and his body was consigned to a watery grave in the River Thames.

Securing his uncle’s documents from Goodwin’s satchel and intending to destroy the new will and abide by the old held by Braithwaite, Jeremy stopped when he saw in bold print that the new will had a copy.

Of course there was a copy! Why hadn’t he realised that? How could he have been so unfamiliar with legal practices that he had stupidly thought the will in Goodwin’s keeping was the only one? But where was it?

Smothering a cry of pure rage, he sought out Braithwaite. After much deliberation they decided there was only one person who could throw some light on the matter and that was Henrietta Brody. She might even have absconded with the copy of the will. He should have searched her before he’d thrown her out on to the street. It was imperative that he got his hands on it before she handed it over to a lawyer and her case was heard in a court of law.

The calm Jeremy had felt after killing Goodwin reasserted itself. Hate welled up inside him as he thought of Henrietta Brody. The name was a curse. He was consumed with a vengeful quest to vent his wrath upon the girl. The chit would pay, and would pay dearly. Of that Jeremy was certain. Where would she go? She had no friends who would take her in and only one relative, an uncle in Scotland—Inverness or somewhere equally as remote. He’d find out. He’d leave no stone unturned to find her.

* * *

Simon and his companion had ridden through Northumberland, which lay between the Tyne and the Tweed, its countryside of rivers and forests, where Romans and Normans had left their own particular mark. Mile after mile they rode, over fell and vale, across long ridges to Cheviot and the Solway, where streams and burns meandered in timeless grace. Eventually they crossed the border into Scotland. It was a beautiful landscape of rolling hills which gave way to green and pleasant valleys. The historic abbey towns of Jedburgh, Melrose and Kelso bore witness to the cruelty and senseless destruction brought about by war and political reprisals down the centuries.

Unfortunately the weather, which had been warm and fine for most of the time, broke with an alarming savagery, and since leaving the hostelry where they had stopped for the night, the heavy mists of early morning had coalesced to a soaking rain. Leaden skies pressed down on them and the crude road quickly turned into a muddy morass. On the more exposed areas the gale-force winds went searching along the landscape in a frenzied dance, threatening to blow them off their horses and into the soggy turf alongside.

They pushed their animals hard, apparently attempting to outrun the storm, but the wind blew with an ever-deepening chill that made Henrietta shiver. A bolt of lightning seared the sky, closely followed by a loud clap of thunder. As she glanced at her companion silhouetted like some devil against the grey sky, the wind whipped his cloak out wide about him, lending wings to his form.

A groan of despair slipped from Henrietta’s lips as she thumped her heels against the mare’s flanks to urge her on in the punishing downpour. The horse responded readily, quickening her pace, but the heavy, wet soil clung to her hooves, impeding her progress. They could barely see, much less move any measurable distance. The journey was already taking its toll on Henrietta. She felt utterly drained both in body and spirit. Her whole body was battered and bruised from the nine days of riding, and now her clothes became so thoroughly drenched that they were soon plastered like a second skin to her body.

Seeing the youth’s distress, Simon peered around for the closest haven and, pointing to a group of trees growing close together, he guided the horses towards them. There was another sharp crack of lightning and for a moment the scene was brightly illuminated. Unable to believe that they could be so ill-favoured by the circumstances, Henrietta fought an urge to weep, but the impulse to relent to harsh, anguishing sobs was promptly forgotten as a blinding flash of lightning ripped through the trees, hitting a tall pine a short distance away. The fiery bolt snapped the trunk in half as easily as a dried twig, sending a dazzling spray of sparks flying in all directions. Shaken to the core of her being, Henrietta threw up her arms to shield herself from the blinding flares and, in terrified trepidation, looked up as the top of the tree plummeted to the ground with a crashing roar, in its rapid descent stripping off branches of nearby trees and scuffing a blow on the side of her head.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/helen-dickson/a-traitor-s-touch/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.