Page 20 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Eleven

Offering himself to Isobel to save her good name had seemed the perfect solution. Once they were married, he would be her protector officially, and could guard her against any attempts Pike might make to steal Marston House from her.

Hubert Pike. Hah! If the man had any sense, he’d have taken himself off long since, for fear of being thrown into a cell. As soon as Will had the chance, he’d go to Marston House and see how the land lay—and if Pike had flown the coop, he’d use all his resources to find him and see him punished for the damage he’d done to Isobel.

Alas, Isobel’s haughty rejection of his suggestion they marry wounded him deeply. Much to his surprise, for he’d thought himself hardened by war and misfortune—her blunt refusal was a blow to his pride. Not that he’d set out to win her heart—far from it. He wished only to fulfill his promise to his dying friend, and take care of the woman. Her vulnerability had affected him, and her courage impressed him.

He should have no need of her gratitude—and if she decided she no longer wanted his help, what did it matter? He’d done his duty, hadn’t he?

He found he had nothing to say when they went downstairs to break their fast. She was quiet also, and afterwards, as they readied themselves for the short journey back to London, they talked of practicalities only. Gone was the warmth that had sprung up between them when he’d comforted her in his arms. Gone was the close bond he felt they’d forged at the beginning.

As they mounted their horses and rode onto the sunlit highway, his mood lifted a little. He could observe her without her knowing, as she was concentrating on riding the unfamiliar hired horse. Her face showed none of the wildness he’d first observed in her—she was the model English gentlewoman now. Dressed in a new gown he’d procured with the help of Goodwife Franks, and a decent traveling cloak, she gazed straight ahead, her eyes on the road. Her rampant mane of hair had been tamed, brushed and bound, and now resided beneath a lace-edged coif and a very dashing hat which kept the sun from her skin. No one looking at her today would have guessed at the thoroughly unorthodox nature of her story.

If only he hadn’t made that ill-judged mention of marriage! He hated how lukewarm she was towards him now. Not entirely unfriendly, but she was keeping him at a distance. Mayhap this was normal to the nature of the real Isobel—how was he to know, having only ever seen her in a drugged and unstable condition? The passion he’d glimpsed in her had been inspired by anger, and her attempt to seduce him fed by her desperation to escape. None of her behavior then had reflected the true Isobel. If he wished to soften her heart, he’d have to be circumspect, and start afresh.

Whatever the outcome, he would never regret this adventure. It had given him a fire in his gut again, the urge to progress with his life, to put aside the ignominies of Leicester’s failed campaign in the Netherlands. It was unfortunate his rich benefactor was currently out of favor, as Will would love to go to court and present Isobel. The queen enjoyed a good tale, and she’d have to agree that Isobel Marston, though only the daughter of a wealthy merchant, deserved the opportunity to share her story and to shine at court. Indeed, she’d be one of the brightest jewels in Elizabeth’s retinue. She was striking, poised, and graceful—and exuded a magnetism no man could resist.

Jealousy gnawed at him. The idea of any other man wooing Isobel—no. He must not allow himself such thoughts. He should follow the dictates of his head, not his heart. First, he must ensure she was safe in his house, after which he’d consult the lawyer she’d mentioned, and speak to a magistrate on how best to bring Pike to book. This had to be done without dragging the Marston family name through the mire—a difficult thing to achieve, especially with neighbors as inclined to pry as the Mathiesons.

Isobel’s cheeks had reddened, and he realized he’d been staring at her unashamedly far longer than was proper. Dragging his gaze away, he saw a rider approaching, followed by a brace of serving men. He made to raise his hat, but his hand stalled in midair.

“Jupiter’s bones!” The man reined to a halt, his rounded face wreathed in smiles. “Cavendish, by my kidneys! I haven’t seen you since Oxford.”

“Aloysius Maybury.”

How agreeable it would have been had he managed to get Isobel back to London unnoticed. The gods were not smiling on him today.

“You look well, sir.” The man had put on a little weight—but from what he’d heard, Maybury had invested in some lucrative privateering, so little wonder if he was plump from good living. A dangerous and deadly business—he’d lost his younger brother, Simpkin in such a venture when an attack on a Spanish treasure ship had gone awry.

“As do you.” Maybury reined in, ignoring the scowls of a youth struggling with a heavy barrow of beets who almost collided with him. The road was busy today—not a good place to speak of private matters.

“It has been too long. Is your business in town urgent? I would relish sharing a jug of ale with you in the nearest tavern. And being properly introduced to your enchanting companion.” Maybury twinkled at Isobel, who looked down her nose at him.

Taverns had ears, and Will didn’t want to entrust Maybury with his story in any case—he had no wish to entrust it to anybody.

Seeing Isobel’s fingers tense on her reins, he pasted on a jovial smile. “Alas, old friend, we have no time to tarry. This lady is entering my service as a… a seamstress. I would not advise flirting with her.” His mind raced. “She is Portuguese and has, as yet, no knowledge of English.”

“Indeed.” Maybury’s smile slipped a little, as his gaze fell to Isobel’s fingers. Will looked, too. Saints—his ring! But Isobel had slid one hand over the other, and the gold seal ring was no longer visible. Bless the woman—she had more wit than he.

Now, Maybury was running his eyes over Jennet, with the intensity of a man who knew good breeding stock when he saw it. But what he said next chilled Will to the marrow.

“Curious, Cavendish, but just such a horse as this was seen galloping hastily away from my property in Hampstead, bearing both a man and a woman. It was several days since, I grant you, so I doubt it could have been this mare. However, if it was you and your Portuguese acquisition, you owe me a blanket and a handful of dried apples. Not to mention the price of a ruined lock.”

Maybury’s stallion pranced sideways, eager to be on its way. This distracted the man just long enough for Will to compose his features.

“How very disturbing for you, sir. Had you no servants or watchmen to guard your property?”

“The main house, aye, for I was away from home. But the cottage had no such guard upon it as it was considered to contain naught worth stealing. It housed my late steward—not yet replaced—who died there of the sweating sickness. The place has yet to be aired and properly cleaned, lest any contagion remain.”

Will repressed a shudder and exchanged a glance with Isobel, who pressed her lips together and paled.

Maybury grinned broadly. “So, it was you. Nay, look not so pained. I do but jest. There was no contagion, nor vengeful shade haunting the place. But I must tell you—I know the reason for your subterfuge.”

This time, Will could not prevent the shiver that scuttled through him. Was he to be found out so soon, before he’d even put his new plan into action? Saying Isobel was a Portuguese seamstress who spoke no English had not, admittedly, been a part of the plan. He’d panicked when he saw Maybury.

He tilted his head to one side. “What do you mean by that, sir?” He made sure there was an edge to his tone that Maybury couldn’t mistake.

“Only that a few days after the felonious entry into my cottage, a man came calling. I’d not give him the name of gentleman, for all that he dressed like one. Called himself Pike, and said a person had recently abducted his ward.”