Keeper of the Swans Page 15

  “An honorable man…” he said raggedly, holding her only with his eyes. “An honorable man would have never let himself care for you…or need you as I do. But I am not made of stone, little witch. God help me, I am not.”

  He swung away to the top of the steps, and then said without turning, “I’ll see that Niall comes for you in the morning. I’ll…I’ll keep out of your way until then.”

  Diana watched as he crossed the yard, his long strides sweeping through the tall grass.

  “R-Romulus!” she cried, with an edge of panic as she grasped the porch railing. “Where are you going?”

  Again he did not turn to face her. “Fishing,” he said in a clipped, controlled voice. “I am going fishing.” And then he was lost in the trees that edged the clearing.

  Chapter 9

  Diana threw her arms around one of the roof supports, leaning her face against the beam. Her mind was still trying to catch up with the wild sensations that were coursing through her body. Nothing in her sheltered, guarded existence had ever stirred her like those kisses had. Stirred her, frightened her, and made her feel more alive than she thought possible. She touched one hand tentatively to her swollen mouth and wondered how Rom had lasted nearly a week without kissing her. How had she ever doubted that he loved her? Foolish, foolish girl!

  It was as though she had been prodding a pile of ashes, thinking she would never see a spark. But it was clear now that the fire had merely been banked, and when it leapt into blazing life, it burned with enough heat to sear her very soul. His ardent words echoed again in her head—An honorable man would not have let himself need you as I do. With that declaration Romulus had freed her mind of all doubt and every shred of hesitation. She would never let him go. Nothing would come between them.

  His pride will come between you, an errant voice pointed out. Diana wanted to argue, but she knew it to be true. Romulus knew his blasted place. He had admitted his need, had said the words she longed to hear, but she wondered if he had the courage to act on them. It seemed unthinkable that he still planned to send her away after kissing her so fiercely.

  She let go of the porch beam and sank onto the top step with a deep sigh, her hands crossed upon her chest. Her heart was beating less wildly, though her thoughts continued to race. She now knew what Romulus felt for her, but he still didn’t know of her feelings for him. She longed to fling herself after him and declare her love, but prudence advised her that he was too riled just now to listen.

  As she sat there wrestling with the problem, she had a most telling insight. She recalled how the cygnets would scramble from the pond and come scuttling after her the instant she headed back to the lodge. Diana pondered, as she rose from the step and went into the house, if there was any similarity between proud men and baby swans. She prayed that was the case. In fact, she was banking on it.

  She went into the storeroom and collected her few meager belongings. Crouching before the crates, she let her fingers trace over the downy heads of the cygnets. “Be well, my little friends,” she said softly. “Grow big and strong, and keep away from the snapping turtles and the poacher’s snares.”

  She cast one last look over the room. She had grown more attached to that cluttered space than she ever had to the fine, elegant bedroom at Mortimer House.

  It took her only a moment to pen a note to Romulus. “Thank you for sharing your island with me. It was here that I learned the truth of what was in my heart. I hope that someday you will discover the truth in your own. I will treasure my memories of the river and of the most honorable person I have ever met, a man I have come to esteem beyond words—the keeper of the swans.” She signed it, “Allegra.”

  She had toyed with the idea of revealing her destination in the note, but hesitated to be so obvious. She needed to spark some anxiety in his breast if he was to pursue her. When he realized she was gone, she knew he would fear for her alone on the water with night approaching. That should be enough to send him after her, but it wouldn’t hurt her cause any if he found the note.

  The mantel seemed the obvious place to leave it, but that spot reminded her uncomfortably of her other note, the one to Wilfred Bailey, supposedly asking for his assistance. Another of her facile lies to Romulus. She stood undecided for a moment, and then crossed the hallway and went into his bedroom.

  She had never been inside his room—more’s the pity, she thought, remembering his heated kisses. In the waning light, it appeared quite spartan. A simple pine bed with a military trunk beside it, a chest of drawers, a wooden chair near the window. No paintings hung on the wails, no rug covered the floor. The only embellishment in the room was a swan’s feather, tucked behind the shaving mirror above the chest.

  Diana wondered at the austerity of the chamber; it had an air of impermanence, as though its occupant intended to leave at any time. And yet Romulus seemed so grounded to his island, like one reached out to touch the white feather. Perhaps the island was merely his nesting spot. One day, he would take flight and soar away from this place and find his true destiny. God, how she longed to be beside him on that day!

  After carrying the folded paper to her lips, she placed it upon his pillow, letting her fingers linger in the slight depression where his head had lain. His rucksack sat on the trunk beside the bed—if he came in to fetch it, he would see the note.

  With a determined step, Diana passed through the kitchen, trying to dispel the vision of a tall man who lounged against the table as he teased her about her cooking. Shutting the door gently behind her, she went down the steps and along the path to the river slip. She didn’t like to take his patrol boat, but Rom was fishing in the punt and Niall had taken the dory. It would have to be the skiff. Something else he could add to her list of crimes, she thought wryly, as she untied the bow line and climbed in.

  She set the boat against the current and headed for the southern tip of the island. The slight breeze was blowing again and Diana welcomed the cool air—by the time she was halfway across to the western shore, she had begun to labor at the oars. It was amazing to her that Romulus plied this boat up and down the river for miles in each direction and never seemed to weary.

  Treypenny, she gauged, was half a mile or so upstream from the island, but she had no intention of going ashore there. She found a likely looking place on the bank, a short distance before the water stairs and grounded the skiff. It was a struggle to drag the boat up onto the grass, but she dared not leave it on the water; Romulus would have her head on a platter if she let anything happen to his patrol boat.

  After she’d secured the line to a sapling, she took off one of her bracelets and hung it over the oarlock. A nice touch, she thought, as she set off across country. Not only a clue to her eventual destination, it also harked back to the satin rose Rom had found snagged on Mortimers’ rowboat. The rose he carried about with him in his breeches pocket. It occurred to her then, with thrilling certainty, that a man who was so utterly besotted would not let her go without a fight. And if the river truly had no secrets from him, he would be able to follow her trail as though it was lit with a blazing torch.

  * * *

  It was near dusk when Romulus beached the punt. It figured that today, when he had no appetite at all, the fish would be taking the bait in droves. He had released everything he’d caught; he’d only been fishing to distract himself. A foolish endeavor. Maybe his evening patrol would soothe his nerves, he thought, as he made his way toward the slip. Perhaps being out on the Thames would remove the self-loathing from his soul, and the taunting vision of Allegra’s tears from his heart. But he doubted it.

  Romulus stood at the top of the path that angled down to the slip, his mouth agape. The skiff had vanished. He thought immediately of Argie Beasle. But even that little rodent wouldn’t risk stealing his boat. Everyone on the river knew it was the property of Lady Hamish. An uncanny prickling had begun at the back of Rom’s neck. He turned and raced full out toward the house, calling, “Allegra!” as he ran.

&nb
sp; He searched the house, and then went out onto the porch. “Allegra!” he shouted again, trying to resist the alarm that was slicing through him. He went back to the storeroom. Her spare blouse was no longer hanging from its peg. He knew the answer then, with a sinking feeling in his gut. The chit had stolen his blasted skiff and run off home.

  “How could you let her go?” he asked the cygnets, as if they were responsible for her sudden flight. “How could you let her go?” he repeated in a hollow voice as he walked from the room.

  The house had never felt so desolate. It was what he had wanted, surely, but now that it had come to pass, he felt only an aching sadness. At Mortimer House, in contrast, there would be great joy. And Sir Beveril would be exultant at his fiancée’s return. Rom grit his teeth. Best not pursue that line of thought.

  But then his anxiety returned in force. Mortimer House was four miles upstream, against the current. She’d be lucky if she made it even as far as Hamish House. If she got into trouble on the river, it would take him hours to find her in the slow-moving punt. He’d best pole over to Treypenny and fetch back the dory, provided Niall wasn’t larking about in it somewhere. Then he recalled the Gypsy celebration—Niall was not likely to miss out on any festivity that included young female servants.

  He went to his bedroom and snatched up the rucksack. After a moment’s thought, he knelt and opened his field trunk, where a loaded pistol lay. Pray God the little fool didn’t land herself in any trouble that required him to use it. If he had any sense he’d use it on her. Put them both out of their misery then.

  Sitting back on his heels, he tapped the barrel of the pistol on his palm. Why the devil was he in such a pelter to follow her? The chit knew how to row a boat and the Thames was the calmest it had been for weeks. She would be traveling through the populated portion of the river, and if she got into trouble, surely someone would come to her aid. Christ, if she made it as far as Hamish House, Sir Bleeding Beveril would escort her the rest of the way home. Maybe that was even where she was headed.

  Let her go, let her go. The voice of reason pounded through his brain. Let her go back where she belongs, to the life she knew before she came to your island.

  He purposely disregarded the words—he merely wanted to assure himself that she was safe.

  He was turning for the door when he caught sight of a note on his pillow. With a sigh, he sat on the side of the bed and took it up, pressing it between his palms. He was afraid to read it, fearing the words of recrimination and distaste he would find written there.

  As he unfolded it, his eyes were drawn to one phrase, “…the man I have come to esteem beyond words.” Something twisted in his heart. He read the entire message and his head began to reel.

  She had not run from him in fear and loathing. She thought him honorable…she esteemed him. His eyes shifted again to one line, I hope that someday you will discover what is in your own heart.

  Sweet Jesus, what had he been thinking—to lecture her about honesty? How about some honesty on his part? The honesty of his overwhelming feelings for her. He thought she had fled from his untempered desire, because that was all he had allowed her to see. Not the love that filled him, or the admiration he felt for her stubborn pluck and her generous nature.

  Allegra had been more honest with him, in spite of her pretended loss of memory. She had not disguised her feelings for him last night, when she cradled him in her arms during the storm. She had not hidden her heart out there by the river. He knew full well what he had seen shining in her eyes when she had pleaded with him to let her stay. That was honesty, indeed.

  If he believed his love was unreturned, then letting her go was the only sane option. But he had seen that fierce, bright emotion in her face, and had known instantly that his regard for her was completely reciprocated. And knowing that, he had been a fool to drive her from his life. She was his life. The morning star, the sun at noon and all the planets of the galaxy shimmering down upon his night.

  Allegra. He spoke her name aloud as he raised the note to his lips, unknowingly touching the spot she had kissed. Nothing would come between them once he had her again in his care. Let society be damned, let her family go hang. He had suffered enough in his lifetime, spent too many days in bitter regret. It was time to seek out the joy that was the birthright of every man, whether pauper or peer.

  If there was a scandal, he would take her out of the country—show her Rome, and Tuscany, and all the places he had known as a youth. He had banked his army pay and most of his present stipend. They would not be wealthy, but he would find work. Wherever there were rich men with birds to tend.

  But could she be happy with such a life? He took a moment to ponder this. He knew so little of her life before she had come to his island. Only that she was sister by marriage to a very wealthy man. Could she give up those trappings and luxuries to join him in an uncertain future?

  He had a sudden vision of her sitting beside the pond, her legs bare beneath her Gypsy skirt. She was laughing up at him, a spray of wild violets in her untamed hair. He couldn’t offer her riches, but he could give her another sort of wealth. The water and the wide sky, and all the creatures that dwelled in-between. For Diana Exeley, such a life might be sadly lacking. But in his heart he knew that for Allegra Swan, for the black-haired water witch who had so miraculously transformed his life, it would be enough.

  “No,” he vowed as he stood up and slung the rucksack over his shoulder, “I will never let her go.”

  * * *

  Diana found it rough going.

  She knew from Niall that the Gypsy camp lay a mile or so from the river, and she reckoned she’d reach it before dark. But as she twitched her skirt free of the dozenth patch of nettles, she realized that traveling a mile through rough bracken was not the same as walking that distance on a country lane. There were boggy places she’d had to skirt, and stubbled fields that were painful to traverse.

  It was full dark when she neared the camp; the sky to the west was lit by the blazing campfires. She followed those beacons until she came to a wide field. Eight caravans were drawn into a semicircle, and a great many people were milling about in that open space. She could hear fiddlers playing a rhythmic tune and the steady beat of a drum keeping time to the music. Men and women were dancing at the center of the clearing, their shadows now and again obscuring the large central fire. The scene reminded her of a pagan revel, primitive and otherworldly. The haunting quality of the music, and the sensual movements of the dancers both disturbed and compelled her.

  She struck out toward the caravans, hoping to locate Niall before her presence mere could be remarked on. She passed a solitary caravan, which sat some distance from the others. An old woman was sitting in the open doorway, smoking a corncob pipe.

  “Ye be comin’ for the gatherin’?” she called out in a throaty voice as Diana walked by.

  Diana turned back to the old woman. “I am looking for Niall.”

  She cackled softly. “They all be lookin’ fer Niall. Every lass on the river be lookin’ fer my gran’son.”

  “You’re Niall’s granty?”

  The woman nodded, and then eyed Diana suspiciously. “That be my best skirt you are wearing, lass. Happen I’d know it in the dark.” The old woman rose from her seat and tottered down the steps. She poked a bony finger toward Diana. “You be the lass that red-headed fellow’s been keeping on his island.”

  Diana winced. So much for remaining undetected.

  “Yes, and I think I must thank you.” She drew up a fold of her skirt. “For letting me borrow this.”

  The old woman beckoned Diana closer. “Let me take a look at you, girl. I been wonderin’ what sort of chit Romulus would bother himself with. You’re a mite of a thing, ain’t you’?”

  Diana nearly chuckled. She and Niall’s granty were exactly the same height. “You weren’t supposed to know I was on the island,” she chided gently. “Niall promised to keep it a secret.”

  The woman gave her a na
rrow-eyed look. “You think that boy can keep a secret from his granty? No, no, he didn’t break his word. I just know things sometimes.”

  “Gypsy magic?” Diana asked, her eyes bright.

  “Gaelic magic, more like. My own granty was a Scot. Had a powerful sight, she did. Well, you’d best come into my wagon, girl. You won’t stay a secret long, once the menfolk have a look at you.”

  Diana ducked into the caravan as the old woman called out to someone at the edge of the crowd.

  “I’ve sent one of the lads to fetch Niall,” she said as she came grunting up the steps. “Hope he’s not off trimming his wick with one of the Yorricks’ serving girls.”

  Diana blushed furiously. The old woman gave a dry laugh. Her face was brown as a nut, the papery skin covered with a maze of fine wrinkles from brow to chin and her thick white hair was braided into a coronet around her head. She wore so many silver necklaces about her raddled neck and so many bangles upon her birdlike wrists, that Diana wondered there was enough strength in that withered body to hold her upright. She had Niall’s eyes, Diana saw, bright black and gleaming with good humor.

  “I am called Gizella Yanni,” the woman said, as she settled onto a padded bench that ran along one side of the caravan. “You’d best have a seat. My gran’son may take some tracking down.”

  Diana sat and folded her hands. She let her gaze wander over the caravan’s interior, marveling at how much that small space contained. Baskets and leather bags hung from the roof, along with pots and dried herbs. Across from her were several open hampers, where bright clothing spilled out in splendid disarray. The walls were painted in gay patterns, the windows covered with chintz curtains. She thought a person could easily live in such a cozy place, and then realized that this was the woman’s home.

  She saw that Gizella was watching her, scrutinizing her with those bright eyes.

  “You’re a pretty thing, for a Gorgio,” she cackled, removing the pipe from her mouth. “He’s a fool to have let you get away. But then the best of them are fools, when there’s a tasty morsel under their noses.”