All of the Clairvon party met at the breakfast table the following morning, and in better spirits than had been seen there during the whole of Miranda’s visit. Rosalind’s sickness had almost completely passed off, and the bloom in her cheeks was soft and bright once more. This morning, in a gown of rose cambric, she looked achingly lovely.
This change in itself was perhaps enough to explain Philip’s elation. Miranda knew no other cause for it, in any case, and her brother-in-law was talking and laughing as she had not seen him do since they met in London. Alan Creighton, too, seemed pleased with himself and the world. Miranda found herself in the unusual position of being the least lively person at the table.
“My bailiff will be here soon,” Philip told them. “I shall be with him all morning, I’m afraid, Alan.” But he did not sound particularly put out by this prospect.
“And you will thoroughly enjoy reading every word of his reports and talking on and on about what is to be done on the estate,” teased Rosalind.
Philip looked sheepish, but did not contradict her. “I don’t suppose you’d care to join us,” he said to Alan. “You are welcome, of course…”
“No. I don’t have your interest, or stamina,” replied Alan. “Perhaps Miranda would ride with me along the coast?”
“Oh.” Miranda was surprised. This was the first such offer he had made.
“A splendid idea,” said Rosalind. “You have not ridden since you have been here Miranda, and I know how you like it. I don’t care to try just now, but Fitch could go with you and Alan, couldn’t he, Philip?”
Philip was frowning, his good spirits dissipated. “I don’t know about that… Fitch may be busy this morning.”
Rosalind stared. “What could he have to do that cannot wait?” She awaited an answer with wide innocent eyes.
Philip scowled at his empty plate. Rosalind looked from him to Miranda to Alan and back, hurt and bewildered by this sudden change.
“Who is Fitch?” wondered Miranda, also puzzled.
“Our head groom,” Rosalind told her. “He has lived here all his life.”
“Knows the countryside to an inch,” added Alan. “A very reliable man.” He looked at Philip.
Grudgingly, Philip nodded. He still looked unhappy.
“What do you say, then?” Alan asked Miranda. “Will you go?”
Though she had still not forgiven Alan Creighton, the prospect of a ride was alluring. The day had dawned clear and warm, with the scent of the sea and the moors blowing in through her bedroom window. It was a perfect morning for a gallop. She couldn’t resist. Miranda nodded.
“Good. After breakfast?”
“Yes. I’m finished. I’ll go and change.”
“And I will order the horses. Which for Miranda, Philip?”
Lord Highdene considered. “Tell them Chara.”
“I ride rather well,” put in Miranda, in case he should be giving her an overplacid “lady’s” mount.
Philip smiled slightly. “So I have heard. You will like Chara. She is sweet-tempered but spirited. Not Rosalind’s sort of horse.” Rosalind wrinkled her nose at him, but did not object.
Miranda stood. “I shall be ready in a quarter hour.”
“I’ll wait for you outside,” said Alan with a smile that nearly made her forget what an exasperating man he was.
He was waiting on the sweep of gravel before the front door when she came out, chatting with a small, wizened man of about fifty in the livery of a groom. In buff riding breeches and a dark blue coat, with his broad shoulders and military bearing, he looked very handsome, and when he turned to Miranda and smiled, saying, “Ah, there you are. How smart you look,” she found it hard to maintain the cool distance she had determined upon.
She was pleased with her appearance. She had a new habit of dark green cloth, with a close-fitted bodice and long sleeves above the sweep of the skirt. It buttoned up to a foam of lace at the collar, and the matching hat gave her a jaunty grace. It was the first ensemble her mother had had made in anticipation of her come-out next Season, and she knew it was the latest thing. It also brought out the green of her eyes and the creaminess of her skin.
Yet Alan Creighton was not to think he was forgiven, so she merely thanked him and went directly to the mounting block.
“This is Fitch,” said Alan, following. The groom tipped his hat as Miranda nodded. “He says there’s a pretty ride to the south.”
“Very well,” she agreed. “This is Chara?”
“Yes, miss. And a fine little goer she is.”
Miranda took the reins and greeted the horse. She looked well, and there was a spark in her eye as well as obedience in her movements. Miranda led her to the block and mounted before either of the men could help her, bringing a smile to Alan Creighton’s eyes. “Shall we go?” she asked.
“By all means.” He swung into the saddle just ahead of Fitch and rode to her side. The groom fell in behind them. They trotted in silence down the lane and left along the road that skirted the cliffs.
Alan drew in a deep breath and let it out. “Ah, what air,” he said. Miranda did not reply. “A glorious day,” he added.
“Yes, indeed.” She turned her head slightly. “Shall we have a gallop?” And without waiting for an answer, she spurred Chara and leaned forward as the horse gathered speed.
Briefly, Miranda enjoyed having startled the two men and pulled away from them. But soon she was aware only of the wind on her face and the powerful stride of her mount as they hurtled along the rutted road. Her own muscles moved with the rhythm of the gallop; she both guided the horse and aided her. It was wonderfully exhilarating.
Alan’s larger mount soon drew even, and then they were pounding along side by side, both grinning and bright-eyed, glancing across to see that they weren’t outdistanced, at one in the joy of speed. They did not slow until the horses showed signs of tiring; then they pulled back to a walk to let them breathe. “How well you ride,” exclaimed Alan. “I don’t know when I’ve seen a woman handle the reins better.”
“I used to ride with my father and brother,” she replied, her own breath still coming quickly. “James and I were always trying to outdo each other.” Even before her father had gained a fortune, they had somehow found the money for horses.
“I wager he was hard put to better you.” Alan smiled, and Miranda found again how very engaging that smile could be.
“He would never say so. Brothers are such exasperating creatures.”
“So I am told. I wish I knew first hand.”
Remembering his lack of family, Miranda felt a twinge of pity.
“How are they exasperating?” he added with a smile.
“Oh, well… James has always pretended to be martyred by having three sisters. He makes a great fuss about it and plays all sorts of tricks on us.”
“Tricks?”
She nodded. “Once when we were on a picnic and Portia left her hat on the grass, James filled it with cockleburs. She didn’t see them and put it back on, and they stuck in her hair so badly they had to be cut out. She looked like a badly sheared sheep for months.”
Alan laughed. “That does seem a bit…extreme.”
“Portia was furious. I don’t think James realized how bad it would be, but she wouldn’t listen. She put itching powder in all his clothes.” He laughed again. “Mama and the laundress had a dreadful time getting it out, and James…” She stopped, and giggled at the memory of her brother’s frantic wrigglings.
“It sounds to me as if sisters must be quite as exasperating as brothers. Having neither, I cannot judge degrees.”
“Well, James and Portia are the greatest jokesters in the family,” Miranda told him. “Rosalind and I would never have done such things.”
“Certainly not,” he agreed with a twinkling sidelong look.
For a frozen instant, Miranda wondered if he knew something of her attempt at disguise, then she dismissed the idea with a shake of her head. Alice had sworn she wouldn’t tell, and Miranda didn’t believe she would speak to Alan Creighton even if she broke her promise. “Well, we wouldn’t.”
“You are fortunate to have such a lively family. You must miss them a good deal.”
“Yes.” Miranda was a little surprised that he would understand that. “I particularly miss the days when we were all still together. We had such fun. But with Rosalind and Portia married and James up at Oxford, that is all over. And next Season I shall be presented.”
“And then you will be far too busy to miss anyone,” he finished for her.
“Oh no.” She turned to look at him. “You have been in town for a Season, have you not? Tell me what it is like.”
“Your sisters could tell you better than I,” he replied, not meeting her eyes.
“I have asked them, but you must have quite a different view. Did you go to a great many parties?”
“Not so very many.” Creighton gazed out over the sea on the left. Now that he had been away from London for a time, he looked back on his conduct there as a regrettable lapse from the standards he strove to uphold. He had allowed self-pity and boredom to undermine his convictions, and done things of which he was now ashamed. Certainly he could not speak of them to a young lady. He found the whole subject of London uncomfortable.
“But you must have attended some? And met the girls coming out?”
“Some.” He tried to discourage her with his tone.
But Miranda was not to be diverted, not even by her own annoyance at the man. This was a priceless opportunity to learn what the sophisticated London girls were like and what men thought of them. “Tell me about them.”
“Them?” He had been thinking of the money he lost at the gaming tables. It was not more than he could afford. He was not a landed noble like his cousin, but he was comfortably off. It was the way he had behaved—heedless, caring for nothing and no one. He could not understand now how he had let it happen.
“Did I say something wrong?” asked Miranda.
“What?”
“Your face. You looked so…sad, and…sorry. Did I remind you of something painful?” Perhaps he had been jilted in London, Miranda thought. Rosalind had hinted at something before he came. Perhaps he had been in love with one of those polished London misses, and she had refused him. Was he even now nursing a broken heart? Perhaps she had died? Somehow, the idea that Alan might be pining for a lost love was not at all pleasant or romantic. On the contrary, it struck her as very stupid and annoying.
“My time in London was not entirely happy,” replied Alan.
“Oh.” Suddenly, Miranda had no desire to hear more. She did not wish to pry into his private affairs, she told herself. She sat very straight in the saddle.
“It was strange being back among society after so many years at war,” he added. “I fear I did not…go on just as I should.” Miranda’s face was turned away, and Alan reddened slightly when he noticed her averted profile. Of course she was not interested in his lapses. She was very properly indicating that he should keep them to himself. “But what did you wish to know? Oh, the girls. Well, I fear I found them a rather silly, frivolous lot. Couldn’t think of anything to say to them. But I have spent too long away from that world, no doubt, and grown clumsy. I’m sure they thought me the veriest oaf. I never became well acquainted with any.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, nor with any other London women, I fear. So I cannot give an opinion. You should ask Philip that sort of thing.” For the first time with Miranda, Alan felt as he had in London—untutored and unpolished, far inferior to men younger than himself who could move easily from the drawing room to the ballroom and bow over a lady’s hand with consummate grace.
“But what did you mean then?” Miranda blurted out.
“Mean?”
“About…about not going on as you should?” She was flushed with embarrassment, but too curious to hold her tongue.
“Oh.” He hesitated, then found to his surprise that he wanted to tell her. “I fell in with some bad companions. Indulged a bit too freely. I don’t excuse myself, but it was rather a change from barracks life.”
Miranda turned to him again. This was familiar ground—the romantic hero who has committed excesses, even crimes, in the past but is now repentant. “Did you drink ‘blue ruin’?” she asked in a hushed voice.
Alan stared at her, and then gave a great burst of laughter. “Where the deuce did you hear of blue ruin?”
“Well, James told me the name. A friend of his at Eton had an older brother who was not at all the thing, and that is what he did. At least, he may have done other things, too, but that is the only one James would tell me.”
“I should hope so indeed. I am beginning to think this brother of yours is a bit of a loose screw.”
“He isn’t!” Miranda paused and eyed him. “What is a loose screw?”
“Never mind. And do not repeat it before Philip, or Rosalind either, for that matter.”
“Is it so wicked?” Miranda grinned at him.
“It is slang, and I don’t want them thinking I teach you unsuitable expressions.”
“I won’t tell them,” agreed Miranda, “if you will tell me what is going on here at Clairvon.”
She looked at him with wide green eyes. Alan gazed back at her with rueful appreciation. Perhaps he should tell her. She really was a sensible girl. Far more sensible than any girl he had met in London, or anywhere else since he returned from France. And her eyes were really very fine. She could not become involved in the measures he and Philip were taking, of course. She must stay right out of things, as he had told her before. But perhaps she had the sense to see that. He was beginning to think he had underestimated her. “It concerns a set of ruffians from the south,” he began.
He was cut off by a sudden sound so familiar that Alan acted without thinking. He lurched for Miranda’s arm and pulled her from her horse, leaping himself so that he fell with her to the ground and broke her fall. They rolled there together as the stinging whine was repeated. Alan thrust Miranda into the shelter of a large rock and crouched beside her, one arm still around her shoulders. “Fitch! Look out, man, that’s gunfire,” he shouted.
From his expression, it was clear the head groom knew precisely what it was. But instead of dismounting, he pulled his horse’s head around and spurred it onto the moors in the direction of the shots, urging the animal to a perilous gallop over the uneven ground. “Fitch!” shouted Alan again. But the man gave no sign of hearing.
“Gunfire?” repeated Miranda in a shaken voice. “Hunters?”
“Hardly.”
“But…what then?”
Alan Creighton thought he knew. This was a warning from the men he sought to stop. They had discovered something of his efforts, perhaps. Or they merely suspected that he would not let their activities continue unopposed. Possibly, they had never intended their bullets to find a mark, but only that he understand their determination. Alan didn’t care. He was filled with a fury such as he had never known in his life—not on the battlefield or in the hands of the surgeons. His grip on Miranda tightened until it hurt. “You are all right?”
“Yes. But who was shooting?” Miranda felt shaky, disoriented.
His thoughts of explaining things to her had vanished. At all costs, she must be kept clear of men such as these. The mere thought of what they had attempted against her today suffused him with murderous rage. Silently, he raised his head a little way above the rock. There was nothing to be seen. Fitch had disappeared over a rise.
“The horses,” said Miranda, recovering her composure a little. “How will we get back?” For their mounts had bolted in panic when they leaped off.
Alan merely waved her to silence. He was watching and listening with senses trained in just such situations. Someone was coming.
Fitch re-emerged from the bushes and rode up to them. “I’ll catch the horses, sir,” he said.
“What did you find?” asked Alan impatiently.
Fitch only shook his head, then wheeled to go after their runaway mounts.
“Damn the man,” said Alan between his teeth.
Miranda crouched silently beside him, grateful for his arm on her shoulders. She had regained enough of her wits to understand the warning in those shots, and she was very frightened. This was no game. They might have been killed. Indeed, she supposed that they would have been, if their assailants had wished it. But they had sent a threat first, to force Alan to pull back. Miranda looked up into his face, and saw that he never would. His mouth was grim, his blue eyes hard and merciless. She was shaken suddenly by a terrible fear, and she involuntarily clutched his lapel.
Alan glanced down and, seeing her white face, partly shook off his fury. “It’s all right,” he said. “They’ve gone. That sort doesn’t stay to face you. Fitch will find the horses, and we’ll go home.”
Miranda clutched tighter. “Perhaps you should let them be,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know…the next time they come upon you they might…” She couldn’t voice her fear aloud.
Alan tightened his grip for an instant. “Don’t worry. I know how to deal with men like these.”
Watching his eyes, Miranda knew that he wouldn’t retreat an inch, and that he no longer had any intention of telling her the story. He would march proudly on, just as he had in battle, and never consider his own peril. She felt a pain in her chest, and shuddered again with fear.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Look, there is Fitch with the horses.”
She would have to help him, Miranda concluded. She was badly frightened, but she could not give up when he meant to press on. Perhaps there was nothing she could do; it seemed likely. But she must try. Left to himself, he might be killed the next time. Miranda shuddered again.
Fitch stopped beside them. “There’s no one about now, sir,” he said. “We’d best be getting back.”
Slowly, Alan stood. He waited, one hand holding Miranda down, and gazed all about. There were only the sounds of the sea and the small creatures of the moor. “All right.” He helped her up and into the saddle, then mounted quickly himself. “Don’t dawdle,” he said, a command, and they started off at a canter.
The ride back to Clairvon passed in silence. Alan was lost in thought, and anger. Miranda had nothing to say. And Fitch stayed well behind, as if he wished to avoid them. When the abbey appeared over a rise, Miranda breathed a sigh of relief and spurred Chara lightly to reach the welcome shelter of the walls. She couldn’t shake off a feeling of being spied upon. And the dreadful consciousness of danger that seemed to reside between her shoulder blades made her long for her room. When they pulled up before the front door, she jumped down without aid and sprang up the steps. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked Alan when he stayed on his horse.
“I shall go to the stables with Fitch,” he replied.
“That’s all right, sir,” said Fitch quickly. “I’ll take care of the horses.”
“But I wish to speak to you,” said Alan, quietly but relentlessly.
Fitch looked far from happy at the idea, but he did not protest further, merely taking Chara’s rein and turning toward the stable block.
“Will you be all right?” Alan asked Miranda.
“Yes.”
“I think you should not mention this incident to your sister,” he added. “There is no need to worry her.”
“Yes,” she said again, exhausted now and numbed by the aftermath of fear. Alan nodded to her and turned away. Miranda pulled open the door and made her way slowly upstairs.