Undone - Virginia Henley Page 2

  At Castlecoote, after an early supper, the goddess pulled on a pair of britches and one of her father's tie-wigs. Jack brought two smallswords from the cupboard while Bridget opened the costume box and handed Maria a paper fan. Tonight's play was _The Rakehell_, and they were enacting a scene where two rivals fight a duel over a ravishingly beautiful, but innocent, damsel.

  "Why can't I take the male lead? I long to fight with a rapier. Elizabeth has all the fun!" Maria threw down her paper fan.

  "Absolutely not, Maria. I forbid it. We dare not take the chance of the guard coming off the sword. If the point of the rapier touched your face, it would mar your beauty forever!"

  "Ah, it's because my beauty is greater than Elizabeth's."

  Beth and her father exchanged an amused look. Apparently, the danger to her younger daughter's face did not constitute a calamity. Jack said, "No, it's because Elizabeth is an excellent swordsman. I've taught her everything I know, and I was trained by a fencing Maestro at Cambridge."

  Her mother cajoled, "Maria, you play the beautiful, innocent heroine to perfection. All who see you will fall instantly in love. Some day, you will be the toast of London."

  Maria picked up the fan and delivered her lines. It took no acting ability to be beautiful; she simply had to be herself.

  Jack played the villain who had lured the titled young beauty to a secret rendezvous with the vile intention of seducing her. Elizabeth played the noble hero who uncovered the plot, challenged the rakehell to a duel, and saved the damsel from ruin. The moment the rivals crossed swords, her father's superior strength and experience were obvious, but what Elizabeth lacked in height and reach, she made up for with speed and agility. She handled the rapier with great flair, relishing the risk of the thrust and parry with flamboyant, practiced moves designed to make an audience gasp.

  At first she was careful to make it look like the villain was winning, allowing him to take the offensive as he backed her across the stage and gaining the sympathy of the audience by playing the underdog. Then, the moment they thought all was lost, she ceased to be on the defensive. With obvious enjoyment, she began to lunge and extend, beating back her opponent with daring strokes and reckless courage, skillfully holding the audience in the palm of her sword hand. The _coup de grace_ came when she deliberately caught the button on the tip of her opponent's sword in the intricate basket design of her rapier's hand guard and with a swift twist of the wrist sent it sailing across the stage. Then, holding her weapon close, so the edge of the blade touched her nose, she took her bow.

  "Bravo! Well done! Now your mother has a surprise for you."

  Both girls turned to Bridget Gunning with expectant faces.

  "I've had a letter." She looked like the cat who'd swallowed the cream as she withdrew the envelope from her bosom.

  "From Peg?" Maria asked with a squeal of delight, while Beth drew in a ragged breath of hopeful anticipation.

  "Yes, from my dear friend, Peg Woffington!" Bridget confirmed.

  It was a name that conjured magic in the Gunning household. Peg, now the reigning star and leading actress of Drury Lane Theater in London, had begun her stage career with Bridget when they had taken any bit parts that fell their way. Then, as fate would have it, Bridget found herself pregnant, just as Peg snared a role in _The Beggar's Opera_. The play proved such a favorite that it was performed at Smock Alley Theater in Dublin. Peg stayed on at the theater to do her apprenticeship and became an accomplished actress. She moved to London, acted with the great David Garrick, and the rest was history. When she became Garrick's mistress, he bought Drury Lane Theater and made her its star.

  Bridget unfolded the crackling pages of the letter with more reverence than she would accord the Magna Carta. She did not read verbatim but rather paraphrased what was written on the precious parchment. "Peg is in Dublin! She has returned in triumph to play the Smock Alley Theater and insists that we go to see her."

  Both girls gasped with delight.

  "I wrote to her about you and told her of Maria's exceptional beauty. Peg wants to take a look at you both and promises to see if she can get you parts at Smock Alley!"

  The Gunning sisters shared a bedchamber, and that night in bed, the girls whispered long into the night about going to Dublin and finally getting a chance to act on a real stage. Elizabeth's dreams were often filled with the roles she hoped to play and, without fail, she was always adorned in a lovely costume, but tonight when her dreams began, they had nothing to do with the theater. Instead, she dreamed about food.

  _Spread out before her was an array of delectable dishes that made her mouth water. There were platters of roast fowl, braised lamb, and baked salmon. Meat pies with flaky crusts sat next to dishes of Yorkshire pudding, egg custards, and warm crusty bread. The desserts took her breath away. Fancy cakes and pastries vied with piles of russet apples and bowls of strawberries and cream. The trouble was the food belonged to John, the dark and dangerous man she had met by the river._

  _He gestured toward the dishes. "Why don't you share them with me?" he invited._

  _She looked longingly at the food then glanced with hesitation at the dark, attractive male, wondering if she could trust him. Finally, her hunger and the temptation were too great. "It would be my pleasure. " And indeed it was. He insisted on feeding her with his own fingers, and she relished every morsel as if it were ambrosia from the gods. As he fed her, Elizabeth's fear of him vanished and she began to enjoy his company as much as his food. She licked her lips, then, with great daring, licked his fingers._

  *Chapter Two*

  The following day, while John Campbell lingered along the banks of the salmon-rich River Suck, Elizabeth Gunning was kept busy fetching a bucket of water from St. Bridgid's well at Holywell House, then washing her sister's silvery-blond tresses. They sat in the sun while Elizabeth brushed in the finger-ringlets and formed dozens of tiny tendrils around the perfect, oval face.

  Bridget darned the girls' only stockings then began to take down the hems on their cotton dresses. There would be no showing their ankles in Dublin; it would create a scandal.

  "I'll walk over to Longacre Farm and see if Tully will buy the goats," Jack said.

  His wife gave him a scorching look. "We need transportation to Dublin. Don't come home without it."

  When Beth saw her father tethering their six goats with a rope, her heart flew into her mouth. "Where are you taking them?"

  "I'll see if Tully will buy them."

  She felt a measure of relief. Longacre was a prosperous place, and Tully took good care of the farm's livestock. "I'll help you, Father. I'll carry the baby." She picked up the little black nanny goat and dropped a kiss on its nose. She'd stayed up the entire night with its dam when it had been born to ensure a live birth and named it Eyebright, after the weeds in the meadow.

  At Longacre she left the men to their business talk and went into the barn. In a back stall she found a sheepdog with a litter of black-and-white pups. She stroked the bitch and told her what a good mother she was, wishing with all her heart that she could have one of the litter. She knew it was impossible, for the Gunnings had only enough to feed themselves. With a sigh of resignation she pulled herself away from the happy little family and went back to the stable yard.

  "I've talked him into a cartload of turnips in exchange for the goats. We'll have to return the mule, of course, but we can sell the turnips once we arrive in Dublin."

  "Well, a cart and a mule are certainly what we need, since we can't walk to Dublin ... and the turnips are a bonus." She hoped and prayed her mother wouldn't rant and rave when they got home.

  "Only trouble is," Jack said, running a hand through his thick blond hair, "the turnips are still in the field."

  "I'll help you, Dad." She immediately braided her golden hair into a thick plait. "Turnips are big and round--it won't take that many to fill up a cart. You get the mule and wagon, and I'll go to the field and start pulling up the turnips."

  As it turned
out, it was dirty, backbreaking work. The turnip field was a sea of mud, and Jack didn't dare take the mule-drawn cart close to the crop. So Beth bent over and extracted the turnips from the oozing mud, while her father carried them to the cart at the top end of the field. By the time they had a full load of about two hundred turnips, the sun had begun to set, but there was still plenty of light for Jack to see the state his daughter was in. "You're mud from arse to teakettle. Your mother will throw a bloody fit!"

  Beth's knees were already shaking at the reception they'd both get. "Let me off here. I'll bathe in Lough Ree and wash my smock at the same time. You go and convince Mother that you made a good swap for the goats."

  She walked along the bank of the river until it opened up into the scenic Lough Ree. She breathed in its beauty with deep appreciation. As the red ball of the sun slowly sailed down the sky to dip beneath the lake, she thought surely there could be no more mystical place on earth. She threw off her smock beneath the sheltering branches of a bay tree and slowly waded into the water until it was breast-high. She shivered as the cool water closed over her sensitive skin, then began to wash off the clinging mud. She spotted what she thought was an otter swimming close by the bank. She'd seen the playful creature there before with his mate. On impulse, she decided to approach and try to swim with him.

  Beth filled her lungs with air then slipped under and swam beneath the water to the place where she'd seen his dark head.

  She glided up smoothly, without splashing, and stared into a pair of glistening brown eyes. They were not the eyes of an otter.

  "My Lord Oberon!" she gasped.

  "Splendor of God, I've thought of you so long I've conjured you!" John Campbell couldn't credit the ethereal creature of his daydreams had come to him in the form of a mermaid. He kicked out with a long stroke and grabbed her wrists before she could submerge. "You're real!" he declared.

  "I'm real, and the predicament I'm in is very real too, sir. You _must_ let me go!" As he held her fast he gave the impression of sheer brute strength, and her knees turned weak. A strange frisson from his strong fingers went up her arms, making her shiver. While he held her fast, all she could think of was the feel of his lips on hers. She wondered if he would do it again. _What a wicked thought! I must not let him do it again_!

  "I've waited all day for you--I'm not about to let you go yet."

  "Why were you waiting for me? Because I stole your salmon?"

  _Because you stole my senses_. "If you pay me for the salmon, I can hardly say you stole it, can I?"

  "But I have no money, sir." She tried to pull her wrists from his powerful hands in vain.

  A delighted grin spread over his face. "I know." His grip tightened. "There's other currency between a man and a maid."

  She looked at him solemnly. "Yes, there is forgiveness and there is generosity."

  "Precisely! If I forgive you, you must be generous."

  "What do you want?"

  He rolled his eyes just thinking of what he wanted. The water revealed much of her high-thrusting breasts, and he was enjoying the view immensely. "I only want to talk."

  "We cannot talk, sir. We have no clothes on."

  He laughed at such an ingenuous notion. "If we cannot talk, then I suppose I'll have to settle for a kiss."

  "I'll not give it," she whispered.

  "You need not give it--I'll take it."

  She knew she was trapped. She knew he would never let her go until he got what he wanted, perhaps not even then. The innate actress inside her took over. Her eyes widened solemnly and shone with unshed tears. "I mistook you for a gentleman. I imagined you to be a man of decency and honor."

  Damn, she was completely indifferent to his teasing charm. "I _am_ a man of honor. I won't hurt you, Beth."

  "Then will you give me your word of honor you will let me go?"

  He hesitated for long moments as he towered above her. The tension between them stretched taut. He imagined her complete state of undress, picturing her rising from the water like Botticelli's Venus. He envisioned her lying naked beside him in the grass. The thought of her delicate, slim form was irresistible to him. He had a hungry craving to touch her, smell her, taste her. What was this fascination he felt for her? "After the kiss," he bargained.

  "All right," she conceded with wary reluctance.

  He released her wrists and cupped her bare shoulders. As he drew her toward him he felt her tremble and saw her eyes liquid with apprehension. A sudden wave of doubt swept over him as it began to dawn on him that perhaps his water sprite was as sweet and virginal as she looked. Though the desire to possess her raged hot in his veins, the urge to protect her waged a battle with his lust and won. As he gazed down at her beautiful face he could not bear the thought of spoiling her innocence in any way. He touched his lips to hers in a chaste, gentle kiss that took his breath away. It was as brief and delicate as the brush of a butterfly wing, yet its impact was like a blow to his solar plexus. Dazed, he lifted his hands from her shoulders. "Go. Go quickly," he ordered.

  * * *

  By the time Elizabeth arrived home it was twilight. She had missed supper, but she had also missed the explosive row that had erupted between her parents over the wagonload of turnips, for which she was profoundly thankful. She would rather endure anything than be subjected to her mother's blazing anger.

  Before she went to bed, she helped her father pack the theatrical trunk with the old costumes, wigs, masks, and makeup they'd accumulated over the years. She wrapped up the small Irish harp in a shabby velvet cloak, carefully placed the pair of rapiers in their gilt leather sheaths on top, and bound the trunk securely with a rope.

  In the bedroom she shared with Maria, she helped her sister pack her carpetbag before she packed her own. Each of them had a cotton dress, a shift made from bleached flour sacks, a pair of black stockings, an extra pair of drawers, and a woolen shawl. They shared a hairbrush, a flannel towel, and a lump of soap.

  Maria climbed into their bed and pulled up the quilt. "You missed a battle royal tonight. Father was holding his own until she demolished him by calling him 'Jack and the Bloody Beanstalk'!"

  "Please don't talk of it--it makes me feel ill. I hope Mother's not still angry in the morning."

  "She won't be. Dad has a way of taking her to bed and mollifying her. Oh, Beth, I can't wait to be in Dublin again, 'tis years since I've seen the city."

  Beth blew out the tallow candle and removed her smock, which was still wringing wet from the scrubbing she'd given it to remove the mud. She spread it across the back of a wooden chair then, covered with gooseflesh, slipped into bed and tried not to shiver.

  "You're making the bed shake," Maria complained.

  "Sorry. I'll try to think warm thoughts." The moment she uttered the words a vision of the dark male she'd encountered the last two days came to her full blown. As she pictured his muscle-ridged chest and black waving hair that brushed his wide shoulders, she began to feel quite hot. Then she remembered his mouth touching hers, and her lips felt scalded. Yet in spite of the burning heat of her body she still shivered. As she dropped into exhausted sleep, however, the shivering ceased and she drifted off in a warm pool of dreams.

  _She was an otter, swimming in the water with her mate. He was a sleek, brown creature with gleaming eyes, extremely bold and playful, yet always protective of her. Every evening, just at twilight, he dove into the water with reckless daring, luring her after him. She followed, unable to resist his potent attraction or the compelling hold he had over her. The game they played tonight was joyful, ever touching, teasing, taunting, until he led her from the water into the tall grasses. Suddenly, Elizabeth realized that they were not really otters, but a young man and woman having fun pretending. They were completely naked and enjoying every wicked moment of the delicious game they played. When he lifted her high she laughed down at him and allowed her golden curls to cascade and brush across his powerful chest. He slid her down his hard muscled body until her toes touched t
he ground, and his mouth covered hers in a long, lingering kiss that filled her heart with yearning._

  The dream vanished when Beth awoke to the raucous crowing of the cock from a nearby farm, as she did most mornings. Today, however, it was still dark. She reached for her smock, which was yet slightly damp, then pulled on her black stockings and button-up leather boots. When she went down to the kitchen she met her father coming in from outside, carrying eggs.

  He winked at his daughter. "I found these before they were lost. Quick, get the pan."

  By the time the travelers set off they had filled their bellies with eggs, melted cheese, and goat's milk; they would remember the meal fondly over the next four days when their food consisted of boiled turnips, raw turnips, turnip greens, and more turnips.

  Their spirits were high the first day as they traveled along the country roads, bathed in late-summer sunshine. They'd no money for inns and spent the first night under the shelter of a church lychgate. Jack unhitched the mule and allowed him to crop the grass of the cemetery. The girls used their carpetbags for pillows, and Maria was thankful that Elizabeth had had the foresight to pack their bedquilt.

  At Ballyclare, great activity was underway. The young lords' servants and valets were busy packing their masters' trunks with everything from formal evening attire to hunting clothes, caped greatcoats and beaver hats, from riding boots to dancing slippers, and fine linen undergarments. The young aristocrats not only traveled with their own mounts, saddles, and hunting dogs but with their own snowy bedlinen and eiderdown-filled bolsters and comforters. The stack of trunks, boxes, and gun cases in the entrance hall already resembled a mountain, yet the packing was only half finished. A fortnight ago, the visitors had arrived at Ballyclare in three heavy berline coaches, two of which were used for baggage alone. Each traveling coach was pulled by a matched team of four carriage horses and driven by a seasoned coachman.