Chapter Three
Pel narrowly escaped bumping into a guard as he emerged from the tunnel, seeing the light from the man’s lantern just in time to stop within the shed, fully cloaked by its shadow.
What the man was doing at this end of the field was disclosed when a tinkling splashing sound between two of the sheds was accompanied by an acrid smell and a sigh of relief.
Pel was reminiscing about the lovely Lady Jemima instead of keeping his wits about him, and if he had been caught, it would have been his own fault. But she was worth thinking about.
She had thick ropes of dark hair that looked silky and soft, and he ached to touch them to test that appearance.
Her blue-gray gaze was direct, and her expression kind.
And her luscious curves dried his mouth.
Pel had no idea why fashionable women tried to look like sticks in gowns, but Mima didn’t bother with such nonsense. Clay was a fool!
And Pel was the beneficiary of his brother’s foolishness, for if he had been looking for a wife, he could not have chosen one with more grace, wit, and character. Not to mention beauty! People said that the older Ruthermond daughter was the beauty of the pair. People were blind.
Fortunately, the man who had come to take a leak scurried back toward the inn without checking the shadows, or even the horse who could be heard shifting around behind the sheds.
Perhaps he thought any large creature moving in the dark this far from the inn was potentially dangerous and none of his business, for he certainly did not linger.
Pel tightened the girth and, out of habit, checked the rest of the tack. Everything was fine, so he mounted and headed the horse toward home. He would not, he decided, tell his father where he’d been and what he and Mima had decided. Not yet.
He had not left the outskirts of the town when he saw an ambush about to happen.
Not of him, but of a group of youths wearing Ilton colors as cockades in their hats.
Stupid fools, advertising their allegiances on a night when Harwood’s people were also likely to be in town.
At least their attackers were dressed all in black, which was anonymous.
He almost left them to it, for a bout of fisticuffs might let them blow off steam, and he was certain that Ilton had told his men what Harwood had told his: No fighting, and especially no fighting with weapons. And if they did fight, stop at first blood.
Then one of the black-clad men moved into the light from a street lamp, and Pel sent his horse toward the Ilton crowd, shouting as he came.
Two things prompted him to intervene. The man he had supposed to be a Harwood was one of the bullies that the Duke of Norcross kept, supposedly as a footman, but in truth to terrorize those who disagreed with him.
And the man was carrying a knife, hilt in his hand, naked blade ready to do serious damage.
“’Ware the Ruthermonds,” he yelled, waving his hat. “Attackers coming. Norcross’s man has a knife!”
It was enough. The bully with the knife stopped short, stared at him, then took off into a narrow alley between two buildings. After a moment’s startled pause, the rest of the would-be ambushers melted away, but not before Pel had seen light glint off several more blades.
He did not manage to see all the faces, but he recognized none of them as men who took the Harwood side. And here came the Ruthermonds. He could ride through them, he supposed, but someone might get hurt, and these were Mima’s people.
“Good evening,” he said to the youth in the lead, whose suspicious look was repeated on several of the other faces.
“Who are you?” The youth’s abrupt words were made ruder still by his tone.
“Brant,” said one of his companions. “They did have knives and clubs.”
“Bloody Harwoods,” said Brant.
“Not Harwoods,” Pel told them. “I recognized one of them as a Norcross man, and I didn’t know any of the others.”
“How would you know a Harwood unless you were one?” Demanded Brant.
Now Pel was for it. He had a moment’s wistful regret that he had not just ridden away. But if he had, these boys—for none of them could be more than twenty and several of them must still be schoolboys—would all be hurt, maybe dead.
Throwing caution to the wind, he told the truth. “I am tomorrow morning’s groom. Pelham Townswell, at your service.”
That fetched him a glare from a dozen pairs of eyes. “Is tomorrow morning’s groom not meant to be Lord Clayton, Harwood’s eldest son?” Brant demanded.
“Is tomorrow morning’s bride not meant to be Lady Margherita, Ilton’s eldest daughter?” Pel demanded.
That startled a laugh out of a couple of the young men, and the comment, “So much for Ilton’s secret.” However, Brant scowled. “Why would Norcross send men against the Ruthermonds?” He demanded.
“Ask yourself,” said Pel. “Who would gain if the peace treaty between our two families falls apart?”
They were not fools, these boys. They exchanged glances and nodded at one another. “Norcross,” said one.
“But he is a close friend of our marquess,” Brant insisted. “Or of his brother-in-law, at least.”
“Edwin Thoroughgood,” said one of the others, and grimaced. “That snake.” Several of the others nodded, and they argued between themselves for a few minutes. “The earl trusts him,” Brant said. “And so does my father.”
“My father doesn’t,” said the youth who had called Thoroughgood a snake. “My father says that he and the duke are thick as thieves and twice as suspicious.”
Interesting. Pel wondered who the young man’s father was, and what made him wary of the man Mima called Uncle Edwin.
“Look,” Pel said, “both of our families need to make this agreement work. I know my father has told all his people that they need to treat the new bride with every courtesy. He has also made it clear that anyone who causes trouble will have to answer to him, as well as the law. And Lady Jemima tells me that her father has told his people not to fight with ours.”
“You’ve spoken with Lady Jemima?” asked Brant, his voice heavy with suspicion.
“Of course. It is our wedding tomorrow. Is it not right that we meet before we face one another at the altar?” No need to explain that he’d snuck in and out again, without asking leave.
“Lord Pelham, we owe you our thanks,” said the youth who didn’t like Uncle Edwin. “Your shout saved us from that group of bullies, whoever they were.”
Brant gave him a shove, and the other youth shoved back. “Come on, Brant. He’s going to be our cousin. Give the man a break. Lord Pelham… No, Pelham, for you will be our cousin-in-law in the morning. Pelham, come and have a drink with us.”
“You are Mima’s cousins?” Pel asked. He then found himself shaking hands with each person in the group as they introduced themselves.
Four were maternal cousins of Lady Jemima, Brant and the man who didn’t like Thoroughgood—his name was Martin—were second cousins, and the other three were neighbors and friends.
The evening ended at a tavern, and Pel rode home in the early hours of the morning, slightly drunk, and with the pleasant consciousness that his almost wife was an ally, and so—more surprisingly—were his nine unexpected drinking companions.
*
When Mima woke on her wedding day, she was not miserable.
She had met her groom. Pel was someone she thought she might have liked, had their families not been at war, and had they met under different circumstances. Their marriage, she cautiously hoped, might not be as terrible as she feared.
Then her best friend Isabelle, one of her female cousins, arrived with the maid carrying the breakfast tray. “You are not getting married without me, Mimmie,” said Bella, “even if you are marrying an ogre.”
“He is not an ogre,” Mima protested, and found herself telling her friend about the night-time visit.
Bella took a predictably romantic view of the encounter. “Oh, I could swoon,” she declared. “He climbed to your balcony, Mimmie! How delicious! Is he handsome? Of course, he must be. It would be a travesty were he not, after he braved all those guards so he could meet you.”
“Do not tell the others,” Mima warned her, as giggles from outside of the door heralded the arrival of the rest of her cousins.
Moments later, she was engulfed in a feminine avalanche, and the next two hours were filled with pampering, primping, praise, and lots of laughter. Almost everything she wore, from the skin out, was new—most of it given by or borrowed from her cousins.
The cream silk gown had been intended for special occasions, and she supposed there were few occasions more special than one’s own wedding.
Even so, Bella had declared it needed a little more, and had spent the past two days adding little embroidered flowers to the bodice and hem, each of them a tiny work of art, each chosen to express a suitable sentiment—asters, white carnations, and forget-me-nots for love, myrtle for luck, peonies for a happy life, violets for faithfulness.
One of the other cousins had taken scraps of the fabric and the lace that trimmed it, and made a bonnet to match, decorated with left-over ribbon from the gown and silk flowers that matched those Bella had embroidered.
A third cousin, nearly as deft with her needle as Bella, had embroidered matching slippers for Mima to wear on her feet, and others had searched through their drawers or the local drapery shops for stockings, garters, petticoats, and all the other items Mima needed to do the Ruthermonds proud at the wedding.
Even without her sister’s presence, Mima felt buoyed up on a tide of family love. In fact, if she were to be honest with herself, this way was better. She and Marge had never had more than a cordial relationship, and it had frequently been much less.
Marge could be fun when she was in a good mood, but at times she seemed to believe Mima was her rival for everything—possessions, talents, parents’ affection and attention.