Chapter 3
Needing to think about things, Meleri went for a ride, which always helped to clear her mind. She was so preoccupied with distracting thoughts that she did not realize she had been traveling swiftly for some length of time.
She slowed her horse to a comfortable pace. About the only thing she had decided was she would have to speak with Lord Waverly.
It was not that much farther to Waverly’s home, she thought, especially if she took a shortcut, so why not go now, and have it done?
She turned her horse off the main road and found herself greeted by a bright field of yellow-and-white buttercups. Now and then, she would catch a glimpse of the river threading its way through the trees clustered along the lower slope of the valley, or hear the noisy chatter of thrushes going about their daily search for food. Once, she was on the receiving end of a shrill scolding by a blackbird perched in the lofty branches of a sycamore tree.
Although it was warm enough to split rocks, the world about her was as splendid as any rendered by an artist’s painting. The sun shone down with an almost liquid brilliance that made the trees in the distance a shimmering of great shadows and light, spangled with deeper contrasts. There was nothing like the colors one could see when riding in the summer, during the hours closest to noon.
She came to the end of the field and turned down the road, her attention still drawn to the vibrant splash of colors bursting with life in the countryside as she passed by. In a single glance, she could take in the bright white fence of a cottage, the tawny gold of a thatched roof, the glazed green of a chestnut tree and the sparkling blue of the river against the rich brown tones of the road that lay curled, like a lost riband, before her.
She passed a family out for a drive in their smart new carriage pulled by four beautifully matched bays. They waved, and Meleri smiled and waved back. As she watched them go by, she admired the smooth-gaited horses.
It occurred to her that she was able to appreciate the beauty about her, not because it was here, but because she had taken the initiative to ride this way. Was the same true of life? Would she only have the happiness she sought if she rode out to meet it, if she took the first step to be the initiator of her future?
Carpe diem…
She was a bit surprised to recall the words of Horace, memorized during her study of Latin. “Carpe diem. Seize the day.” She said the words slowly, as if savoring them, and in a way, she was, for their flavor was as sweet and rich as the faintest suggestion of freedom. Sunday last, she recalled the parson spoke about life and how each of us is given a great opportunity, if we only seize it. He quoted something from Hippocrates about opportunity—that it was fleeting and judgment difficult.
“Turn obstacles into opportunities,” he’d said.
Well, wasn’t that what she was doing? It was satisfying to know that, for once in her life, she was in control of what happened. Wouldn’t this be a nice habit to indulge? She continued on her way, and found her mood had changed somewhat. Getting away from Humberly Hall was a lot like Mrs. Hadley’s tonics. It cleared her head and made the world seem a brighter place.
There was something about being out in the open—away from everything and everyone. With nothing but the feel of her horse beneath her and the wind in her face, everything seemed right and orderly. For the first time in her life, she felt at perfect balance with the world.
Overhead, the sun had passed its zenith and would be starting its descent. That and the gnawing in her stomach said it was well past the noon meal. There were few travelers out, for she had not met anyone since the family in the carriage, neither a gentleman on horseback, nor a farmer in a cart, not that she was surprised. This was not a heavily traveled area, and even when she reached the larger road, she knew it would be little used.
Not far from the village of Holystone, she entered the forest near Lady’s Well, a place that was considered both ancient and holy. The shadows of the trees stretched out before her, long and thin across the grass. The woods became denser and darker, and she began to feel nervous and uncomfortable, for she had been afraid of the dark since she was a small child.
Thickets that were unfamiliar surrounded her. She regretted not paying close attention to where she was going. She feared she had lost her way, when suddenly, she rode out of the dense woods and into a clearing scattered with trees. Again, sunlight bathed her face, and she breathed a sigh of relief and rode on, happy and thankful for the assurance of the warm sun against her skin.
Just beyond the glade up ahead, she could see the smooth surface of the large well reflecting the sunlight. As she drew nearer, she spotted the Celtic cross that rose faithfully out of the center of the square wall that surrounded the well. As she knew it would, the medieval statue from Alnwick, of a bearded, long-robed man, seemed to stare back at her.
There was a quiet solitude about this place—creating a sense of peace deep inside, where all the turmoil she had felt earlier resided. Now she felt as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Calmness descended upon her. Composed and completely relaxed, she rode along, listening to the steady breathing of her mare, the soft thud of hooves upon damp clumps of grass that lay thick and spongy beneath them. In the distance, a church bell rang. Someone was getting married.
She thought of her mother, about how young she was when she died from a fever that struck swiftly, leaving behind a grieving husband and a six-year-old daughter to live alone with nothing but the servants and too much time to wander the long, cavernous hallways of Humberly Hall. She thought of the massive rooms so silent and filled with pain, and the memories of happier days gone by.
There were moments when she longed for those bygone days, when the house was filled with people, and every room echoed with their shrieks of gay laughter. Those were the seasons of endless parties and weekend guests, of balls and hunts and long winter rides in the sleigh, where she snuggled against the warmth of her mother, the two of them buried beneath the fur of a great bear her father shot one summer in Russia.
As quickly as it had come, the memory passed, and with it, the return of reality. Her mother was dead. The sleigh was rusting behind the barn, and the hunting horses and dogs had all been sold a long time ago. For no one came to spend weekends at Humberly Hall anymore.
Suddenly, her mare reared, and she heard a loud thump, then a man’s oath of surprise.
“Curse the devil!”
She sat stock-still, as if enchanted. Around her, a breeze stirred and ruffled the leathery leaves of the trees. Still she did not move. Transfixed, she was motionless with surprise. She was instantly happy she was riding over the site of an ancient priory dedicated to St. Mary the Virgin.
It was not until her chest began to ache that she realized she was holding her breath. She released a gasp of air, and saw a man lying on the ground. Dear God above, had she run him down? Was he dead? Had she killed him? Her heart thumped wildly, for he was as still as death. Oh, Lord above, I’ve killed a man! What should I do? I can’t run him down and simply ride away. She looked down at the stranger, a man she had never seen before.
She may not have known him, but she rapidly learned one thing: he was quick. She barely had time to blink before he was on his feet. She no more than saw him standing in front of her horse, when a sinewy hand shot out, grabbed the bridle and gripped it tighter than a fat woman’s corset.
“The devil take you! What are you trying to do? Run me down? Or was that your intention all along?”
She stared blankly at the black-hearted devil as he impaled her with a hard, unforgiving look. Unable to speak—which was something rare for her—she could not seem to move as she stared in a stunned manner at a stranger who was truly unlike anyone she had ever seen in her life. His hair was certainly longer than she was accustomed to—long and such a dark brown it was almost as black as the breeches and doublet he wore. She decided it was the eyes…definitely the eyes, that she found so mesmerizing. Piercing and brilliantly blue as a gemstone, they held her motionless.
He was not what she would call fall-into-a-swoon handsome, despite the power of attraction that fascinated and held her spellbound. Idiotic though it seemed, she was both frightened and intrigued. The sound of her own heart thundering in her ears was a new sensation—one she found not altogether unpleasant. As she sat there, looking down at him, only one thought penetrated the confusion of surprise and emotion in her brain: how dwarfed everything else seemed against him.
“Don’t you watch where you are going, or is it your habit to run people down?” He spoke suddenly, with a tone so harsh and flinty, that instinctively she drew back and almost toppled from her horse.
“What is a lady like you doing riding alone in a place like this? Where are your escorts?”
Trembling in spite of herself, she was trapped by those eyes staring hotly at her. It unnerved her that he had the power to hold her spellbound, and she wondered if he was an apparition that stepped from the holy well, or an evil spirit that chose to haunt these hallowed grounds. Probably the latter, she decided. Judging from the dark, swarthy appearance of this creature of the netherworld, darkness was where he belonged.
A sudden stillness enveloped them, while a hushed silence seemed to settle over the holy ground where they stood. A vapory fog swirled up from the ground, surrounding her. Out of its midst, a crumbling old castle rose on a base of sharp, jutting stone, surrounded by darkness. There came a noise, like a strong wind blowing through a belfry, and she could feel it pushing against her back, as if someone had put his hands there and urged her toward the castle and into the darkness. Her stomach tightened at the thought of going alone into the dark.
From out of nowhere came the soft lilt of a man’s voice, laced with entreaty…. Follow your destiny…Step boldly into the darkness…Do not be afraid…’Twas tragedy and grief that framed him thus…Follow your destiny…All is not lost…
In the distance, a dog barked. The swirling fog began to lessen. It grew lighter and lighter, then disappeared altogether. When it was gone, and her senses returned to normal, she no longer felt another presence—save for the stranger she had just run over.
The dog stopped barking and the glen was as it had been, still and quiet. The vision of the castle disturbed her. She thought of the enchanted waterfall nearby, the holy well, the ancient priory built by the Augustinian nuns and felt neither fear nor wariness, nothing but a sense of complete peace. After all, she was standing on sanctioned, sacred ground.
Strangely, she felt an odd sort of curiosity about him, which she tried to quell by convincing herself that it was God’s will that she encounter him. She even went so far as to envision him as part of some Divine Plan, which sent a cold shiver over her.
He did not look divine.
Whatever enchantment she thought she felt came to an abrupt end when the stone-cold grip of a hand encircled her wrist, and she heard the soft burr of a Scot’s brogue as the ruffian said, “Do you speak English, or are you a complete simpleton?”
“A simpleton,” she said, blinking at him.
He smiled beautifully, and she melted with relief when he said with an amused tone, “An English lass with a sense of humor. I did not expect to find that.”
“There aren’t many of us.”
“Aye, I am aware of such.”
“Do you know many Englishmen?”
“More than I care to, but you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing riding in a place like this all alone?”
The dazed, bewildered feeling began to wear off, replaced by one infused with a shot of boldness. It would not do to let him think her weak or afraid. Some beasts only attacked those weaker than themselves, or those who made the unfortunate choice to run. “I don’t see that it is any of your concern.” She did not miss the spark of irritation that flared in his eyes. She wondered if, perhaps, she had been a bit hasty to confront him. She resigned herself to placating this backwoods ruffian, for she was most anxious to be on her way. “I always ride alone.”
“And your family does not care?”
“They know I am an experienced rider.”
“No one is experienced against accidents or ruffians lurking about.”
She could not help the way her eyes widened as she asked, “Are you a ruffian, sir?”
He ignored her question. “Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you here, in these woods? Do you live nearby?”
“I’m not in the habit of giving my name to strangers, nor do I find my purpose for being here any of your concern.”
“It’s to be expected, I suppose.”
“What is?”
“Your tartness…it probably comes from your hair, which is unusually red for an English lass. Are you part Irish?”
“What I am is none of your affair. I was born here. That makes me English to the core. That should suffice.”
“You must be Irish. You’ve got the Irish temperament that goes with the hair.” His blue eyes were wary, but in spite of that, he must have found something about her face that held his interest, for he seemed content to examine her at some length.
Meleri took advantage of that to do a little staring of her own. “The way you stare, sir, makes me wonder if you plan to paint my portrait.”
“Few artists could do you justice. You’ve a face that would be hard to forget, lass.”
Lass…She didn’t know why that irked her, but it did. “I would have known you for a Scot, even if you had not spoken. Your manner is only slightly above that of a barbarian.”
“And you display all the coveted qualities of a true English-man…you would rather be rude than polite.”
The imprint of his features burned into her memory. His face was like a rugged mountain formed by ice and harsh winds, its summits forbidding, austere and brutal. But there were glimpses of verdant peaceful valleys hidden in the shadows of the mountain’s raw and breathtaking presence. He was both frightening and mysterious, and at the same time, the most blatantly seductive man she had ever encountered, in spite of the emptiness in those frigid blue eyes. She felt drawn to him, yet baffled and unable to understand why. The last thing she needed in her life right now was this unruly Scot with eyes that missed nothing and promised much.
Just her luck! she mused. Here she was, on her way to rid herself of one ogre and she stumbles into another one. She did not need a replacement. But in spite of all the reasons why she should ride off, she found herself leaning toward him, her gaze on his mouth. It was this confusion, as well as her anger at feeling such an attraction for someone who was probably an outlaw, that she said harshly, “I have other things to do besides sit here and exchange barbs with you. I am long overdue at my destination. I’m certain they have sent out a party to search for me. If you would like to spare yourself the wrath of my family, release my horse at once. I must be on my way.” She pulled on the reins to turn her horse and said, “I will leave you to your poetic quips.”
He did not budge, nor did he release her horse. “They can send an entire regiment for all I care. If I can’t outsmart a handful of Englishmen, I’ve no right to call myself a leader.”
“And what do you lead, sir? A herd of Highland goats? Or is it sheep?”
“You’ve a sharp tongue, lass, but what surprises me is that you seem to take great pride in it.”
“Will you release my horse so I can be on my way and you can return to your lair of meanness and mist? You are pushing me, and in a moment I am going to live up to the color of my hair.”
“I like a lass with spirit.”
“I promise you won’t like me,” she said, and, lifting her whip, she brought it down across his shoulder, while at the same time she planted her foot against his chest and shoved with all her might.
“Ooof!” he said, and relaxed his hold on the bridle as he took a step back, steadying himself before he fell.
It was all the advantage she needed. Instinctively, she kicked her horse and brought the whip down on her flanks. The mare bolted forward with a shrill whinny. Afraid he might follow her, she urged her horse into a run and kept her own head low, against the mare’s mane, to avoid the slapping sting of low branches as they passed.
It was only when they left the last trees of the forest behind and rode out onto the open moor once again that she slowed their pace and turned to look behind her.
There was no sign of the Scot.
She laughed. He said she had a face that would be hard to forget. Well, she’d bet he had a good reason to remember her face now. Not that it would do him any good.
Their paths would never cross again.