Dear Lady Disdain. Paula Marshall
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after a day spent in the snow, seem just the thing!’ She sat down by the amused Jeb and stretched out a hand for the loaf and cheese, to cut herself a good share of them and place them on one of the pewter plates which Matt had set out.
And if that broke up their damned masculine drinking-party, so much the better. They would have clearer heads in the morning, when, with luck, the storm would have abated, the coach and their possessions would be rescued from the ditch, and she could be on her way again.
A pewter pot of ale was pushed in front of her by Jeb, who, she could see, now that she was close to him, was quite a personable man despite his strange accent and even stranger clothes. She took a defiant swig from the pot and said, as though she were conversing at dinner with Lord Melbourne himself, or perhaps the Duke of Wellington, with both of whom she was on terms of friendship, ‘Pray tell me, sir, how do you find England after the United States?’
Jeb nearly choked into his ale at the sound of such ineffable condescension. He surfaced to say, ‘Cold, ma’am, damned cold. Nigh as bad as a Virginia winter, eh, Matt?’
Matt drawled, his lion’s eyes hard on her, ‘Oh, I don’t think that Miss Berriman really wishes to know about the States, Jeb. She is merely making dinner-party small talk, to put you at your ease.’
His man—or whatever he was—considered this unlikely possibility solemnly. Since Jeb was always at ease, whatever the company, high or low, the notion of a spinster lady putting him there seemed rather odd. He was about to reply, but was unable to do so, for Stacy put down her pot of ale with a defiant bang and threw loudly down the table in Matt’s direction, ‘When did you take up mind-reading, sir? Recently, I hope, if your present failure to perform it correctly is any guide. I am most intensely interested in…Jeb’s…impressions of his ancestors’ country.’
‘So there’, would have been a nice ending to that piece of defiance, but Louisa had long cured her of that trick. Now let him trump that ace, if he could!
But of course he could. He threw back his head and laughed, and damn him, why did he have to look exactly as she had imagined the dashing hero of every delightful Minerva Press novel which she had ever read, when she disliked him so? ‘Tell her why your ancestors found themselves in Virginia, Jeb, and then Miss Berriman will understand why your impressions of the old country are hardly likely to be favourable ones!’
Ever willing to oblige, and putting on his best smile, Jeb offered a trifle tentatively—for, while he was not ashamed of his ancestors’ behaviour, he was not exactly proud of it either— ‘Why, Great-granfer Priestley was transported to Virginia as a convict, ma’am, having taken part in the Monmouth Rising, when his sentence of hanging was transmuted to penal service in the colonies.’
Stacy, overcome by what she had provoked, and angry with herself as well as with Matt, said as firmly as she could, ‘Well, Mr Priestley—’ for she now knew his name ‘—a man is not to blame for what his ancestors did. I own that if I had to answer for my own great-grandfather’s actions I should be hard put to it to excuse them. And Mr Falconer should not have compelled you to answer me thus, but that doesn’t surprise me, since he obviously gave up the pretence of being a gentleman long ago.’
Matt, who was a little surprised by this generous offering to Jeb from someone whom he had thought was steeped in pride of birth, still could not prevent himself from asking, ‘And what, pray, Miss Berriman, did your ancestor do which was so scurvy? Entertain us, please.’
She had entertained them enough, Stacy thought. She had behaved like a vicious termagant in the stews or in an alehouse, and in front of her own servants too! What Louisa would have thought of her sitting at a kitchen table with a gang of men swilling drink she couldn’t imagine. At least she had avoided the port, of which Louisa always spoke in shuddering horror as the corrupter of men. But she had drunk heavily from the pot which Jeb had mischievously refilled several times, and the effects of the ale, tiredness, and the increasing warmth of the kitchen were beginning to overcome her.
‘Certainly not,’ she told him firmly. ‘I will now retire.’ And she stood up, to find the room going around her. Her face paled, and Matt Falconer, moved by an impulse he refused to recognise, swore to himself and as swiftly as he could ran round the table to catch her and prevent her from falling. Cold bitch she might be, but she had had a hell of a day, and behind the autocratic and imperious manner was a woman with a lot of guts—he had to grant her that. She had cared for the welfare of all her people before she had so much as sat down herself.
He picked her up, to find her strangely light for such a tall female, said softly, ‘Allow me, madam. I think that you are not accustomed to drinking strong ale,’ and carried her, unprotesting and already half asleep, to her bed, which was made up between those of the sleeping Polly and Louisa.
Stacy, unaware of anything but that she was in someone’s strong arms, was back in her childhood again, being carried to bed by her father. Without thinking, eyes closed, she kissed the man carrying her, on the cheek which she had earlier struck, murmuring drowsily, ‘Goodnight, Papa,’ and by the time the surprised Matt had lowered her to the bed she was soundly and sweetly asleep.
Chapter Four
Stacy started awake as a dim early light began to steal into the kitchen. She had been dreaming that she was on a wide plain, quite alone, no friend or companion with her. There was a brilliant sun overhead, and on the far horizon there was a stand of strange trees, quite unlike anything which she had seen before.
On impulse she looked down at herself, to discover that she was most oddly dressed—or rather undressed, since she was wearing nothing but a short garment made of skin, which left her arms and her legs bare. Her hair streamed, long and unruly, down her back.
Where can I be, and whatever am I doing here? she thought rather than said, looking around for help and succour. But there was no one in sight. A strange terror seized her, which deepened when from out of the stand of trees a male lion emerged, his back rippling as he moved slowly towards her, his mask inscrutable, his golden eyes blazing.
Paralysed with fear, Stacy could neither run nor speak, but stood there, staring back at him, waiting to be eaten, she supposed.
Only…only…something weird happened. The nearer the lion drew, the more he began to change, his shape shimmering, so that when he reached her it was not a lion who stood before her but a man, dressed in skins like herself; his tawny hair, like hers, flowed down his back, his strong jaw was bearded like the lion’s, and his eyes, a golden-brown, were lion’s eyes…
The lion-man gave her a brilliant smile, revealing his splendid white teeth, his eyes flashed, and, before she could register anything, whether fear or desire, she was in his arms, his mouth was on hers, his hands about her body…And she was sitting up in bed awake, panting, sweating. An ecstatic sensation which she had never before experienced was sweeping through her body, its passing leaving her weak and shuddering, as though she had run a race.
A fever! I must have caught Louisa’s fever! she thought. But when the shudderings had subsided they left no sensations of illness behind, only those of shock. It was him she had been dreaming of, and in her sleep she had allowed him to begin to make love to her.
She must be going mad. Or had gone mad the night before, for she was wearing all her clothes except her shoes, and she had no memory of how she had reached her bed. And what a bed! Memories of the previous day came flooding back, all of them unpleasant.
The kitchen was quiet except for the occasional groan, cough or snoring of the humans who occupied it. She had a strong desire to relieve herself—all the ale she had drunk, doubtless—but she had to drive herself to visit the outhouse, only dire necessity compelling her to do so. She must try not to wake the sleepers on her way there and back.
Stacy found her shoes on the floor beside the bed—who had taken them from her feet and placed them there? Was it…him? Her memory failed her again, but as she picked her way cautiously out of the kitchen it came back. Yes, he had carried her to bed, and had stopped short of stripping her of