The Beckoning Dream. Paula Marshall
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shrugged her shoulders. “Why does one marry anyone? For a hundred reasons—or none at all. And did the jolly Amos tell you where William Grahame might be found?”
“That he did. But he did not warn me, as his wife warned you. I fear that he may think me as devious as he is and that therefore I do not need warning. That bluff manner of his is not the true man.”
“So I thought. But you and I are not the true man or the true woman either. So we are all quits—except, perhaps, for Isabelle.”
Tom gave a great shout of laughter, which had the heads of the few passers-by turning to look at them, and Geordie absent-mindedly walking into him again.
“I can see I must watch my words, wife. You would make Will Wagstaffe a good secretary—the kind who embroiders his master’s words. There are many such around Whitehall. Why not in the playhouse?” He turned to throw a second set of oaths at Geordie for treading on his heels.
“Why not, indeed? And do not curse poor Geordie, for I swear that you probably drank more than he did.”
“Ah, but I hold it so much better. Remind me to teach you the trick of it.”
“I thank you, husband, but no. No man would wish a toping wife.”
“Well said, and now we are home again. We must begin our campaign by deciding on what to say and do when we at last meet the elusive Master Grahame. Battles are won by those whose planning is good, and lost by those who do not plan at all. Remember that.”
“As a useful hint to employ in the kitchen? My soldiers must be carrots and cabbages, all arranged properly in rows.”
Bantering thus, they reached their rooms, where Tom called for more drink, and some food to stay them for the morrow.
Well, thought Catherine later that night as he staggered to the bed that he had made no attempt to share with her, sharing the unfortunate Geordie’s instead, one thing was sure. Whatever Tom Trenchard might, or might not be, life with him was certainly never dull.
Nor did it so prove the next day. This time Catherine was told to dress more modestly, in an old grey gown, with a large shawl. On the way to the address that Amos had given them as that of William Grahame’s, Tom brought her a white linen matron’s cap, elegant with its small wings, and its lace frill that framed her face prettily even if it hid the dark glory of her hair.
Tom was soberly dressed too, in a brown leather jacket, coarse canvas breeches, his frayed cream shirt, and, of course, his beautiful boots. They were always constant! As was his black, steeple-crowned hat with its battered feather.
Geordie, their ghost, followed them. Since arriving in the Low Countries, he was wearing something that passed as a livery: a shabby blue jacket and breeches, grey woollen stockings and heavy, pewter-buckled shoes. He carried a large staff with a silver knob on the top. His sallow face was glummer than ever. One wondered why he served Tom at all since he seemed to take so little pleasure in the doing.
Tom had talked seriously to Catherine before they left. “Hal Arlington told me that Grahame has a weakness for pretty women. Now you are a pretty woman, but a married one, so if you are to attract him—and distract him—you must do so modestly. Killing looks from swiftly downcast eyes. A glance of admiration should he say something witty. Later, when you know him better, then you may go further.”
Catherine threw him a furious look. For the last few days she had been spending her time worrying over Tom seducing her, and all the time she had been brought along to try to seduce Grahame!
“And, pray, how far is that ‘further’ to be? Are you here to play pimp to my strumpet? For if so, I tell you plainly that you may be in love with your role, but I am certainly not about to play the part which you and your two masters have assigned to me.”
“No need for that,” Tom told her swiftly. “You are to tease him only. Draw him on. Nothing more.”
Distaste showed on Catherine’s face and rang in her voice. “And that is almost worse than going the whole way! To lure a poor devil on with hopes that you are never going to satisfy is more indecent than being an honest whore.”
“Your choice,” grinned Tom. “If you prefer being the honest whore…”
“Oh—” Catherine stamped her foot “—if I were not between a rock and a hard place so that Rob’s life depends on my complicity, I should take ship for England straightaway.”
“Well said, wife. I like a woman who knows the way of the world—so few do.”
“Oh…” Catherine let out a long breath. He was impossible, but there was no point in telling him so. So she didn’t.
After that, when he bought her the cap, she was minded not to thank him, but the expression on his hard face was so winning when he gave it to her, that she did so—even if a little ungraciously.
Grahame’s house turned out to be a small one-storied wooden building on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by vegetable gardens with a dirt road running through them. A boy was poling along a small flat boat loaded with cabbages on the small canal that ran parallel with the road.
“Not lodgings, I think,” Tom said thoughtfully as they left the road and walked up the path to the house through a neglected garden. “Something rented.” He looked around him. “It’s deathly quiet.”
He shivered. “Too quiet. I would have thought a man of Grahame’s persuasion would prefer to be lost in a crowded city than isolated here. Safer so.”
It was the first time, but not the last, that Catherine was to hear him say something which had an immediate bearing on what was about to happen—and of which he could not have known.
For, as they reached the door but before they could knock on it they heard, coming from inside, the noise of a violent commotion, and male voices shouting.
“What the devil!” exclaimed Tom—and pushed at the door, which was not locked and opened immediately. He strode in, Geordie behind him, pushing Catherine on one side, and telling her not to follow them but to wait outside.
An order that she immediately disobeyed.
Chapter Four
Catherine found herself in a large room in which two, no three, men were struggling together. Tom was standing to one side, doubtless trying to decide which of them was the one he had come to meet—and must try to rescue.
It suddenly became plain that one of the men was losing an unequal fight with the two others and therefore was almost certainly William Grahame. Tom seized Geordie’s staff and brought its metal tip hard down on the head of the man who now had Grahame by the throat.
He fell to the ground, unconscious. Tom then tossed his staff back to Geordie, and drew from inside his coat a long dagger. On seeing Tom coming at him with the dagger, Geordie behind him, the fellow of the unconscious man loosened his hold on Grahame and threw him bodily at Tom with such force that Tom lost his balance and collapsed across a settle, Grahame on top of him.
Having done so, the would-be assassin ran through the open door at the far end of the room, Geordie in pursuit, for Tom was busy disengaging himself from Grahame who was gasping his thanks at him.
“For,” he said feelingly, “had you, whoever you are, not arrived in such a timely fashion, I was dead meat. I give you my thanks.”
“My pleasure,” said Tom. “And you, sir, must be William Grahame, whom I have come to speak with. Who is this—” and he prodded the man on the floor who was now stirring and groaning “—that with his fellow he sought so desperately to kill you?”
“Why, as to that, I know not,” replied Grahame, who was visibly distressed by what had just passed. There were bruises on his face and throat and he had some difficulty in speaking. “Only that the two of them broke in through the door there and set about me.” He pointed