The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (6 page)

Chapter 7

Beware of Greeks following bloodhounds.

N
ick Constantine despised the countryside. He been born in a Greek village and once he reached London, after a few years’ detour around the oceans as a sailor on a ship of dubious legality, he’d left the comfort of fog and pavement as rarely as possible. The Governor had brought him to this benighted part of northern England for what promised to be an easy job. How hard could it be to snatch and rob a governess?

But everything had gone wrong. He blamed the rolling moors and rocks and endless green stuff. The way he figured it, if God had intended man to live in the wilderness, He would never have created pavement. The Governor, of course hadn’t come with him on the chase. He’d stayed comfortable at the inn, enjoying the local ale, while Nick did the dirty work. That was the Governor’s way.

They walked for hours behind the hideous, sniffing, slobbering dog and his boots hurt. The trail from the cottage led them to a deep brook. The bloodhound appeared baffled.

“He can’t smell naught. Reckon she must have gone in the water,” Hobbs said. To add insult to injury, Nick had been landed with a local as a guide, a rustic with an almost impenetrable brogue. “Give him that hankie again. See if the man was still with her.”

With great reluctance Nick pulled the handkerchief from his pocket again. Oversized and of the finest cambric, he expected to get several shillings for it when he found a customer with the initial C. He didn’t want any canine tooth marks reducing its value.

The dog drooled on the linen square and took off along the bank, downstream.

“He’s got the scent,” said Hobbs. “Happen we’d have her by now if she didn’t have the fellow with her.”

Nick didn’t need to hear any cheek from Hobbs. He’d taken enough grief from the Governor when they arrived at the cottage and found her gone. The ruby wasn’t in her baggage and Nick reckoned she’d lost it long ago. But the Governor wanted to question her himself.

He had not been amused when he learned she now had a companion.

Yet Nick couldn’t regret robbing the gentry cove that had come to the door. He’d got a fine horse, a fat purse, a gold watch, and some first-rate togs out of the deal. If the handkerchief could be sold for shillings, the coat and waistcoat were worth pounds. Too bad he hadn’t been able to get the boots off. They might have fit him, better than his own. His only slip-up was leaving the man alive. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

The stupid animal lumbered up and down the bank several times until they found a place that looked fordable. Crossing the stream ruined his damn boots, but on the other side they picked up the trail again.

Chapter 8

Never underestimate the importance of cheese.

A
t least, she remarked cheerfully, it was a road of sorts. And a road must eventually lead somewhere. It wouldn’t make any sense to build one otherwise.

Mr. Compton informed her that English roads, except those built by the Romans, derived from cow paths, thus their meandering habit. And since he didn’t put much credence in the logical powers of female cattle, he wouldn’t be surprised if this particular rutted, weed-infested trail led them over a cliff to their deaths.

She pointed out, with the brilliant logic of female humans (a trait she specifically mentioned), that since they were on the Yorkshire moors and nowhere near the sea, there weren’t any cliffs for them to fall over.

He gave her the distinct impression that, though he was too polite to mention it, he would be happy to assist her in her descent should they find themselves in the vicinity of, say, Dover, a place famous for cliffs.

To put it bluntly, Mr. Compton was out of sorts, grouchy even. She wasn’t quite sure why. Not that being hungry, dirty, and chased by vicious dogs wasn’t enough to try a man’s temper. But she thought something else had upset him and nobly forbore from nettling him. A shame because, even when grouchy, Mr. Compton was fun to spar with. It would have made the journey go faster. Instead she plodded on in silence, thinking about every meal she’d ever eaten and wishing she’d appreciated them more at the time.

They’d barely exchanged a word in an hour when they reached a crossroads.

“Any preference?” he asked.

“I wish we had any idea which way is Stonewick. We may be going in the opposite direction.”

“Very likely.”

At that moment they heard the clop of hooves coming toward them. “Shall we hide?” she whispered. “It may be the kidnappers.”

He straightened his back, folded his arms, and frowned. “If it is, I am not in the mood to run. I have a few questions I’d like answered.”

That seemed rash to Celia, who had no desire to face even one man with a gun, let alone two or more. On the other hand it might be a harmless stranger who could help them. The lack of a suitable hiding place decided her. She took up position beside him in the road and tried to imitate his fighting stance, learned, no doubt, at Gentleman Jackson’s Bond Street Saloon, and the way he brandished his fists.

“Thumbs out,” he murmured. “On second thought, if it comes to a fight, leave it to me.”

He looked very dangerous with his dark eyes and darkening jaw. Perversely, Celia found the situation exciting.

The horse came closer and rounded a curve into view. It was almost a disappointment when a cart followed. The driver wore a rustic smock, similar to that worn by Mr. Compton, but there all resemblance to either her kidnapper or her companion ceased. Fair, thinning hair, long whiskers and a red shiny face topped the largest man Celia had ever seen. Even Mr. Compton was dwarfed by him. Though he might not be taller, he was twice as broad. She hoped very much it wouldn’t come to fisticuffs. She feared this giant would pound poor Mr. Compton to pulp.

“Not him,” she murmured. “I’ve never seen him. But may I suggest I do the talking?
Good people, we are not Gypsies
.” She mimicked his condescending tones.

Mr. Compton smiled. “Be my guest. I can’t wait to see you apply the common touch.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said with a friendly wave.

The giant made a noise. His horse understood and stopped. “Afternoon.”

She smiled. “Fine day.”

“Aah.”

“Would you be good enough to tell us how to reach Stonewick. Is it far?”

He scratched his balding pate while he gave the matter some thought. Like many Yorkshiremen, he seemed a man of few words. He did, however, have eyes and they were surveying her person with noticeable interest. She tugged at her shift to make sure it covered both shoulders and tried to lengthen the blanket to cover her ankles.

After a lengthy perusal he glanced at Mr. Compton, whom he found less worthy of examination, then back at Celia. He scratched his shoulder.

“East.”

“You mean Stonewick is to the east?”

“Aye.” He pointed to one of the four roads.

“If we take that road will we reach Stonewick?”

“Maybe.”

“How far is it?”

The question provoked him to eloquence. “Don’t rightly know.”

“Do you have any idea? I’m sure you must know the moors very well.”

“Over Revesby way.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Ten, fifteen miles mayhap.”

“Oh dear! That is a long way. Do you know anyone who could drive us?”

He thought some more and scratched some more, his stomach this time. “Nay. But I can take you partway.”

“Oh, would you? How kind? Shall we get in the cart?”

The giant looked at Mr. Compton and waved his thumb. “Him in the back. You ride with me.”

As she sat squeezed next to the driver on the bench, Celia’s nostrils were overpowered by a smell she preferred to identify only as rural. To be fair her own scent was likely less than fragrant.

“I am Celia and that’s Terence back there,” she said, trying to speak and breathe through her mouth at the same time. “What’s your name?”

“Joe.”

“Are you married, Joe?”

“Nay.”

“Do you have a sweetheart?”

“Nay.”

“Do you have a farm?”

“Aye.”

“A sheep farm?”

“Twenty sheep in t’ flock.”

“So many! Do you have many lambs? I love lambs.”

Terence grasped the sides to save himself from being bruised black and blue by the jouncing cart and listened to Celia prattle on to their laconic host. He hoped the oaf wasn’t misinterpreting her interest in him. He hadn’t failed to notice a gleam of interest in Joe’s eyes. Women, he guessed, weren’t in plentiful supply out here on the moors. Then something riveted his attention: a wheel of cheese, resting in a pile of straw next to him.

Ask him about food
. He willed her to hear his thoughts as his stomach clenched.

After a while Joe ventured an inquiry of his own. “You Gypsies?”

“No indeed. Terence, Mr. Fish, is a gentleman. We are escaping from an evil villain. A
foreigner
.”

Joe responded with a grunting noise that might have been sympathy, but more likely dismissal of anyone born outside the North Riding of Yorkshire.

“That’s why we need to reach my friend at Stonewick. We’ve been walking for a day and a night and had almost nothing to eat. Do you think you could spare us some supper?”

In his lengthiest communication so far, Joe allowed that he could, if they came to his cottage.

“Oh, thank you! Joe.” Celia patted the giant’s arm.

Terence’s mouth watered even as he wondered how they’d pay for their meal. Perhaps Joe would like an erotic novel. That would be a handy way to dispose of it before Celia got to the good bits.

Joe’s horse was built for endurance, not for speed. The sun had almost descended by the time they reached his cottage, an isolated cote similar in size and design to the site of Celia’s imprisoent. The dwelling and a small barn in matching stone were set in a walled barnyard in which a few mangy chickens scratched among the weeds in dusty earth.

Celia jumped down from the cart. “What a fine place, Joe. And you have a well in the barnyard. Do you mind if we draw some water to drink?”

While Joe unharnessed the horse and led it out to pasture, they conferred over a thirst-quenching bucket.

“Will you stop making up to that fellow?” Terence said, keeping his voice low. “Lord knows what he thinks.”

“I’m doing nothing of the kind! I’m being nice to him. You may not have much notion of agreeable conversation, but I do. Please note that Joe has brought us part of our way in comfort.”

“Some comfort!”

“And is going to provide us with food.” A look of something like ecstasy lit her features. “Did you notice the cheese? Thanks to me, we have a chance of getting a good slice of it.”

“How much remains to be seen when he realizes we have no money.”

“Joe won’t charge us. He’s a sweet man!”

“Joe is a Yorkshireman.”

His own instinct that he knew a good deal about Yorkshire was confirmed when Joe, having produced a loaf of bread, a good wedge of cheese, and half a dozen wrinkled apples, asked for a shilling. Informed by Celia, in her sunniest tones, that they had no coin, the farmer prepared to return the provisions to his larder.

Before Celia could begin to weep—the agony on her face far surpassed anything he’d so far observed—Terence entered negotiations. As expected, Joe was unimpressed by
The Genuine Amours
of Peter Aretin
. Pity. He’d probably enjoy the book, if he could read it.

Which left one pair of gentleman’s boots, possibly made by Hoby and certainly costing more than a shilling. More than many, many shillings. Not practical footwear for farm life, and Joe’s feet were enormous. But even in a small market town they’d fetch a guinea or two.

Celia held her breath as Joe subjected the stylish footwear to a careful examination. Finally he nodded, but she couldn’t contain a moan of grief when Joe removed three apples from the pile and brandished his knife to cut the cheese wedge in half. Mr. Compton, proving himself a canny Yorkshireman when it came to bargaining, pushed the blade so only a sliver would be lost. After some back-and-forth they settled on three quarters of the original amount. The loaf of bread remained intact. He stowed the bounty into the sack as Joe described a shortcut over the moors that would bring them to Stonewick. But before they could take leave of their host, they heard the bay of a hound from the direction of the road, echoed by a furious bark from Joe’s sheepdog.

“Strangers.” Joe muttered the single word with a ferocious frown.

Celia’s heart sank at the word. She might be wrong but she had a premonition about a visit that, judging by Joe’s face, was unusual. She seized the countryman’s arm and spoke in a fast near-whisper.

“Can we hide? It may be the foreigner I told you about.”

Mr. Compton flexed his fists. Joe appeared undecided.

“Please, Joe,” she said urgently. “He wants to capture me again. He’ll take me away if you don’t help us.”

“Go in the barn.”